Refugees

by D. J. Molles

He straightened suddenly, tilting his head. Was that the sound of the gate opening?

  Jerry rushed to his door again, pushing it open a little farther this time and sticking his head out. His heart leaped as he saw that the gate was indeed drawing open. On the other side, waiting patiently for the path to clear, was Arnie’s old red Geo. What would Greg say? Was it time? Was everything in place? Or was it bad news? Did something go wrong? There were so many things that could go wrong…

  He closed his door and put his back to it, only to realize that he needed to exit his shanty. He pushed through the door, forcing the unbearable nervousness to shed off of him as though he were shucking off a clingy robe. He took a deep breath as he left the safety of his little shack and walked with as much confidence as he could muster, raising his chin and relaxing his face into the barely visible smirk that he usually wore. The look of someone who is always supremely pleased with himself.

  Ahead of him, the tiny gray SUV pulled through the gate and the sentry closed it back. The Geo whirled around, kicking up a tiny amount of dust, and parked in the same spot that Greg always parked in to open the tailgate and barter with whatever items he’d scavenged. There would be no bartering today, which was no loss—the little trade market was slower than usual today and only a few people were hanging out with anything to offer, and only one person had come in from Broadway to scout around for some mechanical parts.

  Greg stepped out of his vehicle and his eyes went immediately to Jerry, who was just now emerging from the rows of shanties. His eyes were clouded and serious, and he gave the slightest of nods. An affirmation that made Jerry’s pulse quickstep. Jerry motioned to the right with a subtle gesture of his head and the two parties converged in the center of The Square and began walking toward the northeastern corner.

  “They’re on their way,” Greg said.

  “What’s their ETA?”

  “They were a few minutes behind me. Might already be in place.”

  “And you explained everything? The signal and what I want them to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Jerry felt almost lightheaded.

  They passed the last row of shanties and looked around cautiously to see if anyone was observing them. When it appeared that they were not, they walked quickly to the collection of unused shipping containers. This time, rather than squeezing into the hollow space between them, they approached the doors to one and Greg quickly knocked twice, then twice again. Then he pulled one of the doors open and he and Jerry slipped quickly inside.

  The interior was dimly lit by a kerosene lantern, dangling from a hook in the roof of the container. Lined up along each wall were ten men from Camp Ryder. They all held the M4 rifles and the shoulder-sling magazine pouches that Lee had given them. There was something vicious and ironic about that, but Jerry supposed it was not the first time someone from the US government had handed out weapons like candy and it had backfired on him.

  The US had always been far too trusting.

  Captain Harden had always been far too trusting.

  Hubris or stupidity, Jerry wasn’t sure.

  All of that changed today. The world was a harsh, cold, cruel place, and people outside these walls were not their friends. They were only drains on their resources that would cut and run as soon as being a community became inconvenient for them. Jerry recognized that this was how the world worked, this was how the world had always worked, and anyone who put their best foot forward was only looking to get it lopped off.

  You had to close yourself off, wall yourself in, cut out the rest of the world. That was how it had always been, and nothing had changed with the collapse of society except for the apparent nature of it. Any society that opened its doors would sooner or later be destroyed. A closed society might not be a rich society, but it was a safe society.

  But it took strength, and purpose, and perseverance to maintain that safe society. Bus was unwilling to turn anyone away because he was an incapable leader, and as a result they had become weak. They had re-created the very same weaknesses that had doomed the United States to begin with. This time around, things would be different. Because Jerry was going to lead this community, and he was going to correct their course. He was going to set a path for them that was sustainable and promised that they would survive, and not simply starve to death a year down the road, happy that they had a clear conscience because they’d allowed any person with a sob story to come into their gates and suck down their resources.

  Jerry smiled at the men before him. “Gentlemen… our future begins today.”

  Solemnly, they nodded. Their lips were bloodless lines on their faces, their jaws struck hard from stone, their eyes cold and ready.

