Fire From The Sky (Book 5): Home Fires

by Reed, N. C.

  “Copy that,” Jose Juarez acknowledged so Clay didn't have to.

  “This is your last chance,” Thomas said in what he probably thought was an intimidating voice.

  “No, it's your last chance,” Clay spoke for the first time. “It's clear to me that Holman is holding out on you. He knows what kind of buzz saw you just walked into, and seems to think that you being here will protect him, too. But it won't, Mister Holman,” he told the old man directly.

  “If you call those trucks up here, I’ll kill everyone on them, and you,” Clay said flatly. “I'm thinking about doing that anyway, by the way. And then I’ll dig yet another hole and drop all of you in it. Should be done just after lunch, I'd imagine. Be a good way to work up an appetite.”

  “You can't take us all,” Thomas snorted. “And I've got the law on my side.”

  “What law?” Greg demanded. “A law you made? Cause there's no law that gives you the authority or the right to seize a man's property. Period. Nice try, though.”

  “The Committee has seen -,” Kendall tried, but Gordon had heard enough.

  “I don't want to hear any more about your damn committee,” he told Kendall. “Your Committee can keep Peabody all to yourself, Bobby, ‘cause we don't need it. By now I'm sure it's a den of snakes and little else. Do yourself a favor and load back up in that stolen car and get the hell off my land before I let my son kill you all!”

  And with that Gordon slapped Clay on the shoulder and started for the house, signaling he was finished with the conversation.

  “Damn you Gordon Sanders, don't you walk away from me!” Holman shouted suddenly, hand reaching into his jacket. Clay had been waiting for something like that, however, and instantly triggered a three-round burst into Holman's torso. As the old man crumpled to the ground, a shiny revolver tumbled out of his hand onto the ground.

  “Jesus Christ!” Kendall jumped back. “You killed him!”

  Thomas didn't speak but instead reached behind him. Greg Holloway didn't hesitate to give the 'sheriff' the same treatment Holman had received. The three rounds stitched him from his belt buckle up, his hand coming from behind him with a dark semi-automatic pistol.

  Ida May Swinton was screaming her head off while Bob Kendall was looking from one body to the other and back again.

  “Vehicles moving up,” Jody's voice was in Clay's ear.

  “Treat all vehicles as hostiles,” Clay ordered. “Kill them all.”

  “You. . .you can't do that!” Kendall shouted. “Those men are all deputized!”

  “They have badges?” Greg asked, looking concerned.

  “Yes!” Kendall nearly screamed.

  “Good,” Greg grinned suddenly. “I been needing a deputy but I don't have a badge for him.” He then turned to Swinton.

  “Miss Ida, I have no idea how you came to be mixed up with this outfit, but surely you can see a losing proposition when it's facing you. You're keeping poor company.”

  “I'm keeping the company that keeps me fed,” Swinton was suddenly savage, almost snarling at him. “I'm keeping the company that keeps me safe, kept me warm over the winter and kept food in my belly.”

  “That you took from someone else, no doubt,” Clay nodded. “Tell me, how many more people are on this damn committee of yours?”

  “Dozens!” Swinton yelled just as Kendall declared; “We're it!”

  “Interesting,” Clay snorted. “Who do we believe?” he asked Greg.

  “Normally, I'd go with Miss Ida, but today it's feeling more like Bobby,” Greg admitted. “I'm not getting a good vibe from Miss Ida at all. Kinda surprising since I always thought she was a nice lady. I guess the lights going out have changed her a little.”

  Gun fire erupted from their right as the three trucks made their way up the road. Men were bailing over the sides in an attempt to find cover as the trucks were hit and came to a halt.

  “I was thinking we'd let you go,” Clay told the two remaining members of the 'Committee'. “But to be honest, I'm tired of dealing with you people. Tired of living with the threat of you hanging over us. And since it's just you now, I can end that threat here and now, can't I?”

  “Now, let’s don't do anything hasty, here,” Kendall held his hands up before him. “We're just trying to do what's best for all the county.”

