Black Autumn

by Jeff Kirkham

  “Soldiers,” Jeff interrupted, “those guys were soldiers.”

  “Okay. Killing those soldiers triggered even more drama among our people. Our members are now even more convinced that taking up arms is wrong. Every time you shoot an aggressor, we get weaker. How are we supposed to win this fight if we get weaker every time we defend ourselves?”

  “Sounds like a political problem to me.” Jeff turned to Jason. “And it’s a more serious problem than this radio.” Jeff took the radio back.

  The door from the office burst open and Alena rushed onto the colonnade. “Jeff Kirkham, come now! Fast!”

  Before anyone could ask, the nurse turned and ran back through the office with Jeff and Jason in tow. The three rushed down the stairs and through the door of the garage-turned-infirmary. A small knot of doctors, one working a blood pressure cuff, stood over a gurney. Tara Kirkham was there, too, looking scared.

  Jeff pushed his way into the group and his eyes fell on Leif, his youngest son. The boy laid on the gurney, flushed and breathing rapidly. Jeff could see nothing wrong—no open wounds.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  Doctor Larsen replied curtly, busy working to save the boy’s life. “Jeff, your son has been bitten by a rattlesnake. I’m going to need you to step back now.”

  “The FUCK I’m going to step back,” Jeff bellowed as he allowed the doctor to nudge him aside. Doctor Larsen moved around the gurney to take the boy’s pulse.

  “Get him away,” Doc Larsen ordered Tara Kirkham.

  Jeff’s wife, holding herself together, put her hands on Jeff’s shoulders and steered him away from the nurses and doctors, guiding him to the camp chairs set up on the far side of the garage. “Jeff, you need to calm down.”

  “What the FUCK happened to our boy?” Jeff shouted again, startling the nurses.

  “Leif was helping with firewood, and a baby rattlesnake was hiding in the wood pile. The doctors are doing their jobs, and we just need to stay out of their way.”

  “Ross!” Doctor Larsen shouted over the din.

  Jason turned.

  “Do we have antivenin in your stocks?”

  Jason shook his head slowly, regret in his eyes.

  Doctor Larsen talked while he worked on the boy. “I didn’t think so. It’s not something they keep in a pharmacy or that they’ll have in that hospital. Antivenin is perishable and it used to get shipped in from the university when the locals needed it. We’ll just have to make do.”

  13

  [Collapse Plus Twelve - Sunday, Oct. 1st]

  Shortwave Radio 7150kHz 1:00am CST

  “…HERE’S SOME SLIGHTLY GOOD NEWS from this ass pellet of a world: our joint base in Lakenheath, Great Britain called in to say that they’re doing okay. England closed its borders, suppressed a huge riot in London―killing over fifteen hundred rioters. Now they’re not letting any U.S. military stationed there to leave base. Not that anyone really wants to be in the United States. So England’s doing better than most. Maybe they can throw a little of that good fortune our way. Hopefully, they’re not still pissed over that Boston Tea Party thang…

  “Got a call last night from Tyndall Air Force Base in Panama City, Florida. Check this out. The rain flooded their sewer system and a pump failed. Without civilian contractors, the toilets backed up into a literal shit-storm. The brass moved their HQ to another building, which caused rumors that they’d abandoned the base. So then everyone abandoned the base. So Tyndall Air Force Base was literally taken out by shit. Literally.

  “And, if the FCC is listening―which I doubt―I’m sorry about fucking up your frequency allocations and saying so many bad words. I’m very, very sorry. In my defense, you government bastards did let the world burn…”

  Salt Lake County Fairgrounds

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  Francisco hadn’t waited for his brother to finish his reconnaissance to prepare for the attack on the rich Oakwood neighborhood. Gabriel hoped he could talk his brother out of attacking, but the whole thing felt like a train that had already left the station.

  At the morning meeting of lieutenants, Francisco jumped right into ordering the attack without waiting to hear Gabriel’s report. Francisco was excited about the “tanks” they were building out of bulldozers and front-end loaders.

