The Journal (Book 6): Martial Law

by Deborah D. Moore

***

  “Where have you been, Kevin?” Hank asked when the truck stopped at the command center.

  “I was out looking for John.” He jerked his thumb behind him. “I didn’t find him but I found his truck.”

  “So you took his truck? Did it even occur to you that he might need that to get back here?” Hank yelled. Kevin looked down at his feet.

  Sam had already gone out the door to look the truck over. “Hank, look at this,” he said, pointing to the rope still attached to the bumper.

  “This is the last straw, Kevin. You will show us where the truck was parked, and then you will pack your stuff. You’re leaving on the bus in the morning!”

  Kevin looked stunned and crushed.

  “And if this is what I think it is, you best make yourself invisible for the next twelve hours or John will beat you and I won’t stop him,” Hank snarled, while Sam removed the rope so it wouldn’t tangle in the wheels.

  ***

  “You’re doing great Johnny, only a few more feet,” John encouraged the boy. They had stopped several times for John to find a stable rock to pull them up a foot at a time. Johnny slid once, sending loose gravel into John’s face and eyes. After that, the boy rested his feet on John’s broad shoulders and John pushed him upward.

  ***

  “You’re sure this is the area?” Hank snapped. He was furious with Kevin.

  “Yes, sir,” he said humbly.

  “Then get out of here before John sees you!”

  Sam walked over to the edge and peered down. Ten feet below, he could see them crawling up the severely angled wall. “We’re here, John!” Sam said, laying on the ground and stretching his arms down until the boy reached up. He pulled the child up to safety and handed him over to Hank.

  On his knees, Sam reached down again and grabbed John’s arm, bringing him out by falling backward. They both lay on the soft ground, gasping.

  ***

  In the infirmary, Dr. CeeCee washed and bandaged the young boy’s scrapes and scratches. Once done and with him back in his mother’s care, CeeCee turned her attention to John.

  “Now, let’s see what you’ve done to yourself,” she said, cutting away the blood soaked dirty t-shirt. “Holy shit, John, what happened?”

  “I was holding the rope when it ran through my hands,” he answered through gritted teeth.

  “These are the worst rope burns I’ve ever seen.” She had John soak both hands in cool disinfectant, examined them carefully for loose fibers, and then bandaged them carefully. “Did you suffer any other injuries?”

  “I twisted my ankle when I let go of that rope and fell, and my arm is sore where I landed on it,” John said. “Otherwise I’m fine.”

  CeeCee gently moved John’s foot around, determined it was sprained, and then wrapped it tightly. She probed her long, delicate fingers from his wrist to his elbow and stopped when he passed out.

  “What did you do to him?” Hank asked.

  She looked up at him from the stool she was sitting on beside John’s cot. “I palpated the fracture in his ulna. My professional guess is that he passed out from the pain. This man climbed out of that crack with a kid on his shoulders, severely burned hands, and a broken arm.” Her eyes flashed in anger, looking around for Kevin. “While he’s out cold I’m going to set the arm. Hold his shoulders down.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead and gently pulled to realign the bone. “It feels like a greenstick fracture, which is an incomplete break. He must have just landed badly because these are more common in children with soft bones.”

  ***

  “Hank, where’s Kevin? I’m going to tear him apart and then I’m going to kill him!” John said when he came to and noticed his arm in a cast up to his elbow, his hands wrapped thickly with gauze, and his foot propped up.

  “He’s gone, John. Left with the buses this morning.” Hank sat down next to John’s cot. “As soon as I found out what he had done, I fired him immediately.”

  John laid his head back against the pillow. “How’s Johnny?”

  “Only a few scratches, and a whopper of a story to tell.” Hank chuckled. “His mother said to tell you how thankful she is, and Johnny didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to you. You’re his hero now. I must say that the entire camp is abuzz about it. With the refugees gone, Seth is breaking out a steak for you for dinner tonight. You’ve earned it.”