  “Can't see it,” Clay was shaking his head. “I hear you talking but. . .I see people who tell me others are starving, yet they're clearly eating well. That sort of tells me you're lying… or at least that not everyone is going hungry, anyway.”

  “We get extra rations for working!” Kendall all but screamed. “It's our pay! That's all! We don't get anything else!”

  “I'm still hearing a lie in there, somewhere,” Clay shook his head again. “See, if your man Holman here,” he kicked the dead body at his feet, “hadn't come out here and tried to kill my dad and forcibly take my mom away, I'd probably be more inclined to listen, and maybe even believe you. As it is, though, with the company you keep I just can't seem to see my way clear to do it.”

  Without further ado or discussion Clay shot Kendall, the round taking him between the eyes. Swinton screamed yet again and started running for the car.

  “She's running,” Greg said casually. “Why is she running?”

  “Well, I've always heard that running is a sign of guilt,” Clay replied. “You ever hear that?”

  “I have,” Greg nodded. “From your very own sainted mother, I might add. 'Gregory, if you're running away or hiding, that just proves you've done something you shouldn't have', she said to me on many occasions. Too many, in fact.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Clay agreed as he raised his rifle and shot Ida May Swinton in the back.

  “You shot her in the back,” Greg feigned shock at that as 'Miss Ida' hit the ground.

  “Her back was to me,” Clay shrugged, finishing the old joke. “We’d better stop fooling around and go see what's happening over there,” he nodded toward the other farm.

  “Suits me, but let’s make sure no one is in that car first.”

  -

  “Seven in each truck,” Jose reported. The fire fight had been brief, with thankfully no casualties on their own side. “Twenty-one men and women, all carrying high powered hunting rifles or shotguns,” he was shaking his head. “And every one of them with these,” he tossed a generic tin plate badge to Clay.

  “Makes it official, then,” Clay snorted, tossing it back. “Vehicles make it?” he asked.

  “Windshield hits on the driver,” Jose shrugged. “Be okay to use around here for hauling or something. Wouldn't want to start to California in one. Be a bit windy.”

  “We killed Holman and his cronies,” Clay informed him. “I guess we didn't have to, really, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

  “And felt good,” Greg added cheerfully.

  “Were they all of it?” Jose asked hopefully.

  “Maybe. One said yes, they were. Another said there were dozens of them. Maybe she was counting them,” he pointed to the various dead bodies littering the area.

  “Could be. Maybe this will end it, then?”

  “I have no idea,” Clay admitted. “If Kendall was telling the truth, and that is a great big 'if', then this was all of them and maybe it will end here. If there are more of them, then they’ll probably come looking for this bunch. All we can do is get rid of them and keep a strong watch, just in case. The only way to know for sure is to try and get into Peabody, and we are not doing that. Everyone we care anything about is right here on this farm. We are staying put.”

  “Works for me,” Jose nodded. “I’ll tell Gordy to get the backhoe.”

  “And get everyone down here to. . .” he paused.

  “What?” Jose looked at him.

  “I'm an idiot,” Clay said suddenly.

  “Yeah,” Jose nodded seriously. “And?”

  “Jackass,” Clay muttered. “There's no need to keep bringing everyone down here to look at this shit,�
� he waved at all the dead. “We can take damn pictures with a phone or a camera or anything and let them look at that. Just at their faces.” He keyed his radio.

  “Plate this is Bossman.”

  “Go for Plate,” JJ replied at once.

  “You guys got a tablet up there that will take pictures?”

  -

  “I don't recognize a single one other than the four that made the demands,” Malitha George shook her head slowly. “Not a one.”

  “No one does,” Clay sighed. “How is it that four dozen people, give or take, can hit us here and yet no one knows a one of them?”

  “We can't know everyone, everywhere in Calhoun,” Franklin George replied. “We like to think we do, or did, but in recent years we've begun seeing a lot of people moving through here, stopping for a while and then moving on. Sometimes they return and then leave again. A man used to know all his neighbors but not anymore. I mean even before this,” he clarified. He looked thoughtful.

