Homefront: The Voice of Freedom

by John

  With that, he jerked his head at his men. They all boarded their Harleys with bags of tamales in hand, kick-started the bikes noisily, and rode away.

  The Patterson boy wailed. Walker realized he’d been holding his breath and finally exhaled. They all sat, too shaken to respond.

  An eternity passed.

  The silence finally got to Walker, so he stood, nodded at Patterson and said, “Good luck to you.” Not waiting for a reply, he walked east toward the gas station where he’d left his bike. The Pattersons remained where they were.

  The Spitfire pushed onward, southeast on I-10 toward Palm Springs. Still stunned by what had happened at the tamale stand, Walker had to stop and vomit. Perhaps it was because of whatever was in the tamales. Could have been dog meat for all he knew. On second thought, he figured he’d have been sicker if that was the case. This was nerves.

  After resting a minute, he moved on. The highway remained covered with deserted automobiles, although every now and then Walker noticed one contained a body or two. Most likely the corpses had been there since the blast.

  The sun was low in the sky when he reached Palm Springs. He stopped and emptied what was left of his last gas can into the Spitfire’s tank. Now he was out, which was worrisome. Every gas station he’d passed was shut down. He hadn’t seen any black market dispensaries in abandoned stations that entrepreneurs had set up before the blast. Hopefully he’d catch a break and find something the following day.

  As it was getting dark and he was dead tired, Walker had to consider where he would sleep that night. The trek had been much more difficult than he’d imagined. With the stress of navigating the tricky vehicle-littered roads, the sudden release of adrenaline at the tamale stand, getting sick, and not having enough food, Walker felt shaken. He had to call it a day.

  He got off the highway and rode into Palm Springs. The resort hotels would be closed, of course, but Walker wanted to find a place off the beaten path—it would be safer. He passed the usual assortment of homeless people standing around burning barrels. Some waved, most didn’t. The town itself was dead, which he hadn’t expected. Where was everyone?

  At one point he passed an ancient graffiti-covered billboard that advertised the DEW DROP MOTEL. It was three miles down a side road. Walker wondered if it still existed. Even if it was closed, maybe there was a vacancy. He almost laughed at the thought.

  He turned and followed the street to an eerie, dilapidated business zone. But sure enough, the Dew Drop Motel still stood. It looked as if no one had stayed there since before the Millennium.

  It was perfect.

  He drove around to the back and stopped. Walker got off the bike, picked a ground floor room, and kicked at the door. It took three tries, but the lock finally broke. He rolled the bike into the room and shut the door. He dug into the backpack for the matchbox. He lit one and examined his accommodations. A mattress and box springs—no sheets. Tattered drapes covered the window. That was good. The musty, moldy smell he’d have to live with. He checked the bathroom. Surprisingly, the toilet bowl had water in it, even though it was brown.

  What? No towels? No television? What kind of a place is this?

  “I want my money back, god damnit,” he muttered aloud, and laughed half-heartedly.

  He spent the next five minutes shoving the dresser against the broken door so no one could surprise him. Once he felt safe, Walker took off his clothes, unrolled the sleeping bag on top of the mattress, and climbed inside.

  He was asleep in minutes.

  TEN

  JANUARY 24, 2025

  It started with two gunshots and shouting.

  Salmusa heard the commotion outside and checked the time on a battery-powered clock. It was close to eleven-thirty. Dressed in his pajamas, he got up and cautiously looked out the safe house’s upstairs bedroom window. Two horses carrying policemen stood next to each other in the street. Studying the officers’ body language, Salmusa determined they were looking for someone.

  For some reason, thieves had run rampant in Van Nuys. Salmusa thought more affluent areas of the city would have been targets; perhaps they were, but he never expected this middle-class community in the San Fernando Valley to have so much crime. The house across the street was broken into a few days ago while occupants were inside. The intruders killed the family before ransacking the place. Police on horses arrived just in time to shoot the bandits as they exited with the loot. Salmusa watched the whole thing from his window. It was better than what used to be on American television.

  Apparently the criminals were becoming bolder, but they had yet to try and break into the safe house.

  Now, however, Salmusa wondered for whom the police outside were looking. Apparently hoodlums were hiding somewhere in the neighborhood.

  One officer turned his horse to the east and cast a bright handheld flashlight up the street, scanning the houses. The other cop did the same thing to the west. Then they both rode off in their respective directions for closer inspection. At that same moment, as the policemen left the front of the house, Salmusa’s keen eyes caught three silhouettes dart across his front yard.

  So! They were using the safe house as cover.

  Salmusa moved away from the window, grabbed his Daewoo pistol, and went out the bedroom to the top of the stairs. He listened carefully—and heard muted whispers outside the front door down below. One of them tried the doorknob.

  The Korean operative smiled. Let them try and break in …

  Swiftly and silently he descended the stairs and slipped through the swinging door into the kitchen. The burglars made a lot of noise tinkering with the lock. Salmusa thought they must be using some kind of lock-pick tools or screwdrivers. He sat at the kitchen table, placed the handgun on top, and calmly waited in the dark for his guests.