  “Arnie will take the post at the front gate any minute, and then Greg and I will move in.” Jerry pointed back behind him. “The rest of you wait until you hear the signal before you move. You know what to do from there.” Jerry smiled confidently. “This is our time. We’ve got one golden opportunity to take back Camp Ryder. Let’s do it right.”

  One of the men stepped forward slightly. “We’re ready, Jerry.”

  Jerry turned to Greg. “Do you have the flare gun?”

  Greg patted his cargo pocket. “Ready to go.”

  “Good.” Jerry took a deep breath. “Any minute now…”

  * * *

  Arnie Brewer hitched his baggy pants up over the loose skin of his gut, which used to hold the substantial potbelly that he could have rested a beer can on while he watched TV. Now his midsection was floppy and weird, all the fat sucked out of it, but the skin was still there, hanging off of him like a deflated balloon. He had to position the waistband of his pants in the right spot—slightly low on his hips—so that it pinned the folds of loose skin to his crotch. Otherwise, if he ran, it would constantly flail around and smack him repeatedly in his groin.

  Very uncomfortable.

  With his gut-sack securely pinned to his nut-sack, he hitched the rifle up on his shoulder and approached the front gate where a young, bright-eyed kid, Jamie Bechtold, stood watch. Arnie smiled and waved as he approached.

  “What’s up, Jamie?”

  The younger man waved back. “Fuckin’ starvin’.”

  “Sorry, man.” Arnie took a spot to the side of the gate. “Had some shit to take care of. Go get yourself somethin’ to eat. I got this.”

  Jamie stretched tiredly. “Awright, bro. ’Preciate it.”

  Arnie watched the kid work some life back into his legs as he sauntered away, taking entirely too long to disappear. He looked around. The Square was almost empty. Only one or two people, standing around, shooting the shit with each other. There wasn’t much trading going on today, and most people were either out scavenging or taking a break for lunch.

  Arnie’s gaze broke off from The Square, and he looked through the wide dirt space that cut through the shantytown. At the end of it, in the northeastern corner, he could see the shipping containers that had stood there in the same position since he’d arrived at Camp Ryder. The doors of a single container faced him, and one of them hung slightly open, the darkness inside creating a black frame around the door. A tiny half-moon face peered out at him, pale and stark in the space.

  His mouth dry and gritty, Arnie shifted his feet and sidled his belt around his midsection again. Then he stared right at the face and nodded, just once.

  A hundred yards away, in the quiet darkness of the shipping container, Jerry saw the signal.

  He turned to Greg. “That’s us. We’re on.”

  He reached inside his jacket and felt the sawed-off shotgun slung at his side, felt the rough wooden grip of it, and took confidence from it. Moving with as much restraint as they could muster, trying desperately to look casual, Greg and Jerry slipped out of the shipping container and began making their way toward the Camp Ryder building.

  * * *

  Angela made her way across The Square toward the last row of shanties. She moved with purpose and carried a satchel slung o
nto her arm and two blankets over her shoulder. As she made her way toward the last row, Jerry and one of his friends passed by. They both looked very serious and intently busy, but when they saw her, they smiled.

  Snakes in the grass, she thought to herself, but nodded and smiled politely to them. She did not like Jerry, and it wasn’t at all because he had opposed Lee on so many occasions. There were some people who disagreed regularly with how Lee did things and she’d found them to be great people. She prided herself on being a pretty good judge of character, and Jerry had always struck her as… conniving.

  She didn’t trust him one bit.

  She hung a left at the last row of shanties and walked down to the end to the brand-new shanty that had been erected for the Ramirez family. Vicky Ramirez was standing outside, banging dust and dirt out of a large quilt. She smiled widely when she saw Angela approaching.

  “Hey, Vicky.”

  “Angela, how are you?” She gestured to the blanket. “Just doing a little cleaning.”

  “Where’re Elise and Anton?”

  “They’re on the other side of the complex, playing with the other kids.” Vicky balled the quilt up in her arms and stepped through the doorway to her shanty. “Come on in.”