  Francisco passed around pictures on his iPhone of heavy equipment with steel plates welded over the body and cockpit, protecting the driver and forming protective shooting boxes with firing slits. Gabriel begrudgingly admitted to himself that the low-tech tanks had been a great idea.

  “We should be able to blast through roadblocks, walls and even homes,” Francisco said. “And we’re loading up hundreds of Molotov cocktails for burning those people out.” Gabriel grimaced at the thought of homes and the tent city burning with families and children trapped inside.

  Gabriel didn’t hold out much hope, but he had to try to slow this down. “Hermano, can I give my report now? I’ve seen their defenses,” Gabriel reminded Francisco.

  “Sure, hermanito. Go ahead. What did you see? Certainly they’re not ready for our tanks, right?” The lieutenants all laughed at the joke, savoring the idea of another easy victory.

  Gabriel laughed along with the gangbangers. “First, I may have screwed up. Please forgive me, Francisco, but I told the Tongan Crips that you’d meet with them today on neutral ground.” Gabriel left out the part about the meeting being a gambit to save his own life.

  Francisco didn’t look mad. He seemed to be considering the idea. “Why would we want to meet with the Crips?”

  “I thought you might want to trade some of the drugs and guns from the Avenues for more soldiers.”

  Francisco’s eyebrows jumped. It triggered an idea. “We could use the Polys as shock troops. They won’t be reliable, but they hit hard. I don’t know what the trade would be, but it could work. It’d be like the German mercenaries George Washington used in the Continental Army.” That meant nothing to anyone at the meeting except maybe Francisco. He never missed a chance to mention military history, proud of the few books he’d read in prison.

  It wasn’t entirely unusual for Norteños to work with Crips. Los Latigos were Bloods—but they weren’t committed to the Bloods versus Crips gang war in Los Angeles. That was an African-American thing. Mexicans and Polys were a bit more flexible on the matter, especially in Utah. Making a deal with the Crips could be dangerous, but they had done it several times in the past, mostly in prison.

  “I’ll talk to them,” Francisco decided. “When and where?”

  “Warm Springs Park at 1:00 p.m.”

  “Good. Now, tell me about the Oakwood mansion neighborhood.”

  He told them first about the neighborhood’s military organization―their uniforms, helmets, assault rifles, defensive barricades, and bunkers. Some of the lieutenants looked uneasy at the mention of military equipment. Francisco asked a few questions and came to his own conclusion.

  “So they’re not actual military…”

  “I don’t know, but they’re well organized. They’re ready for an attack. I saw men with hand grenades on their vests, and all of them were wearing body armor.” Gabriel had no idea if they were real hand grenades or not, but it made an impression.

  “How many, hermanito?” Francisco asked the question Gabriel had been avoiding.

  “Maybe fifty men at the barricade at the bottom of the hill,” Gabriel exaggerated. He had only counted thirty-five on guard, and that was with women, many of whom probably didn’t belong to the defensive force.

  “Good!” Francisco smacked the park bench they had been standing around. “Fifty men should be no problem! We have fifteen hundred men, and that doesn’t count the Crips, and it doesn’t count the tanks.”

  Gabriel’s heart sank. He hadn’t known the army had grown so much. In his mind, Gabriel conceded to the inevitable.

  “How do we attack?” Gabriel asked.

  “With fifteen hundred soldiers? Simple.” Fr
ancisco smiled. “Frontal assault.”

  • • •

  Walmart Distribution Center

  Wamsutter, Wyoming

  As the rising sun washed the sky over the Uinta Mountains, painting it gray, Chad did a final review of his team.

  On the rooftop of the Walmart distribution center, he had placed the forty men he’d requested from the mayor. They tiptoed around the roof in socks. It was the only way Chad could guarantee they wouldn’t make too much noise. The rooftop guys carried a variety of rifles, mostly scoped hunting rifles.

  Pacheco took his normal position—on overwatch with a radio—monitoring the interstate for unexpected guests from Rock Springs.

