by Mic Roland
“Walter also told about a cargo ship of aid came from Georgia. The president said it was aiding criminals and ordered sanctions. Before it could get into Portsmouth, a Coast Guard cutter out of Boston intercepted it.”
“The point is, it doesn’t look like any help will be coming from anywhere else,” said Gene. “People desperate enough to mob a jet and set it on fire are still around here. So, Chief’s plan is to have us organize into some neighborhood defense groups in case trouble comes looking for us. He has picked out a few of us to be company commanders.”
“Companies?” scoffed Lyle. “We don’t even make up a platoon, let alone a company.”
“We can’t get too hung up on Army definitions,” said Gene. “We are what we are. If it helps, think of us more like a fire company. Anyhow, I know ‘company commander’ sounds all highfalutin’, but the fact is, we got picked because we have good radios and live on hilltops where we can act as local communication hubs. So, I’m the hub for the Stockman Hill area. Did you all bring your radios?” Everyone held up something.
“Good. The basic deal is that we’ll have a common channel that all of you will monitor. Even with your little FRS radios, you should be able to pick up my base station. We’ll test that later. Next item of business is figuring out some patrols. Lyle, here, has the most recent military experience. His last tour was training the Afghans. So, I’ve tapped him to head up the tactical stuff. Lyle?”
Lyle stood and faced the group. “Let’s start with what you all have for weapons. Everyone stand up and present arms.”
Tyler and Charles stood in a crisp military style. Martin tried to copy them, but he was pretty sure he was doing it wrong. Dustin tried too, but was never satisfied with how his hands held his shotgun. Everyone else looked casual. Lyle walked along the line of standing men, studying the various guns. The more he assessed the collection, the more disappointed he looked.
“Aw man, this is about as bad as it gets.” Lyle turned to Gene. “We’ve got one of almost every caliber. and not a single AR or AK in the bunch, beside mine. We can’t even put together an effective fire time with this flea market collection.”
Martin thought Lyle was expecting too much from townsfolk. Maybe it would have been handy if everyone had ARs and boxes 5.56, but a volley of .30-30, .270, .308, 12 gauge and whatever, could cause plenty of damage too.
“We’ll have to work with it,” said Gene. “I’ll bet that with some training…”
Lyle interrupted. “Training? There’s no way to train these guys? They’re old, overweight or soft. They wouldn’t last ten minutes in basic.”
Martin was losing his patience with Lyle. For some people, things are always ‘impossible’ if they aren’t already perfect.
“There’s no way to schedule patrols with this bunch,” said Lyle. “I’d be better off running patrols on my own. I’ll bet none of these guys even know how to…”
“Bah…” snapped Martin. He backed off his tone. If they were going to be a team, they had to start getting along.“…It can’t be that bad. Sure, we’re not Army Rangers back from two tours, but we’re all we’ve got. You trained Afghans. We’re your new Afghans. We’ll never be Rangers, but do the best you can.”
Lyle was clearly not happy with Martin contradicting him. “I’ll bet half of you couldn’t survive even a one mile hike with a full ruck.”
Martin had run across such professional snobbery before. It was that same irritating elitism that made doctors assume no one could take an aspirin without consulting ‘a medical professional’, or plumbers assume that no one knew how to use a wrench but a ‘certified professional.’
As much as Martin wanted to get snarky with Lyle, he knew diplomacy was required. “Of course none of us will ever be in shape like you, or match your skills, or training. We’re just homeowners who had desk jobs. We know that. Sure, if a platoon of Russian paratroopers attacked us, we’d be doomed. And maybe right now, even a ragtag band of raider-thugs from Indian Lakes could probably wipe us out too. Just do what you can to improve our odds.”
“I might not have been a Ranger,” Charles grumbled with sarcasm, “but Bosnia was no spring break.”
“I can’t run or carry a load,” said Lance, “But, I can still shoot, or I could man a radio. I’ve probably repaired more guns than you’ve ever seen.”
“And, sure, I’m kinda overweight,” said a man Martin did not recognize, “but I walk two miles a day and I carried a deer a mile out of the woods last season.”
Others in the group nodded. They knew they were not military professionals, but they were willing to do what they could. They were defending their homes and families. A vested interest is a motivator.
After establishing some common radio channels, the group gathered around a dining room table with a hand-drawn map of their area. Red squares marked their houses. A star marked Gene’s house.
“This area here is what the Stockman Hill company covers.” Gene traced his finger along a dotted line. “We adjoin the Wilson Hill group over here, Center group, and Pond Farm back here. Beyond them are Bell Hill, South Farms, East End and North Forks. Our area goes east, to the Sanford line. These here are the three roads into our Stockman Hill zone. The road in from Sanford is our loose thread. We’re first line on that one.”
Lyle stepped up to the table. “You’ll all be responsible for the section of perimeter near your houses.”