  “While I can’t say I’m going to miss Kevin, that will leave us a man short.”

  “We’ll deal with it.” Hank stood to go. “Doc says you need to stay one more night and then you can stay in the command center where there are no stairs. You still need antibiotics for your hands, and pain meds if you want.”

  “I’d rather have a glass of bourbon.”

  “I can arrange that too.”

  “Where’s Sam?” John asked.

  “He went in with the buses. We decided against the fencing, although he’s got a list of supplies to look for. He should be back tomorrow. Don’t worry about things, John, you need rest and to heal.”

  “Why no fencing?”

  “I realized it would make it extremely difficult for us to evacuate quickly if we have to,” Hank said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Are you ready to get that cast off?” CeeCee asked, weeks after the incident.

  “It’s about time,” John said, holding out his left arm.

  CeeCee laughed. “Are you always this impatient? I’ve taken this cast off and replaced it three times already.” She picked up a pair of surgical scissors and slipped the blunted end under the soft material. The cutting went quickly and soon John was freed.

  “No permanent damage, Doc?” he asked as she gently probed his arm.

  “Not to your arm.” She turned his hands to look at his scarred palms. “If we were anywhere else except in the middle of a desert, I’d recommend physical therapy for these scars though. A good massage therapist could really loosen up the tissue underneath and relieve the stiffness.”

  “When I get home I’ll have Allex look at them. Fair enough?”

  “You’ve mentioned Alex before, John. If it’s not too personal, who is he?”

  “She, not he. Her name is Allexa, Allex is a nickname, and she’s a great massage therapist. That’s how we met.” John’s mind drifted away thinking of the woman he left behind.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

  “Over a year,” John said wistfully.

  ***

  “I see you’re out and about early again,” Seth said when John came into the mess tent to refill his travel mug. “After three months of this, I would think you’d want to sleep in occasionally.”

  With his sprained ankle long healed and freed from the cast that restrained his activity, John had taken to early morning guard duty.

  “I like the peace and quiet,” John replied. Those pre-dawn walks around the compound when the sun was breaking through the darkness helped to soothe his troubled mind. He shifted his rifle and took his coffee outside. The AR-15, the one he used to ignite the death-camp fire, he managed to keep, with Hank’s acceptance and sure that Vivian didn’t care. The accuracy was better than his shotgun, and he tested it out regularly, keeping the coyotes and occasional wolf away from the camp.

  During the second sweep around the perimeter, John heard a ruckus of pots and pans clashing in the mess tent. He dropped his coffee and ran to the source, rifle in hand.

  Inside, John saw two grizzly bear cubs knocking over tables and tearing into bags of bread. The mother was nowhere in sight. Quickly scanning the tent, he saw Seth cowering in a corner.

  “Stay down, Seth!” he called out to the cook. The bears were beautiful animals, both weighing maybe two hundred pounds and likely only a year old. He hated to kill them. If he didn’t though, they would be back and he couldn’t risk that. He quickly took aim and shot the one closest to Seth, the powerful .223 ammo easily penetrating the thick skull at such close range. Then he moved his attention
to the other one. It rose up on its hind feet facing him, standing nearly five feet, and he put two bullets at center mass. It dropped with a scream.

  “Behind you, John!!” Seth shouted.

  John dove and rolled to his left as the huge mother bear raced to her downed cubs. She rose onto her hind feet, dark brown fur bristling. She roared at John in agony and then lunged at him in anger. Thankful for the larger capacity magazine, he emptied the rifle into the five hundred pound female. Breathing hard, he ejected the empty magazine and rammed home a full one. He kept the AR aimed at the fallen giant as he circled her, and only when he was positive she was dead did he lower the rifle.

  Hank and Sam burst into the tent and stopped cold when they saw the carnage.

  “Is anyone hurt?” Hank asked with his eyes riveted on the three unmoving humps of matted brown fur.

