by James Hunt
Paul walked down the street toward the sounds of industrious labor. A few feet ahead of him, a child sat in the middle of the road, close to tears. His bike was next to him on its side. A tan young woman with long, dark hair knelt next to the boy, applying an alcohol-swabbed cotton ball to his knee. The boy winced and took no notice of Paul. The woman had her back to him.
“Is your patient going to be okay?” Paul asked.
She turned her neck slightly to face Paul. She was pretty with high cheekbones, bluish eyes, and alluring, red lips. She gave him a harmless smile. “I think he’ll be okay,” she said, turning back to the boy.
“That’s great to hear. My name is Paul,” he said.
The woman didn’t respond as she put a Band-Aid over the boy’s knee.
“There you go, Steve. Now let’s get your bike out of the road.”
She helped the boy up as Paul awkwardly stood behind them. She then glanced back over to Paul. “Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Margie,” she said offering a handshake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Paul said.
The boy picked up his bike and started to limp away. Margie called out to him. “Just take it easy the rest of the day, be sure to tell your parents what happened.”
The boy waved to her and walked away. Margie looked back to Paul.
“You’d make a great nurse,” Paul said.
“I am a nurse,” Margie replied.
“Oh,” Paul laughed. “I’m sorry. That would certainly explain it.”
“And lucky me, I get to be the town nurse.”
“They’re fortunate to have you,” Paul said.
A brief pause came over their conversation then Margie continued. “You came in last night, right?” she asked.
“Yeah, we did. Word travels quickly around here.”
“No, it’s just--I treated your friend this morning, Jordan. He mentioned you and your daughter. I’m sorry to hear what happened to you guys out there.”
“What did he say?” Paul asked inquisitively.
“It’s not like that. He was light on the details. He just told me you had a run-in with some really bad people. I mean, I had to ask how he got that awful bruise on his face.”
“Quite alright. What happened, happened. And we owe a lot to the people of this community for helping.”
“It’s just.” Margie leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Is it as bad out there as they’re saying?”
“I can’t say for sure. It’s no picnic.”
Paul noticed Margie’s eyes starting to tear up. It was an unusual emotional shift from her smiling demeanor, only moments ago.
“I think it’s horrible what’s happening. If only things would go back to normal.”
She then stopped as if holding herself back from crying. “I’m sorry,” she said, holding up her hand. “I’ve got to go. It was nice meeting you.” And then she was off.
“Nice meeting you too,” Paul said watching as she moved swiftly down the street in the opposite direction.
He continued his journey down the road. He was within a block of the construction site. There were pallets of concrete bags nearby. Next to the pallet sat a pile of lumber varying in shapes and sizes.
Despite the limitations of their equipment, the people were working diligently, racing against the clock. Paul didn’t see Jordan anywhere. Among the unrecognizable faces, Paul noticed a man taller than the others overseeing everything while studying a blueprint. It was the Sheriff; only this time he wore a cowboy-style sheriff’s hat, which shaded his face. Paul was happy to see him, for it meant that he had someone to talk to. He wasn’t sure at this point what the New Haven residents thought of their presence.
“Morning, Sheriff,” Paul said. He spoke loudly to talk over the collective racket of hammering and sawing. The Sheriff, wearing dark aviator sunglasses, looked up from the blueprint he was holding.
“Nice to see you up and about, Paul,” he responded.
Paul stood next to him and observed the crews at work. “So these are the bunkers you were talking about?” he asked.
“The very ones. I told ‘em we have to get them built in no less than ten days. We might even have less time than that, but it’s the most practical number we could decide on.”
“Last night you said that you called the day of the nuclear strikes Day One. I’m curious, what day are we up to now?”
“It’s Day Ten,” the Sheriff said looking down at the bunker below. The framing built within the ground was nearly complete.
“Excuse me,” the Sheriff said walking past Paul. “Hey, make sure we have adequate placement for the concrete. No point in building this thing if the walls aren’t secure.”
The workers below nodded. Paul wasn’t sure what materials went into the building of an underground bunker, so he had no advice to give. The townspeople were using wood and concrete. Paul had envisioned an impenetrable fortress of steel. His mind raced with questions. Would these bunkers be safe? Did they plan to put the entire town in the bunkers, and if so, for how long? The Sheriff walked back to Paul.
“Sorry about that. Just got to stay on some of these guys from time to time, much as I admire their dedication. How are you guys holding up?”
“Good, thanks for asking. It feels great to get some sleep and a shower.”
“Jordan told you about the three-minute rule, right?”
“Three minutes?” Paul asked jokingly. “He told me twenty-three minutes.”
The Sheriff took a step back and looked ready to explode.
“I’m joking,” Paul said. “I’m only joking. Yes, he told me about the three-minute rule.”
“You’re a real funny man, Paul,” the Sheriff said with a straight face.
“Now I know we still have a lot to discuss and all that, so this is what we’re going to do. New Haven is having a cookout tonight. You, Jordan, and your daughter come on by and meet everyone. The whole town will be there. You’ll receive your official welcoming.”
“I don’t know, Sheriff. I really don’t want to see you guys go to any trouble for us. More than you already have, that is. And I don’t know how much longer we can stay.”