  “Did you ask the Webbs?” he asked finally.

  “I'm an idiot,” Clay shook his head slowly. It was the phrase of the day.

  “We all feel that way sometimes,” Franklin might have smirked just a tiny bit. Or it could have just been a twitch.

  Clay was pretty sure it was a smirk.

  -

  “That's Charlie Randall right there,” Samuel Webb was sitting up in bed. “And Earline Jacobs right there. Damn, she looks more like a meth head than usual there,” he added.

  “Well, she's dead, so...” Clay pointed out.

  “Yeah, that'd do it alright,” Sammy snorted. “That's all I know for sure. . .no, it ain't,” he caught himself. “Hey Luke, ain't this Speedy Guthrie laying here?” he passed the tablet to his brother.

  “Sure is,” Lucas said after a few seconds. “And that right there,” he pointed to the next one, “is Mater Huggins.”

  “Mater?” Clay asked, sure he heard that wrong.

  “It's a nickname he got from some movie,” Sammy shrugged. “I didn't notice it was him. Luke knows him better. Knew him I guess I should say.”

  “He was a thief,” Lucas said, passing the tablet back. “Grew dope, too.”

  “Mater,” Clay shook his head. “What a name.”

  “You didn't see that movie?” Samuel asked.

  “I was out of the country for most of ten years,” Clay pointed out. “I saw a couple movies on base in Iraq and Afghanistan but. . .theaters were in short supply everywhere else I been.”

  “Where all you been, Clayton?” Lucas asked, his interest showing.

  “Philippines, Venezuela, Argentina, Columbia, Mozambique, Mauritania. . .”

  “Damn,” Samuel said, sitting up straighter. “That's quite a list.”

  “I guess,” Clay shrugged. “Never thought about it.” He stood up, stretching. “Thanks for the info, fellas. We gotta go now and bury this lot.”

  “Won't be long until we can help,” Samuel promised.

  “Don't rush it,” Clay told him. “We need the help, but not until you're well.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  -

  “Is it me, or did this whole thing seem a bit. . .anticlimactic?” Mitchell Nolan asked.

  “Is it me, or is it just a little unsettling that Thug knows a word like 'anticlimactic'?” Tandi Maseo asked.

  “Shut it runt,” Mitchell took a fake swing at the little medic. It was five days after the not so sad demise of the Citizen's Committee for Reconstruction and the group was meeting in front of Building Two.

  “It does seem a little strange to have ended like that,” Jose Juarez noted. “But I think it's more due to the big build up we gave it than anything. After that first battle, let alone our first encounter with their 'tax collector', they had to be running out of usable men. Even assuming the crew that tried to work their way in on the back road was a rogue outfit, we're looking at nearly one hundred men and over a dozen vehicles. In an area this small and already wracked with violence, that's a big loss. Again, assuming no outside help.”

  “I don't know that it's safe to make such an assumption,” Clay entered the discussion. “But I do feel better after Sam and Luke knew at least a few of that last batch. Man, I really wish I had thought of that digital camera angle before,” he shook his head at his own complacency.

  “None of us did either,” Nate Caudell shrugged. “In fact, no one at all did, including the Brain Trust.”

  “Brain Trust?” Mitchell asked. “You can hear that capital letters in that. Who or what is the Brain Trust?”

  “The twins and their minions,” Clay snorted. “They started calling themselves that in private and someone overheard them a couple days ago. They've got their own codes even. It hurts my brain to be around them too much when they're talking like that.”

  “They can be intimidating,” Tandi agreed. “I'm seriously glad they're on our side, though.”

  “Lord, ain't that the truth!” at least three voices said in tandem.

  -

  “What's going on?” JJ asked as adults began streaming into Building Two early Friday evening.

  “Card night,” Franklin George told the teen. “Part of our new socializing policy. We're trying to have social interactions where everyone can participate with everyone else.”

  “Cool,” JJ nodded. “I'm working but it sounds great.”

  “What are you. . .what is that?” Franklin asked, frowning.

