by Jeff Kirkham
It will be okay.
Oh, God, please be real and please make it okay.
Jacquelyn gathered herself and headed to the bunkhouse to see if her children were awake. Maybe they would still be asleep, and maybe she could spend a few minutes with them in bed, just smelling their hair.
If she could have that, she could make it through this day.
15
[Collapse Plus Fourteen - Sunday, Oct. 3rd]
Shortwave Radio 7150kHz 1:00am CST
“GOOD EVENING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. A special shout out to any Drinkin’ Bros out there still breathing. You don’t know how lucky you are. I just breezed through Albuquerque and let’s just say that it was never a beautiful town, but now it’s as though God left a steaming turd on a parking lot. Some poor bastard on the street told me the cartels have started coming in at night, raping and burning just for fun. If you’re planning on wintering in Albuquerque, I would reconsider travel.
“Halsey Field in San Diego, California called in. The entire Coronado isthmus has been locked down since the collapse. The naval base has a nuke ship supplying power and water. Sounds like a large armed force from Mexico — probably cartels — had been sweeping through San Diego looting until they ran into the SEALs and Navy boys holding down Coronado Island. Big mistake for the cartels. The Navy’s planning an offensive to clear out San Diego soon. What is it the cartel says, ‘plata or plomo?” Give ’em nothing but lead, Navy boys, nothing but lead.
“On a personal note, I’m running low on water and, quite frankly, I can no longer pretend that my blow-up doll is a real person. If there are any Drinkin’ Bros listening in who would like to invite slightly ripe-smelling radio show host to Sunday dinner, I would be greatly obliged…”
Holiday Inn
Rawlins, Wyoming
In the wee hours of the morning, long before daylight, Chad rousted his family. They had packed everything the night before.
Pacheco drove Audrey and Samantha in the Blazer, dropping Chad off on the corner of a residential street just outside downtown Rawlins.
The day before, Chad had been introduced to his pilot, gleaning enough information to figure out where he lived. The town owed Chad a flight to Salt Lake City, but Chad had become eighty percent convinced the mayor intended on dragging his feet, forcing Chad and his family to stay in Rawlins, forever prostituting themselves to the town’s interests.
Chad pretended to consider the offer, quietly gathering the information necessary to take matters into his own hands.
The back door of the pilot’s house had been left unlocked, a bad habit during the Apocalypse. But Rawlins had never been a town that required locked doors. Chad slipped quietly inside, wearing his NVGs and carrying his 1911 handgun.
After exploring a bit, he found the main bedroom and stepped to the foot of the bed. He carefully laid back a heavy quilted comforter and tapped the pilot’s big toe with his handgun.
“Whaaaa…?” The pilot sat up, groggy.
“Hey, bro,” Chad whispered. “I’m Chad. We met yesterday. Our flight’s been pushed up. We’re leaving now.”
The pilot stared at the dark shape at the foot of his bed. “Why’re you in my bedroom?”
“It’s all good,” Chad calmed him. “We need to get in the air. We have an early departure time.”
“Okay, let me get my pants on.” The pilot slid off his bed, groggy enough not to question anything. Amazingly, his wife kept snoring.
• • •
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
Dawn broke clean and crisp, fall now undeniably upon the Homestead. One of the doctors, Doc Eric, smoked a cigar, standing on the cobble drive outside the infirmary.
Jeff hadn’t slept, spending the night cleaning up the night battle. The last thing he needed was for more wounded enemies to end up in the infirmary. He stayed up to make sure all the bodies had been policed up from the forest and deposited outside the mountain perimeter.
Doc Eric had acquainted himself with assault rifles and handguns long before the collapse. Few knew this, but Doc Eric scored as one of the best combat shooters in the Homestead. Even so, he would probably never pick up a gun in anger, his skills as a surgeon more urgently needed in the infirmary. Unlike the other four doctors who were part of the group, Eric carried his Glock 17 everywhere, including the infirmary and surgical bay.