The Sheriff placed his hands on his hips. One hand rested near the pistol on his belt. “We’re having the cookout with or without you, so don’t get all high and mighty thinking it’s for you.”
“No, I didn’t mean to—”
The Sheriff laughed and lightly hit Paul on the back. “Don’t be such a stiff, it’s all good. Let’s talk later tonight. I’ve got to get this bunker project moving along.”
“No problem,” Paul said.
He had mixed feelings about volunteering to help, though the thought had crossed his mind. Such assistance would send a signal, and ultimately, he felt, make it harder for them to leave. He focused on the three most important goals: getting a vehicle, getting to Colorado, and finding Samantha. Paul left the Sheriff to do his work and went searching for Jordan.
Jordan was in the operations room, as Paul had expected. There were two other men in there with him, studying maps and monitoring radio transmissions. Paul recognized Alan, from the night before, but not the other men. Jordan had set up his own workstation among the tables. He was sifting through ledgers of notes, deep in thought.
“There you are,” Paul said. “I figured you’d want to do some analyzing.”
Jordan looked up. “Not much to analyze, really. We’re on Day Ten of the attacks, but no incidents have been reported since Day One. This thing could either be completely over with or have just begun.”
Paul pulled a chair up next to Jordan’s shortwave radio. “What have they been saying over the radio?”
“Haven’t heard anything yet, the signal comes and goes. According to the daily log, they’ve been airing the same emergency message since day one. Twelve cities hit, seek immediate cover, things like that.”
“Did they name the cities?” Paul asked.
“Oddly enough they don’t. The mess
age has been playing in a loop for the past ten days. I don’t know how much longer they plan on having us second-guess this shit.”
“I talked to the Sheriff a minute ago. They’re really serious about this bunker business.”
“Not a surprise there,” Jordan said, with his face in a notebook.
“I haven’t asked about a car yet. I’m trying to get a feel for this place and for the Sheriff as well.”
“I’d like to get a feel of someone around here alright,” Jordan said.
Paul looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”
“That one nurse with the dark hair. Man, she’s a hottie.”
“Margie?” Paul asked.
“That’s the one. I may have to get pistol whipped more often if it means seeing her on a regular basis.”
Paul was surprised by Jordan’s interest.
“But you’re married,” he said. Paul didn’t want to sound too crass or judgmental, so he attempted to change his tone.
“It’s none of my business, though. I just didn’t. I mean. Forget it.”
Jordan looked up at Paul, studied him then spoke half mockingly. “Let me tell you something, Father Paul, my wife eloped with another man into the deep woods of Missouri. She took my sons with her. She didn’t leave me an address or a phone number. I’m pretty sure that in such a circumstance it’s okay to find someone else attractive.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Paul said.
“I know you didn’t, so don’t worry about it,” Jordan said while re-examining his notes.
“So does that mean you’re not going to look for them?” Paul asked. Maybe it was too direct, but Paul needed to know where they each stood.
“Not at all,” Jordan answered. “I’ll never stop looking.”
“Listen,” Paul said, trying to change the subject, “they’re having a cookout tonight. The Sheriff invited us. If you have any questions you want to ask that would be the place. The whole town is supposed to be there.”
“What are they going to cook, C-Rations?” Jordan asked.
“Very funny,” Paul said. “I have no idea.”
The cookout took place in a large backyard belonging to the Henderson family. They were a nice all-American family of two boys and two girls. The cookout far exceeded Paul and Jordan’s expectations. There were steaks, ribs, chicken, hot dogs, and hamburgers. Jordan was perplexed by the amount of food and the rationing that took place prior in the day. Was it wise to serve this much food? There was beer and wine on-hand, and Jordan took no time in cracking open a beer for him and Paul.
The Sheriff explained that the banquet was a reward for all of the hard work on the bunkers. He promised twice the amount of food and drinks once the bunkers were completed. This drew an elicit cheer from the crowd. Then he introduced Paul and Jordan to the town. Julie refused to go in front of the people, as the very idea made her too nervous. The Sheriff still called her out by name and everyone looked at her. Once the Sheriff ended his speech, the townspeople ate and mingled. As the cookout went on, Paul waited patiently to get a word in with the Sheriff. He had determined that he would ask about a vehicle that night. The more time he waited, and the more days they spent at New Haven, the further away Samantha felt. He didn’t expect the Sheriff to simply give him a vehicle, but he hoped that a deal could be met, even temporarily.
“So my mom and I are working on sweet potatoes now,” Tommy said to Julie. He had found her hiding after being called out by the Sheriff. “It can take them up to three months to grow fully. I heard they’re hard to grow in cold climates, but hopefully it warms up soon. We’ve been struggling with the tomatoes for a few days now. It’s weird because even before everything started we were working on a garden. Like it was meant to be. Home Owner’s Association people went nuts over the fact that we put it in the front yard, but who’s laughing now?”
“Yeah,” Julie said nodding her head with feigned interest.
She found Tommy a tad annoying on account of him tagging along wherever she went throughout the day. He seemed nice. They were both twelve and in the seventh grade, and there was no reason not to like him. The main issue was that he never stopped talking. After going on about planting vegetables for over ten minutes, Tommy changed the subject.