Martin noticed the thin red dotted line for his house extended from the swamp between his house and Nick’s, out beyond the gravel pit and near Walden Road. It was a bigger area to cover than they had been. He imagined he might have to send two-man patrols out that far. Would he send the women out there? Perhaps pair a man and a woman for daylight sweeps. How to handle night watches that far out seemed a tough problem.
“Even so,” continued Lyle, “…there’s sections, here, here and over here, are beyond our occupied houses. We’ll all have to take turns running patrols in these uncovered areas. Write your names on this pad here. I’ll work up a rotation figuring on two-man patrols.”
Lyle told everyone to come back the next day for some drills and practice doing two-man patrols. As the men filtered out of Gene’s house they seemed somber. Even though it was their home area, they would all be venturing farther from home than they had been.
Tyler and Charles peeled away toward their house, promising to come by Martin’s later to resume work on the truck. Nick headed down the hill. Martin and Dustin waved to Micky as the two of them crossed the meadow. Martin had much on his mind. He and Dustin could not cover all the patrols that would be required. Carlos and Anna needed to be added to the rotation.
“Mrs. Simmons said to tell you she went to the dairy,” said Judy. “She would be back before dark.”
“Thanks Judy,” said Martin. “Would you get Mrs. Perez and take her with you on your watch? We’ll need to be covering a bit wider area nowadays. I don’t want anyone out of sight of the house alone.” Judy looked concerned at the change, but nodded and walked back up to the house. “And make sure you take one of the walkie-talkies,” called Martin.
“Dustin, how about you get the .22s out and see how Carlos is with some target practice. We need to add him to the wider patrols roster. Better get him up to speed. I’m going to set some parts ready for Nick to weld when he comes over later.”
Martin surveyed the partially-assembled gasifier. It seemed daunting task to make that Rube Goldberg collection of scraps actually power an F350. He tried not to let the work ahead intimidate him. Instead, he would focus on bending up a collection of brackets which would support the vortex filter and cooling tubes.
“Hello, Mr. Simmons,” called a voice. It was Eric. Martin decided to look too busy to talk.
“We just got done having a meeting of the Bell Hill Company,” Eric said. “My dad was named Company Commander.” Pride was obvious in his voice.
Martin let the conversation die, hoping Eric would go away.
“Say…
” Eric fished around. “Would Susan be doing anything right now?”
“Yes. She’s busy.”
“Oh, well, I was just on my way…to do…something for my dad, and thought I might stop by and say hi.”
Martin continued to let the conversation die. He was trying not to get angry, but it seemed to take a great deal of effort to suppress.
“Susan was saying…on the way up to Canterbury…how her house burned down in Boston and you offered to give her a room.” He waited for Martin to reply, but none came. “So, she’s not like, a relative, or old friend or anything.” Martin did not look up.
“She was saying how your house is kinda crowded…so, I was thinking that…maybe she could stay at our house. There’s an empty room right next to mine.”
A fox volunteering to mind the chickens, Martin thought. He could feel the lava welling up beneath the cone, but kept his peace.
Eric, taking Martin’s silence as affirmation, began to relax. “It sure would be nice to have her around, you know? She’s quite the looker. Really nice too. Yeah…I could tell she likes me. We really hit it off. I’ve got a way with women, you know? In college, I scored with half the girls in Alpha Phi. They had a thing for me, I guess.”
Martin tried to ignore Eric, but it was not working. Lava was rising. The metal angle stock at his side was starting to look like a suitable truncheon.
“They say it’s gonna be a cold winter,” Eric continued. “Bet I could get her hot enough to heat the whole house,” he chuckled.
Martin stood up quickly with a two-foot section of metal clenched in his fist. “She is not here,” he growled. “You had better move along.” His laser vision was still not working, but a steel bar to the side of his head would suffice.
“Huh? Hey man, what’s wrong?” Eric’s eyes caught the way Martin held the steel. “I just wanted to say hi to Susan is all.”
Martin’s head swirled with things he might say in reply: that Eric should never talk that way about any woman, or that he should never talk that way about Susan, or that he should stop being so full of himself. All of them seemed like floodgates that would be impossible to close.
“Susan is not available.” Martin intended that in both the immediate sense and the long-term. He realized he still had to work with Arthur and the Bell Hill Company at some point, so he could not afford to burn any bridges. “You should be moving along.”
“Oh, um…okay.” Eric backed away, cautiously. “Well, tell Susan I stopped by?”
Martin stood motionless. He had no intention of passing along any of Eric’s messages.
“Well, guess I’ll be going,” Eric said.
Martin watched Eric walk up the road until he disappeared behind the hemlocks.
The thought of Susan trapped in the Emulari house, prey for a slimy predator, finally pushed the lava to the surface. Martin turned and beat the steel bar against a concrete block, over and over. It clanged and rang like a blacksmith’s shop. He knew his tantrum was a futile gesture. He could not protect Susan from every creep out there. He beat on the block over that frustration.