  There was a distinctive click as they succeeded in unlocking the door. The three men entered the house and stood in the foyer, talking softly.

  “Is there anyone here?”

  “It’s quiet.”

  “You—go check the rest of the house.”

  “Fuck that. Let’s see if there’s anything in the kitchen. Eat first, kill later.”

  “I’m for that.”

  “Got your flashlight?”

  Sudden illumination spilled into the kitchen from the slit under the swinging door. Salmusa was impressed that the hoodlums had a working flashlight. He picked up the Daewoo and quietly screwed the suppressor in place.

  The sound of footsteps came closer.

  The door swung open. The man with the flashlight entered and cast the beam on the kitchen table. Salmusa fired in its direction before the burglar could gasp. Instead he yelped in surprise and pain. The flashlight dropped to the floor and rolled into the kitchen.

  Salmusa squeezed the trigger a second time.

  The second man emitted a muffled grunt. As both men’s legs crumpled, Salmusa leapt from the chair and onto the floor, still pointing the Daewoo at the open door.

  The third man was armed. He fired two rounds at the kitchen table where he thought he’d seen someone. Without a suppressor, the discharge was deafening.

  Salmusa blasted the intruder twice in rapid succession. The man dropped the gun and fell backward into the living room.

  All of this had occurred in two seconds.

  The operative stood, placed the Daewoo on the table, and picked up the flashlight. It was still on. He moved the beam over the bodies and saw that the burglars were African-American men in their twenties. He didn’t care about having to kill them, but the racket of the third man’s gun was problematic. Would the loud noise attract the attention of the policemen outside?

  He stepped over the bodies, moved to the kitchen window, and carefully peered through the drapes. Sure enough, one of the policemen had ridden his horse closer to the house. He had definitely heard something.

  Salmusa hurried out of the kitchen to the foyer and discovered that the burglars had left the front door wide open. Not good. No wonde
r the cop was curious.

  There was no time to go back to the kitchen and retrieve his handgun. The officer dismounted, drew his sidearm, and approached the front porch.

  Salmusa stealthily slid into the living room and crouched in the shadows beside the open door. The M9 knife he always kept strapped to his right calf was already in his hand.

  The policeman turned on his flashlight and pointed it inside the house. The beam swerved through the foyer. The living room archway was to his left. The kitchen door was to his right.

  A body lay sprawled on the floor, blocking open the swinging kitchen door.

  The officer cautiously stepped inside and saw the arm of another body just inside the kitchen. He moved forward and faced the crime scene, his flashlight running over the three corpses.

  “Wish the damn radios worked,” the officer mumbled. Then he hollered as loud as he could. “Carl? Carl, can you hear me?”

  The cop headed back toward the front door to find his partner.

  “Hey, Carl! I found—”

  Salmusa’s blade prematurely ended the officer’s call for backup with a swift slice across the man’s throat. As he fell back, the Korean caught him and gently laid him on the floor. The officer struggled and choked helplessly. Blood gushed from his wound. Salmusa quickly stepped outside and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of the other policeman. The horse stood obediently in the yard.

  Salmusa approached the animal and slapped its rear. “Go!” he commanded. At first the horse wasn’t sure what to do. Salmusa slapped it again, harder. This time the beast whinnied and bolted off the property.

  The Korean went back inside and shut the front door. The lock needed repairing but that could wait. For now, he had to make do by moving a heavy chair from the living room against the door. When he was done with that task, he opened the crawl space hatch, located directly under the stairs.

  Still wearing pajamas, Salmusa dragged the first body across the floor, smearing blood as he went. It didn’t matter. He would abandon the safe house very soon. Salmusa stuffed the corpse through the crawl space opening, then moved it farther inside by pushing it with his bare feet. He repeated the steps with the other two burglars. The police officer went in last.

  Salmusa finally went up the stairs, removed the blood-stained pajamas, and dropped them in the laundry basket. It would have been nice to take a shower, but he managed with the water basin and soap he’d been using since moving in to the house. He then put on a clean pair of pajamas, brushed his teeth, and went back to bed.

  ELEVEN

  JANUARY 25, 2025

  Walker awoke to voices outside the motel room. At first he didn’t know where he was. It was the room’s stale smell that brought it all back. He was so exhausted the night before that he hadn’t noticed how bad it was. He rolled over on his side and coughed into his hands, trying his best to stifle the noise. Then he took a minute to breathe through his mouth as he slowly sat up.

  The voices outside were very close, just beyond the door.

  Walker immediately went on full alert. He grabbed the kitchen knife, which he’d set on the nightstand next to the bed.

  A man said, “Hurry up and get the blankets.”

  Walker stood and went to the window. He carefully peered through the tattered drapes and saw a beat-up 1970s-era Chevy Nova parked a couple of rooms down from his own. A man of about forty was loading something in the trunk. After a moment, a teenage girl appeared with an armful of blankets and handed them over. The man threw them in the back seat. The girl went back inside the motel room, and pretty soon she returned with a boy a little older than she.

  A woman’s voice called, “Billy, you left your socks.”

  The man winced and said, sotto voce, “Betty, keep your voice down!”