“So do you like it here?” he asked.
“I suppose so,” Julie said.
“Your hair looks nice,” Tommy said.
Julie had her hair tied up in a scrunchie and hadn’t given it any thought. “Thanks,” she said with a polite smile and slight blushing.
Paul watched the Sheriff from across the way. Several Tiki sticks lit up the otherwise darkened backyard. Carlie and Rob, their saviors from outside the gate, walked by Paul and said hello. He made small talk with them, smiled and thanked them again repeatedly. Once they walked away, Paul noticed that the Sheriff was alone for a moment. He made his move. Halfway to the Sheriff, Jordan’s hand came out of nowhere and latched onto Paul’s arm. Paul tried to resist, but Jordan pulled him toward him. He was slightly tipsy and laughing it up with Margie. She wore a dress that enhanced her curves. Everyone was having a good time, without a worry about the outside world.
“Did you know that Paul invented Microsoft?” Jordan asked with bravado.
Margie laughed along. “Oh really?” she asked.
“Paul! Tell her how you invented Microsoft. He’s a billionaire this guy. It’s really an amazing story.”
Paul smiled along but noticed the Sheriff moving out of sight. It was now or never. “Excuse me guys,” he said while moving away with stealth. The Sheriff had moved to the grill with an empty paper plate in his hands. Paul pushed himself past the crowd while nearing the table. Suddenly two armed men surrounded the Sheriff in a non-threatening manner. One of the men leaned closer and spoke into his ear. The Sheriff perked up and listened with great interest. Paul approached the men and tried to listen in.
“They got here about five minutes ago. They want to speak with you or someone in charge.”
“Who are they again?” the Sheriff asked.
“Said they’re from a camp ‘bout five miles from here. Seem normal enough, I guess, but at the same time they kind of give me the creeps.”
“What do they want?”
“They said they’re just here to visit. The subject of bartering came up. Maybe they’re low on supplies.”
“In that case, let’s assemble a team to go talk to them. We’ll get it all under control.”
“I’ll go,” Paul said as he slipped his way in their circle.
He needed some way to get on the Sheriff’s good side. He figured this was the opportunity he needed, short of digging holes in the ground for a bunker. The Sheriff looked up at Paul with surprise.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get some folks together and go meet these guys.”
Chapter Eight
The Seventh Order
Three men and one woman stood outside the gate. They were all in their mid-forties dressed as if they were on a hike. “Do you have any weapons on you?” the Sheriff asked through the gate.
“We’re unarmed,” the leader of the group replied. He had a dark red beard, neatly trimmed. He tipped his ball cap at the Sheriff.
“Wait,” another man with speckled dirty blond hair said while raising his hand in the air. “I got this knife.” He pulled a large bowie knife from his cargo pocket and held it up. Red beard turned and spoke into blondie's face.
“I said no weapons.”
“I never go anywhere without my knife. I told you that.”
Red beard took the knife from blondie. “You need to listen better next time,” he said in an angry tone. He held up blondie’s knife and showed it to the Sheriff.
“This is all we got. Terry here never leaves home without it.”
The visiting group smiled and did their best to seem nonthreatening as the Sheriff examined them. The gate guards stood behind the Sheriff. There were two of them, both male, with their rifles pointed
in the air. Generally they never had more than one guard, but since the whole town was preoccupied with food and drink, the Sheriff wanted extra security. It looked like his concerns had been justified. Paul stood to the side holding an M500 shotgun that he had been given at the last moment. He had told the Sheriff that he had his own pistol and that the shotgun wouldn’t be necessary. The Sheriff seemed bothered and annoyed by Paul’s revelation.
“We have to get better at checking people before they come in here,” he said out loud.
“I believe Jordan has a pistol too,” Paul said, trying to be upfront and honest.
The Sheriff looked upset, but didn’t answer. Instead, he just pushed the shotgun into Paul’s hands.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said. Then they assembled and marched toward the front gate.
“How can we help you gentlemen?” the Sheriff asked.
“Allow me to introduce the group,” red beard said. “My name is Walter Hughes. This here is Terry Gordon,” he continued, pointing to blondie. “To my left is the lovely Diane Jacobs, and to her left is Chris Rodriguez.”
The group nodded and waved to the Sheriff and his men.
“We’ve got a camp about seven miles down the road, next to a church. It’s not as well fortified as what you have here but we’ve managed so far. We’re just venturing out seeing what other people are doing.”
“Looks like you’ve walked quite some distance. You don’t have any vehicles?” the Sheriff asked.
The visiting group looked at each other. Walter, the bearded man, spoke. “We haven’t had the best of luck with vehicles at the moment.”
“Is it the fuel issue?” the Sheriff asked.
“Yeah, for the most part,” Walter said.
“Cars are forbidden at our camp,” Chris, the Hispanic man, said.
Walter flashed him a wide-eyed stare to silence him. He then looked at the Sheriff and laughed.
“What good’s a car without fuel, you know?” Walter said.
“How are your people holding up at the camp? How many do you have there?” the Sheriff asked.