  On the ground, in the parking lot with Chad, another ten men took up positions around the front doors where the people in the distribution center seemed to come and go most frequently. Chad and his team waited out of sight, behind the closest rank of semi-trailers.

  Last, Chad positioned the Medicine Bow River Band, a country band out of Rawlins, behind the farthest row of semi-trailers, completely hidden from view. Chad didn’t know much about country western music, but he knew this wasn’t a great band, but they would do for the job at hand.

  With everyone in place, Chad gave the “go” command.

  The band began playing, You Should Be Here, which had been a chart-topping country hit when the power went out. The music wafted over the parking lot, amped by the generator-driven speakers they had set up facing the distribution center.

  The band played for several minutes with no response from the people in the building. Chad began to worry. The band was the lynchpin of his scheme. The Medicine Bow River Band didn’t have much of a discography of modern country; Chad was pretty sure they had only six or seven songs before they would have to start repeating.

  As of yet, the cops and truckers inside the distribution center had grown more complacent and more convinced they were safe with each passing day, based on Chad’s observation. Chad had this one opportunity to take them down without bloodshed. Otherwise, the Rock Springs contingent would be dug inside, with food and water for the next hundred years.

  As the first song of the band’s set ended, Chad went to chew on his nails, then noticed he was wearing Mechanix gloves. The band moved on to Nobody to Blame, Number Eighteen on the Country Western Chart when the stock market dropped a deuce.

  One of the steel doors cracked open, and people started pouring into the parking lot from the distribution center, drawn to the music. Chad guessed the first thing they would think when they heard music coming from the parking lot at 5:00 a.m., was that the radio had come on in one of the semis. People were inherently hopeful, and Chad figured they would never guess it was a live band playing for them in dawn’s early hours. They would naturally conclude that a radio had magically switched on in the parking lot with civilization somehow restored.

  As Chad watched folks rubbing their eyes and cocking their ears, he laughed. Little lambs, drawn to hope.

  More and more people wandered out, hitching up their drawers and smoothing over their flyaway hair. Chad tried to get a head count. He came in at about forty-five people, and just a few had grabbed their guns on their way to check out the music.

  Chad clicked the second “go” signal on his radio, and his men on the roof quietly moved to the edge, peering down over the parking lot.

  Chad stepped out from behind a semi-trailer. “Put your guns down, right now.” The distribution center people jumped as Chad and the rest of Chad’s crew appeared, rifles leveled at their guts.

  “I got people on the roof. Put ’em down NOW.”

  The stunned crowd, almost in unison, gaped at Chad, then turned to look at the roof. Dozens of rifle barrels pointed down at them. Sleepy, confused, and clearly caught off guard, everyone with a gun complied.

  “Now, move around to the side of the building. Now. MOVE!” Chad pointed to his right. Men from Chad’s team ran up and herded the people around the corner of the building.

  Just then, the doors opened again and another small group wandered out to check on the music. This group saw their friends being herded off, but they were still too confused to know what was happening. As soon as the door clicked shut, Chad ordered them to put down their guns as well. That added five more to the number of captives. By Chad’s best estimate, that totaled about fifty prisoners. The band played two more songs and nobody else came out.

  “Cut the music. Tell the band to pack up and head back to Rawlins,” Chad said over the radio.

  The plan had worked better than he had hoped, but he figured there might still be at least ten men inside the distribution center. Chad called over the radio and ordered everyone to begin phase two of his plan.

  His men re-deployed, with all but six of the rooftop gunners climbing down the ladders they had brought from Rawlins. Everyone else covered the doors in case someone came out shooting. A school bus drove into the parking lot and swung around to collect the fifty prisoners. They would drop them off near Rock Springs later that morning.

  Another team hopped into four of the semi-trucks and drove them out of the parking lot and toward the westbound on-ramp, setting a roadblock to prevent Rock Springs from counter-attacking. It took almost half an hour to get everyone set for phase two and, since nobody new had come out of the distribution center, Chad assumed that whoever remained inside knew they were under attack and had set a defensive position, ready for bear.