  “. . .and as David smote the giant, as Gideon and three hundred routed the enemies of God's people, we too shall stand strong in the eyes of God and we shall reclaim this world for the righteous! The Worthy! We shall. . ."

  “Oh that?” JJ realized what Franklin was talking about. “That's Reverend Nutty. He's busy preaching to the choir.”

  “Reverend Nutty?” Franklin's eyebrow went up.

  “Well, that's what we call him,” JJ shrugged. “If he's ever given his real name we haven't heard it yet. He's on the radio pretty much every day for hours at a time, talking about how the Worthy will inherit the Earth now that the wicked have been purged or. . .something along those lines.”

  “I see.” Franklin was obviously concerned about this new development. “When did this start?”

  “No idea,” JJ admitted. “I found it the first time about. . .three weeks ago, I guess? Looking for military traffic. Really just bored and looking for something to do. We've been recording everything we can get from him if you want to hear it. It's pretty much wash, rinse, repeat though,” he warned.

  “I'd very much like to listen to it,” Franklin surprised him. “I take it you can make me a disc of it that I can listen to?”

  “Sure thing,” the teen promised. “I’ll have it ready for you when you get ready to go home. That okay?”

  “That would be just fine,” Franklin smiled. “Thank your young man.”

  “Of course, Mister George!”

  -

  “Clayton, could I speak with you please?”

  Clay looked up to see Franklin George standing a few feet away, a CD player in hand.

  “Sure, Mister George,” he nodded. “What's up?”

  “Have you heard this man and his. . .preaching,” Franklin made it sound like a slur. He played a brief example on the small stereo, then shut it off.

  “Oh yes,” Clay nodded. “The Right Reverend Nutworth? He's been on the radio on the low AM bands for a while now. We don't know just exactly how long. JJ found it listening for military traffic.”

  “And what have you done about this?” the older man asked.

  “Done?” Clay frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you allowing those children to listen to this rubbish?”

  “I don't think they're listening so much as laughing,” Clay explained. “None of them take him seriously and they all agree he's a few fries short of a Happy Meal. He's a zealot that's trying to whip up a frenzy of some kind as near as I can tell. We don't know where or who he is, though.”

  “
They should not be exposed to this kind of blasphemy,” Franklin insisted.

  “Mister George, if it were average teens I might agree, but the truth is Nutworth isn't going to sway any of those four. Period. They're just too smart for someone like him to pull the wool over. Simple as that. And they're recording it whenever they can catch him so that people like you can hear what he says and maybe get an idea of where he might be, or even who he might be if we're lucky. Do you recognize his voice at all?”

  “No, I don't,” Franklin admitted. “But don't we have enough problems without introducing something like this into our community?”

  “How did you find out about this, Mister Franklin?” Clay asked.

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Humor me,” Clay insisted.

  “I walked into Building Two while he was on the air,” Franklin explained. “When I was speaking to JJ about card night and our attempts to engage more in social interactions, I heard him and asked JJ to explain.”

  “So, we weren't really introducing him to the community then, were we?” Clay pointed out.

  “What?” The statement caught Franklin by surprise.

  “We're monitoring what this moonbat says so that we can find out everything we can about him, and that will hopefully include where he's located,” Clay explained. “People like him are dangerous, Mister George. They can incite people to do violence in God's name and I can assure you that kind of violence knows no restraint whatsoever. I've seen it firsthand. The good Reverend, whoever he is, is a danger to us and to everyone else around him. So, we keep tabs on what he says and what he tries to encourage. We need to know where he is, and what kind of crowd he has. That will help us figure out if he's a threat to us or not.”

  Franklin looked as if this hadn't occurred to him before.

  “I suppose that does make sense,” he admitted almost grudgingly. “I still think we shouldn't allow those children to hear this type of thing,” he added stubbornly.

  “Mister George, are you suggesting we censor what people are allowed to listen to?” Clay asked cautiously.

  “Well, no. I wasn't thinking specifically of censorship,” the older man seemed to be caught off guard by the question. “Still, there should be some safeguards in place for this kind of thing.”