Jeff walked up silently beside Doc Eric, testing the waters.
“You got yourself a passel of trouble this morning, big guy,” Doc Eric said, taking a puff on his Swisher Sweet.
“I suppose you’re right about that,” Jeff said.
Doc guffawed. “On the positive side, your boy is hanging in there strong. He’s still sleeping and feverish, but my money’s on him making it.”
Jeff nodded, thankful for the update.
“I couldn’t let those wounded men stay here,” Jeff launched into his explanation. “The longer we worked on them, the more we’d want to keep them here, and the more they’d find out about us. When we finally decided to send them away, they’d be a gaping wound in our security—a massive leak of information.”
“Trust me,” Doc Eric said, “I understand. Those men had to go, but that doesn’t change anything. The med staff, and everyone who listens to the med staff, have convinced themselves that you’re the new head of the Gestapo.”
“I guess that makes me Adolf Hitler.”
“No, I believe that would make you Hermann Göering.”
• • •
More a lynch mob than a meeting, a group of concerned citizens of the Homestead gathered outside the infirmary. A night’s sleep had done nothing to temper their anger.
As the crowd formed on the cobblestone drive outside the doors of the four-car, garage-cum-infirmary, an angry debate circulated around the mass of people, the tide leaning precariously toward revolt against Jeff Kirkham and, by extension, Jason Ross.
Alena Jameson did more than her fair share of the shouting. “If we allow this to continue, every one of us is complicit in murder. If we choose to live like this—like barbarians—then why is there any reason to live?”
Doctor Hodges followed. “I cannot, in good conscience, practice medicine like this. I’ve taken an oath. I could be stripped of my license for what happened last night.”
“Who elected these men to run this place anyway?” another person shouted.
The mob raged on and, as it did, contrary voices arose.
Walter Ross shouted, “I’m no fan of killing. But I have to trust that our military people know what they’re doing. I trust that what Jeff Kirkham did is an appropriate response to being attacked.”
“They aren’t behaving anything like military professionals,” Alena hissed. “We don’t stick enemy wounded on fence posts to die. When has America ever done that?”
Round and round the shouting went. The tides of fear and anger came and went, smashing against one another. Many feared the violence, worried it might turn against them. Others feared for their children’s safety, willing to accept violence to protect them. Others channeled their despair—brought on by the collapse of society—and turned it against Jeff Kirkham.
Above the infirmary, standing back from the edge of the balcony so he couldn’t be seen, Jeff listened. Then he did what he always did when faced with a threat: he acted.
Switching to the radio channel reserved for his commanders, Jeff called in all QRF squads. He ordered his men to surround the meeting, weapons ready.
As Jeff spoke into his radio, giving orders, he didn’t notice Jason Ross silently stepping around the corner of the balcony. Jeff turned and regarded Ross, knowing he had been overheard ordering troops to take up arms against the people of the Homestead. Jeff and Jason looked one another in the eye for a long moment. Jason nodded and took another sip of his coffee.
It took five minutes for Jeff’s armed men to file into the courtyard. Nobody appeared to notice. The argument had taken on a life of its own. With
out restraint and leadership, the debate could go on for hours.
“Are your men ready?” Jason asked.
Jeff nodded.
“Good, then I’ll go down and talk to the crowd. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Jeff replied.
Jason descended the stairs and walked into the middle of the mob. In a show of human pack hierarchy, Jason’s bearing bought him free passage to the head of the conversation. Watching from above, Jeff smiled at the unspoken, primitive ways of the human mind. The Alpha Wolf arrives.
Strangely, Jason hadn’t done anything to win the group’s deference, except maybe being a successful businessman in a lifelong past. He couldn’t claim to be a superior fighter, athlete or even a talented people person. But, in the post-Apocalyptic world, through the strange alchemy of human sociality, he was the natural choice for head of state.