  The two women ducked through the low entrance. The roof was just a tarp draped over a simple A-frame to allow rain to slide off, rather than gathering in the middle and eventually collapsing on the family while they slept. Vicky had pulled the tarp back so that the daylight illuminated their little living area.

  Angela laid the blankets and satchel down on the floor. “How are you guys acclimating?”

  “Oh, you know.” Vicky’s smile had a sadness to it. “Doin’ the best we can.”

  Angela touched her arm comfortingly. “I understand. I felt the same way when I first got here. I know it’s tough starting out, but these are all great people.”

  Vicky nodded. “Yes, we appreciate everything.”

  Angela clapped her hands. “Hey, I brought you the extra blankets you asked for.” She bent down and picked up the two blankets, passing them over to Vicky.

  Vicky took the blankets, looking truly grateful. “Thank you so much for that.”

  “Well, it’s been cold.” Angela smiled. “And I know how it is to take care of little ones.” She opened up the satchel on the floor, revealing a collection of canned goods and a bag of beans. “A few of the others and I put together a little care package. I know it’s not much, but it’ll hopefully help you guys out, at least until you can get on your feet.”

  Vicky gazed down at the goods before her, clutching the two blankets tightly to her chest. Her face tightened and her lower lip trembled just slightly. She looked as though she was on the verge of an outbreak of emotions, but she took a breath and nodded. “Thank you. You didn’t have to be so generous.”

  Angela smiled and waved her off. “It’s the least we could do. I mean, your husband is out helping Captain Harden right now. We should at least take care of his family.”

  When she said this, Vicky’s face did something different. Her eyes averted down and to the right, blinking rapidly as her hand came up and touched her lips. Then it seemed as though she’d realized that her strange reaction was apparent, and she turned herself away from Angela, as if to hide. She busied herself with straightening the folds of the blanket and placing them on the bed.

  Angela studied the other woman for a moment, then clasped her hands in front of her. “Listen, Vicky… is everything okay?”

  “Yes.” Vicky faced her quickly and Angela could see shame etched on her features and the beginnings of tears glistening in her eyes. “Yes, everything’s fine.”

  Angela took a step forward and raised her eyebrows, an expression that clearly communicated that she was not buying it. “Vicky…”

  The other woman’s shoulders slumped and she turned, looking at the ground. When she spoke, her voice shook and cracked. “It’s just that you and the others have been so kind… and I… we’ve all…” Her eyes rose to Angela’s and she seemed to draw herself up. “I have to tell you something… before something bad happens.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Bad Things

  LaRouche stood at the hood of the Humvee, feeling the engine hot underneath the paper map laid out across the hood, the steady rumbling of it vibrating the pen in his hand. He turned and, keeping one hand on the map to pin it to the hood, shielded his eyes from the sun with his other hand and looked up at the water tower perhaps a hundred yards off to his left.

  The convoy sat idling along a straight and barren stretch of road known as Memorial Church Road. Ahead of them, the intersection of Highway 581 cut across their path, surrounded by wilted and brown remnants of crops: corn on the right, and what appeared to be beets on the left.

  At the base of the water tower, Jim and Wilson stood with their rifles to their shoulders, carefully scanning the surrounding fields and woods for any sign of danger. Halfway up the ladder that rose along one of the tower’s legs, Lucky climbed, trailing a pack that contained another repeater set. They were slightly less than thirty miles east of Smithfield.

  As he watched, Lucky reached the top and scrambled onto the catwalk to post the digital repeater. LaRouche looked back to his map and used his pen to mark the intersection with a big black dot. If they ever needed to do repairs, they would know where the repeaters were posted. After making the dot, he traced his fingers along the line of the road they were on, heading east. They were a short distance from the town of Fremont, and LaRouche immediately began to look for the best route to skirt around it.

  A whistle drew his attention to the water tower.

  Lucky was clattering down the ladder at an unusually fast pace. On the ground, Jim and Wilson had their rifles at the ready and were scanning out to the east.