  They were a normal family who had done the exact same thing Walker had done—they broke into a motel room and spent the night. They probably didn’t realize he was there.

  Walker threw the knife on the bed, pushed the dresser out of the way, and opened the door. The teenage girl shrieked. The man drew a pistol from nowhere.

  “Whoa!” Walker said, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you! It’s okay. I’m friendly. I’m a good guy.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Come out with your hands up. Don’t try any funny moves. Becky, run inside. You too, Billy.”

  The two kids shot into the motel room.

  “Shut the door,” their father commanded. When that was done, he addressed Walker. “You alone?”

  “Yes, sir. Really, you can lower the gun.”

  “Close your door behind you. With one hand.”

  Walker did so. “I’m alone. I promise. The only thing inside is my motorcycle.” Keeping his hands up, he nodded at the Chevy. “We must have had the same idea. I broke into the room last night. I didn’t even hear you guys arrive. I was really out.”

  The man studied Walker’s appearance and finally decided there was no threat. “Okay, you can put down your hands.” He holstered the pistol.

  “Thanks.” Walker tried some levity. “Some accommodations, huh?”

  The man wasn’t having it. “Where you headed?”

  “I’m not sure. I thought I’d check out Twentynine Palms. It’s not too far from here.” Walker held out his hand. “Ben Walker. I’m from LA.”

  The man cautiously shook it. “Gary Franklin. We are, too.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Mexico.” Franklin turned toward the motel room. He waved at them to come on out. The door opened and they appeared, along with a woman in her late thirties. The Franklins were a handsome family, although it was apparent they were in the same condition as Walker—stressed, hungry, and frightened.

  “This is Billy, Becky, and my wife, Wendy.”

  Walker smiled and introduced himself. Franklin said to his wife, “Why don’t you finish getting our things together. I’d like to get out of here.”

  She nodded and went back inside. The kids stood and studied Walker.

  “Tough times,” Franklin said.

  “Yeah. What do you know about Mexico? Is it safe down there?” Walker asked.

  “I have no idea. I just figure it’s got to be better than here. I bet they never thought they’d get illegal immigrants going the other way.”

  Walker nodded. “Have you heard anything about the old Marine base at Twentynine Palms? Is anything still there?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. But I do know there are gangs on these highways. Dangerous, desperate men. They ride motorcycles and some have cars.”

  “I know. I ran into some of them yesterday.”

  Franklin looked him up and down. “And you’re still alive?”

  “I was one of the lucky ones.”

  “I see.” Franklin gestured east. “They may be on Route 62, Mr. Walker. I hear they stop anyone with a motor vehicle and kill them for it. Women are raped. It’s like they’ve decided it’s the end of the world so anything goes. I don’t know what’s happened to the police. I haven’t seen a cop since we left LA.”

  “Me neither.”

  “You have a weapon?”

  “Not really.” Walker laughed wryly. “A kitchen knife.”

  “Wish I could help you.” Franklin patted the pistol on his belt. “It’s all I’ve got.”

  “I understand. What I really need is gas. Have you seen any black market guys selling any?”

  “Nope. I think on this stretch of road, the outlaws would kill ’em for it.”

  Walker rubbed his chin. “I’ve got about a quarter tank. I don’t know how far that’s gonna get me.”

  Franklin turned his head and stared off in the distance for a moment. He rubbed his unshaven chin and then said, “I tell you what.” He moved to the back of his car and opened the trunk. “Come here.” He reached inside and pulled out a five-gallon gas can. “Here you go. It’s only half full.”

  Walker’s jaw dropped. “Oh my gosh! How much you want
for it?”

  Franklin shook his head. “Take it. I have a bunch.”

  Walker joined him at the back of the Chevy. The trunk was filled with five-gallon cans.

  “I guess I’m one of those end-of-days fanatics,” Franklin said with a sheepish grin. “I always kept supplies for emergencies. I even had a bomb shelter back at our house. I’ve had these cans for over a year.”

  “Mr. Franklin, I can’t take your—”

  The man held up a hand. “Nah, nah. These days most people are likely to be mighty selfish. I believe it’s a time when we need to be neighborly.”

  “Well, thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome. Ben, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Call me Gary.” They shook hands again. “I don’t know how much farther those two extra gallons will get you, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “I’ll say. Thanks again.”

  “We’re gonna get going now. Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  A low, harsh rumble in the distance caught their attention.

  “What was that?” Walker asked.

  It happened again, a little louder.

  “That’s gunfire,” Franklin said. “Tanks. Big guns.”

  “Oh my God.” They turned toward the noise. “Where do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. Not too far away. A few miles.”

  Walker gasped and pointed. “Look.”

  Planes. Flying toward them in formation.

  “Where did those come from?” Franklin asked. “I think they’re ours!”

  “I have some binoculars in my room.”

  “Go get ’em!”

  Walker retrieved the pair and brought them to Franklin. The man raised them to his eyes.

  “Oh, Lord,” he said.

  “What?”

  “They’re ours, all right. U.S. Air Force transport carriers.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  Franklin lowered the binoculars. His eyes betrayed his fear. “They’ve got Korean insignias on them.”