One thing was certain: Jeff didn’t want the job. Even with near-total control of the Homestead security force, Jeff wanted nothing to do with political affairs. And, without this mass of idiots down below, his men would have nothing to eat, nobody to farm for them and no one to patch them up when they were injured. As much as he hated politics, Jeff needed the Homestead. That meant he needed Ross, at least for the time being. But there were limits to his patience. He would not let the safety of his family be compromised, no matter how much he needed them.
The arguing subsided as Jason took center stage.
“How are you going to deal with these barbarians you have running things around here?” Alena launched into a new offensive.
Jason waited a moment. “I think we’ve heard enough to know where you stand, Alena. That goes for the medical staff as well. Now I’m going to tell you how it is. When I’m done, if you don’t like it, you are welcome to leave. We’ll even send you away with a few buckets of food.”
“No, we won’t,” Jeff interrupted loudly from the balcony above. He wasn’t willing to let that stand. Jason stared at Jeff for a moment with an inscrutable expression. A silent message passed between the men.
Let me handle this.
Okay, but only if you don’t dick out on our survival.
Jason’s face went red, his fury restrained beneath a thin veneer of practice. “Jeff’s right. The disposition of food will be a decision made by the committee. But that will be my recommendation: that anyone who leaves will leave with a week’s food,” Jason partially corrected himself.
“Who’s in charge here, anyway?” someone in the crowd shouted.
“When it comes to military decisions, and until the threat has passed, Jeff Kirkham’s word is absolute. We cannot second-guess combat orders and expect to survive. I will not quibble with Jeff, and I sure as hell won’t support you in quibbling with him.” Jason pointed a finger at Alena and let it drift over the doctors and nurses, his hand beginning to shake.
“And what if he refuses to give up control?” Doctor Hodges interjected.
“If that means we’ve survived the threat of annihilation, then I’ll be thrilled to deal with that problem when the time comes. I don’t think you’re aware of just how close we are to being wiped off the face of the earth. If we survive this next month, it’ll be a miracle. We do not have the luxury of ethics today. If our children are to survive, we must be barbarians. I realize that we should’ve had this conversation before we invited you to join the Homestead, back in the old world, the world that’s gone. But, right now, I offer no apologies and neither does Jeff. We will probably be forced to fight again—like barbarians—if our children are going to continue to live. Respectfully, Doctor, and Alena, fuck your ethics and fuck your license to practice medicine. I choose for my children to live.”
The crowd gasped. They had expected assurances. They had expected compromise. They hadn’t expected an ultimatum.
“You’re welcome to leave right now with nothing but your personal belongings. If you want to argue for anything else, you’ll have to stay until the committee has time to make a decision. If you’re willing to sacrifice the lives of your children on the altar of your anger, then Godspeed. Leave right now. It gives me no joy to tell you this; you will die out there. But I pray you have the strength and wisdom to rein in your pride and shut your mouth. Stay and live, or leave and die. Those are your choices.”
“I’m leaving, and I’m taking some of the food I worked for,” someone shouted in the crowd. Jeff couldn’t tell who had spoken.
Jason looked at Jeff on the balcony. “Jeff…”
Jeff shouted the order: “QRFs, stand by.”
The seventy-five members of the three QRF squadrons, standing on the outer edges of the crowd, racked their slides and came to the low-ready, stepping back. Most of the crowd jumped, startled by the unexpected show of force.
Jason let the moment percolate, giving the crowd time to digest this new dynamic. Literally, they were now under the gun.
Wailing its woeful drone, the emergency alert began to sound from the ham shack on top of the hill.
Jason shouted above the noise. “Jeff, what’s going on?”
“Stand by,” Jeff shouted back.
Jeff spoke into his radio, calling the ham shack.
“Zach, this is Jeff. What’s going on? Over.”
“Jeff, the barricade on Vista View Boulevard is being attacked by a large force.”
Jeff shouted to Jason, ignoring the crowd. “We’re being attacked at the Vista View barricade by a large force. Time to go. Now!”