  “A minor bump on the head when I dove for cover,” Seth said with a shaky laugh.

  “I’m fine,” John said calmly. “Thanks for that warning, Seth, she would’ve ripped me in half in a heartbeat!” He walked up to the dead beast and nudged a giant paw with his boot. “Look at the size of those claws…” John’s knees weakened and he leaned against the nearest table for a moment, then bolted for the door. He retched up his coffee into the nearby scraggly weeds.

  Sam came up behind him and handed over a bottle of water. John rinsed out his mouth then drank the rest of the bottle. “Thanks,” he said, laughing nervously. “I’ve never seen a grizzly up close. Had I known about those claws I might not have been so brave.”

  ***

  The entire camp was awake and abuzz about the morning raid by the animals. Three of the crew dragged the cubs out of the tent and behind the semi-trucks to butcher under the guidance of Seth, whose hands were still too shaky to hold a knife. Sam and Hank tied ropes to the female and pulled her out of the tent with a truck, leaving a bloody trail to the butchering site. Others righted tables and cleaned up the mess caused by the cubs and the shooting. Molly made fresh coffee and personally took John a mug of the hot brew.

  The few refugees in camp were stunned over the killings. The crew, on the other hand, was looking forward to fresh meat over the next few days and set up a smoking pit to preserve the rest of it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “That wind is really hot,” Sam complained weeks later. “I knew some of the western states were really warm, but it feels hotter than Florida in the summer!”

  “The volcanoes are messing with the weather,” John reminded him. The sun felt extra hot and the air tasted gritty. Taking a deep breath was almost painful. He was a southern boy and could tolerate heat better than most, so he stayed in his motorhome with just its fan. Hank was now sleeping in the air conditioned command center so the refugee tent could have his fan, and with the doctor being a critical member of the team, his window air conditioner went into her camper. They were all making adjustments to the intense heat.

  “What’s the current count of refugees?” Sam asked. He made a turn to the west, covering their usual patrol path.

  “It’s fifty, I think. I haven’t checked today,” John replied. “Fifty is one busload. I’m thinking of asking Hank about breaking our rule and sending out the one bus. That way those folks get a cool ride to the next camp, and we have fewer to deal with succumbing to heat stroke.”

  “I bet Maryanne volunteers to drive,” Sam chuckled. “She’s not dealing with these temperatures very well.”

  “I know. She even offered to patrol with us,” John said, turning the air conditioner fan a little higher. Maryanne’s job when not driving one of the buses was food server, and that tent was always hot. Everyone pulled double or triple duty in camp to make sure everything got done.

  They drove on in silence.

  John sat up straighter in his seat. “Pull over for a minute. I see something I want to check out.” He took the binoculars from the glovebox and stepped out into the oppressive heat. On the horizon was a low hanging cloud that John focused on. He wet his finger to test the wind direction and got back in the truck. “Get us back to camp as quickly as possible. We’ve got a dust storm coming, and it’s coming fast.”

  ***

  Sam pulled up to the command center with a cloud of dry road dust in his wake. John jumped out and Sam took off again, making a quick circle around the compound with the bullhorn on high. “Everyone, get inside and close all doors and windows! A massive dust storm is imminent. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill!”

  He continued the message driving the perimeter of the camp. After the second pass, he stopped in front of the infirmary and raced inside to assist CeeCee in securing the few patients.

  “It’s a huge cloud, Hank, stretching across the horizon as far as I could see,” John said.

  “How long before it gets here?”

  “Estimate is a half hour, more if we’re lucky.”

  “Have you ever been in through a dust storm? And what’s the difference between a dust storm and a sand storm?”

  “A sand storm is sand, usually in the desert areas. What’s out there is dry, make that very dry dirt, which creates dust. Sand will scour the skin off you. I’m not sure about dust, but it can’t be pleasant,” John said. “And yes, I’ve been in one, in the Sahara. It lasted two days.”