  • • •

  Chad pictured the tactical situation inside the distribution center. The walls of the warehouse did nothing to protect the defenders, since there were hundreds of doors opening to the outside. Defenders couldn’t cover even half of those doors. The warehouse walls rendered them blind to what was going on outside.

  If Chad had been the one trapped inside, he would have constructed an interior fortress, a place where he could take cover and fight. Based on his reconnoiter, Chad would probably build his fortress against the logistics office in the center of the dry goods area.

  Chad made entry with thirty of his men, mostly guys with assault rifles. They entered on the far end of the perishables arm, which smelled even worse than before. Meeting no resistance in the perishables area, Chad split his group into two teams, and each moved along the outside walls, heading toward the dry goods section. Chad had given his men strict instructions not to fire until Chad fired or until fired upon. He still held out hope for a peaceful resolution.

  As he and his men fanned out around the dry goods area of the warehouse, Chad stole a couple of looks at the office. Exactly as he had predicted, the remaining defenders had set up a fortress made of cardboard boxes. Based on the labels, Chad assumed they were boxes of canned goods, perhaps the best ballistic protection available inside the distribution center.

  Once his team had fully deployed, completely surrounding the makeshift fort, Chad hollered out, “We have you surrounded. We don’t want anyone to die. All the rest of your men are in our custody. Why don’t you come out with your hands up, and we’ll give you a ride home?”

  After a second or two, a gravelly voice responded. “Screw you, you bunch of thieves. I am the duly-elected sheriff of Sweetwater County, Wyoming. You’re not taking our town’s food. It rightfully belongs to us. We were here first, and we have permission from the town of Wamsutter to hold and distribute this food. We’re not giving it to anyone without a fight.”

  Chad shook his head. His shitty deal with the Rawlins mayor grew more hair every second.

  “Sir, I understand what you’re saying. I surely do. But I have almost a hundred armed men from Carbon County inside this building who claim this food as theirs.” Chad thought that lying about their numbers was justified given that it might save lives.

  “I’m not from around here,” Chad continued, “so I really don’t give a shit about what belongs to who. But it looks to me like we’ve already taken this warehouse. Our men are bringing the semis around right now to empty this place. These Carbon Co
unty boys won’t give back this food. So there’s only one question remaining: are you and your friends going to die in here? Because, either way, the food is gone.”

  “Come and take it from us. Without this food, people will die in Sweetwater. It might as well be us that dies here right now.”

  Chad considered his options. Winning this gunfight would be easy; the outcome was a foregone conclusion. The canned food around the sheriff and his men would stop the first few bullets but, as his men smashed and drained the cans, bullets would start sailing through and bouncing around inside their fortress like bees in a Wonder Bread bag. Everyone inside would die.

  As Chad thought through the tactical situation, a rifle boomed. Chad didn’t know who shot first—his guys or the sheriff’s guys.

  Then all hell broke loose. Like so many gunfights he had seen before, Chad watched as his men emptied their guns and all their mags into the fortress of Del Monte green beans. Give a man a stack of bullets and half a reason to use them, and that man will burn through those bullets before having two thoughts.

  Eventually, the gunfire died off. Chad felt the foreboding that accompanied the end of a shooting match. Winning a gunfight was like having sex with a hooker. It seemed pretty damned exciting in the doing, but the come-down dragged a man’s soul through the mud.

  While his men hooted and hollered their victory, Chad approached the stack of boxes. Green bean juice mixed ominously with other, darker fluids. He stepped through a breach in the boxes, rifle at the ready, his adrenaline pumping.

  The scene inside didn’t surprise him. He had seen it before―six men and one woman posed in the contortions of violent death. Some lay sprawled. One perched precariously on his knees, his head slumped low on his chest. All of them had been shot dozens of times. One or more of them had defecated in the throes of death. One young man’s belly had split open, his entrails mixing with the bile and blood of his friends on the floor.