The crowd erupted in conversation and Jason shouted them down. “Either you fight now or you’re gone. No conscientious objectors. If you want out, gather your kids and head out the gate. Otherwise, get your gun and run down to the barricade or to your duty station, double-time. This conversation is over.”
Jason looked up and Jeff nodded agreement. Jason took off at a run, going for his rifle and gun belt.
People mulled about, confused.
“Move!” Jeff yelled at the top of his lungs. As far as Jeff could tell, every single person headed for their duty stations, willing to set aside their ethics for the time being.
• • •
The sawgrass on the hillsides had long since surrendered to the coming winter. The fall chill frosted the edges of the dried grass, making everything crisp and frozen until the touch of the dawning sun.
Everywhere a man stepped, the frost vanished, leaving boot-shaped trails behind the attackers as they crossed the park strips and vacant margins alongside Vista View Boulevard. There were hundreds and hundreds of boot paths snaking up toward the neighborhood of the Homestead.
Vista View Boulevard twisted up the hillside in a series of sweeping switchbacks. In the distant past, the area had been a gravel quarry, giving the neighborhood a terraced look, like a stack of sixty-foot-thick pancakes. Small mansions serrated the edges of each bluff, tracking with the turns of the boulevard and the cuts of the old gravel pit.
For some reason, Utahans didn’t mind building luxury homes on busy streets, so most of the homes were wedged between the boulevard and a steep mountainside, providing spectacular views of the Great Salt Lake but little room for a yard.
Over the last two weeks, Jeff had invested considerable time envisioning an attack on the big barricade at the base of Vista View. Because of the steep hill into Oakwood Highlands, only a few roads made the climb, cutting across the slopes. This played to the Homestead’s advantage, forcing attackers into a half-mile fatal funnel where Jeff’s forces could control the high ground. His plan, however, didn’t contemplate a tsunami of fifteen hundred armed gangbangers.
As Jeff raced his OHV around the last bend in the boulevard, his breath hitched in his throat. The first barricade, at the base of the hill, had already been overrun by hundreds, maybe thousands of men. A smattering of gunfire continued, but the battle for the gateway to Oakwood Highlands had already been lost.
Jeff had no idea how many of his men had died and how many had retreated to the second barricade, but he could see the enemy pouring
over the top of his belt-fed machine gun overlooking the lower barricade. He had placed a lot of hope in that machine gun nest, figuring that no mob had the sack to walk into sustained machine gun fire.
This enemy obviously had the discipline and manpower to storm a Browning 1918 belt-fed machine gun. This was no mob; this was an army.
Jeff stared in wonder as four steel behemoths on wheels trundled up to the lower concrete barricades, shoving them aside like empty cardboard boxes. The machines looked like nothing he had ever seen in battle but, after watching their wheels crab around the discarded concrete walls, he realized that the enemy’s battle plan centered around these four grotesquely armored front-end loaders—heavy equipment that had been welded up with metal plates and tasked for battle. Unless they defeated, or at least neutralized the armor, the Homestead had no chance.
Losing the neighborhood and the Homestead no longer seemed a theoretical possibility. It seemed very likely to Jeff. As a student of military history, he knew that an army with greater numbers usually won, and the army arrayed below him had the Homestead outnumbered at least ten to one.
Jeff couldn’t think of a single historical battle where a force as small as the Homestead had defeated a force this large.
• • •
Directly above Jeff, Chad Wade looked down from a Cessna twin-engine airplane.
He struggled to make sense of what he saw. A surging mass of people pushed up Vista View Boulevard. At first, he thought it might be some kind of protest march, with hundreds of men filling the road from gutter to gutter. But then he noticed the armored vehicles and realized he had arrived at the exact moment of a large-scale attack on his Oakwood friends.
“Circle around,” Chad ordered the pilot.
He watched impotently as more than a thousand men marched up the road toward his home.