Martin was angry at himself, too. He was married to Margaret and had no valid reason to feel so protective over Susan. He beat on the block to vent that anger too. Martin stopped when he broke the block. The bar was bent into a question mark. His palm was cut and bleeding, but he did not care. The exhaustion felt good.
Martin sat on an inverted paint can, trying to focus his mind on constructive matters. He carefully bent straps of metal into brackets to match his wooden template. He was lining up the next wave of things for Nick to weld.
Susan stepped around the back of the truck. She stood there for a minute, expecting Martin to look up, or in some way acknowledge her arrival. He noticed her shadow, but kept his focus on the metal he was carefully bending. He hoped she would move on when she saw how busy he was. He was not yet calmed down, so thought it best not to talk.
Susan cleared her throat. “I heard you down here working.” She was not going away.
Martin looked up, pretending to be startled. “Oh, um. Hey. Didn’t see you there. No time to talk now. Sorry.” He stood up quickly, sending the small metal brackets clanging to the pavement. “Got to go check my snares now.” He took a stride to get past her.
She stood in his way. “No you don’t. You just checked them earlier.”
“Oh? I meant to say that I had to take some bread out for Andy, he’s depending on me to…” He tried to step around her.
She shifted sideways to block his path. “You did that earlier too.” Susan pulled the wooden bench around so that it trapped Martin between the truck and the partially assembled gasifier structures. She sat in the middle of the bench.
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes, you did. Martin, you’ve been avoiding me ever since that trip to get the cows.”
“No I haven’t. I’ve just been busy.”
“You’ve been making yourself busy. Look, if I did something to make you angry at me, I want you to at least tell me what I did.”
“You didn’t do anything. You’ve always been…I’m not angry at you. Don’t be silly.”
“Then why can’t you look me in the eye?”
“That doesn’t mean anything…I just don’t think it…” Martin began to pace back and forth like a tiger in a cage.
“Then why won’t you look me in the eye and tell me what I did?”
“Because you’ll do that look thing,” he blurted, waving an accusing finger over his shoulder.
“What look thing?”
Martin’s chuckle was slightly manic. “Oh yeah. ‘What look thing.’ Your eyes will get that sad puzzled look and it’s totally not fair. At least kryptonite was a mineral you could put in a lead box, but that look….”
“Lead box?” What are you talking about? Okay. Never mind. Fine. Don’t look at me, but just tell me why you’re angry at me?”
“Uggghh! It’s not you.” He paced faster. The cage was getting smaller.
“If you’re not angry with me, then why have you been avoiding me?”
Martin threw up his arms in frustration. “It’s Eric. Okay? I’m mad at Eric. There. Fine. I said it. It’s not you.”
“Eric? What did he do?”
Martin laughed with more manic. “Oh ho, ho, what wouldn’t he do? He stopped by here a little while ago. He was asking for you.”
“He did?”
“Yes. I told him you were unavailable and he had to just move on.” Martin paced with fists clenched at his side. “He probably thought I was some sort of locker room pal of his or something, the way he said…” Martin bit his lip.
“Said what?”
Martin waved his arms as if to fend off an invisible bee. “Never mind. He should never talk like that about you. Oh, and it wasn’t like he just made one stupid comment either, if that’s what you’re thinking. Oh no. Up at the farm in Canterbury, he didn’t think I noticed, but I did. I saw the way he looked at you with that wolfish, devouring sort of look…oohhh that made me angry. But then, faking a stumble so he could paw you: like he didn’t think anyone would see how obvious he was?” Martin paced faster.
“So, you’ve been angry at Eric all this time?”
“Yes. No. Sort of. Not just him. I’ve been angry at myself too! Being angry at Eric for being a lecherous jerk is not my place. You’re a perfectly capable woman with your own life to tend to. It’s not my job to beat lecherous jerks into a bloody pulp.” Martin studied his fists as if they held an invisible victim.
“It’s not my job. It’s your life. I have no place meddling in your life, yet in my fevered little brain that’s exactly what I keep doing and I am angry at myself for it. And that Mark character!” He spun around and pointed at her. “If I ever meet him, I think I’d just have to take him down and beat him senseless for…”
“Mark?”
“Yes. And he’ll have every stitch coming, too. He had no right to treat you that way.”
“You’ve still been thinking about that?”
“He took advantage of you and that makes me furious too. I mean, I know there are idiot-jerk-face guys out there, but why do they have to be rotten to the nice girls? Huh? It’s just not right.”
He shook his fist at the air. “Any guy lucky enough to have a wonderful woman like you as a girlfriend should never behave like that. He should take care of you: help you to grow: protect you, not go around…why are you smiling? You should be screaming at me for being a meddlesome jerk for trying to interfere with your life.”