  “Shit.” LaRouche banged on the hood and hurriedly folded the map. “Heads up, everyone,” he yelled out to the other vehicles. “Cover the road to the east. I think we’ve got company.”

  LaRouche shoved the crumpled map into his jacket and shuffled around the Humvee to the passenger’s side. Jim, Wilson, and Lucky were sprinting across the gravel lot between the road and the water tower. Lucky was waving his hands wildly while his rifle jittered about on his chest.

  “Two pickup trucks comin’ down the road!” he yelled as he drew close.

  “How far out?”

  “Less than a mile…”

  “Eyes on!” Jim yelled, turning his body east and bringing up his rifle.

  Down the road about half a mile, the lead pickup truck came into view, a late model, small-size pickup, burgundy in color. Following close behind it was another pickup, this one larger and newer. LaRouche could immediately see that there were people in the beds of the pickup trucks, but he couldn’t tell if they were armed or not.

  “Wilson, get on the fifty.” LaRouche turned and faced the rest of the convoy, stepping out from the column so that everyone could see and hear him. He held up his hand. “Everyone hold your fire!”

  “They saw us,” Lucky called out.

  When LaRouche turned, the vehicles were halted in the road like two deer caught in a spotlight. They sat abreast of each other as though their drivers were conferring about whether or not to proceed. LaRouche made himself small up against the side of the Humvee, rifle addressed toward the two unknown vehicles.

  “Should we signal that it’s okay?” Jim asked.

  “No, fuck ’em,” LaRouche snapped. “We’re not here to make friends. That’s the captain’s job. The sooner they move on, the better.”

  Jim shrugged. “Your call.”

  “My call is ‘fuck ’em,’ ” LaRouche repeated.

  The better part of a very long minute passed in silence. For some inexplicable reason, the two pickup trucks then began to roll slowly toward them, creeping on as though their speed had something to do with their visibility. Perhaps it was a lack of common sense that told them to keep rolling toward the convoy of vehicles with gu
ns pointed at them.

  Or perhaps it was the exact opposite. Maybe the fact that they had not immediately fired upon them when they clearly had more than enough firepower to do so had convinced this mysterious third party that it was safe to proceed.

  “Here they come,” Wilson called out from the turret.

  “Keep your gun on them.” LaRouche bit his lip. “I’m gonna step out there. They do anything fishy whatsoever, please—please—light them the fuck up for me.”

  “Roger ’at.” Wilson tracked the two pickups with the M2.

  LaRouche swore and stood up, still holding his rifle in tight, but taking his left hand off the foregrip and raising it high over his head, palm out. The vehicles were a hundred yards out and closing steadily, probably going less than ten miles an hour. He could see that the windows were rolled down and he called out to them. “Hold up! Yeah, stop right there!”

  The lead pickup obediently lurched to a stop in the roadway.

  LaRouche lowered his rifle, but only slightly. As quickly as his eyes could work, he traced them over everything he could see, in the windows, in the beds of the trucks, but the only thing he could see was weary faces, all of them fearful, grimy, and smudged with what appeared to be soot. Many of them were young, kids maybe ten or twelve years of age. Even the adults were young, with the exception of the driver of the lead vehicle, who looked to be in his mid-forties, and an elderly woman in the bed of one of the pickups, who stared blankly on at LaRouche.

  Seeing this pathetic bunch of refugees, he lowered his rifle just a bit farther.

  LaRouche made eye contact with the driver of the lead vehicle. “Step out of the truck. We’re not going to hurt anyone, and we don’t want to take anything from you. We just need one of you to hop out and come talk to me.”

  There was a long moment of hesitation, but the middle-aged man in the lead pickup truck finally gave a shrug, resolutely opening his door and stepping out onto the road. His hands were raised, and in his eyes was a look of defeat. “What do you want from us?”

  LaRouche shook his head. “We don’t want anything from you. We wanna pass on our way without any trouble, and without you causin’ us trouble down the road.”