  “So there is no going out in this,” Hank said thoughtfully. “I think we should grab a couple of sandwiches, water, and whatever else we might need. I’ll send Sam to get the pickups into the supply tents. We don’t need those engines full of dust.”

  “I’m going to run a safety line from here to the infirmary and another to the mess tent,” John said. When Hank looked confused, he explained, “A little trick I learned during a blizzard. It’s easy to get lost if you can’t see where you’re going.”

  “Okay, and for command security, I think you should stay here for the duration, not in your camper.”

  John nodded and headed to the mess tent.

  “I’m glad to see it’s sandwiches again,” he said to Seth.

  “It’s so hot no one wants to eat. This at least gives everyone options,” Seth said. “How bad is this storm that’s coming?”

  “I don’t know, but we need to be prepared for the worst. Everyone should take a couple of sandwiches and stay inside until we can assess the duration.” John picked up a tray and placed a pile of wheat bread on one side and various meats on the other. “Hank asked me to get his,” he said when Seth looked at him strangely. “We’ll make them up later when we have more time.”

  Seth nodded. Like everyone else, he’d learned early not to question what John did.

  ***

  John set the tray down on an empty desk and turned toward the sound of roaring motorcycles. He cracked the door open, shut it, and grabbed his shotgun by the door, checking the load. Hank stood behind his desk and holstered his handgun.

  John stepped outside.

  “Hi!” one of the bikers called out, getting off his mount and removing his helmet. “I’m really hoping you’ve got room for us to ride out this storm.” The others pulled down the kerchiefs covering their noses and mouths, and removed their helmets. All except one of them was clean shaven, relatively short hair, and had an air of authority about them John recognized.

  John assessed the scene quickly. “Sure. Follow me.” He moved away from the command center and headed for one of the tents. He turned back to the lead rider as he opened the tent. “I think you can even get your bikes inside, though it might be a bit tight. I’d hate to see such nice machines blasted by all that dirt.”

  “Thank you.” He pushed his bike inside, following John and looked around, confused. “What is this place?”

  “This is the children’s play center,” John said, pushing a playpen into a corner, and shoving a cot to the side.

  “Where are the kids?” The man’s voice was laced with concern. He ran his fingers through his short, dark hair.

  “There aren’t any with the recent load of re
fugees, so you’re welcome to use it. Everything else is taken.”

  “I really appreciate it, especially getting our bikes out of the storm. By the way, my name is Anthony Cheepa,” he said, extending his hand. “L.A.P.D.”

  John took his hand. “John Tiggs, FEMA.”

  The other riders filed in, pushing their bikes into a neat line against the far wall.

  “I’m assuming we can use the cots? We’ve been riding hard all morning to stay ahead of the storm and we’re pretty tired,” Anthony said. “And I hate to impose even further but—”

  “FEMA’s goal is to shelter and feed all refugees and help them onto the next leg of their journey. The mess tent is still open, though you might want to hurry. They need to button down too,” John said with a nod. The group of eight men left their helmets and leather gloves on their individual bikes, and fell in line behind John.

  ***

  “Anthony, my boss would like to speak with you in the command center,” John said quietly.

  “Hank, this is Anthony Cheepa, L.A.P.D. and the spokesperson for our new guests. Anthony, Commander Hank Coulter,” John made the introductions and sat on the edge of his desk.

  “A cop? I must admit that sets my mind more at ease. Seeing a group of masked bikers pull into my camp was a bit unnerving,” Hank admitted.

  “I’ve no doubt we present a fearsome image, but we’re all good guys. And since we are all single, when things really started to tank we got together to bug out. My friends and I ride one weekend a month and I will admit we are a rather strange and eclectic group. Other than me being a cop, we have two firemen, a CPA, a computer engineer and an orthodontist.” Anthony laughed. “The other two joined us yesterday, so I really can’t vouch for them, though they seem like decent guys. We’re only trying to get east where things are more stable.”