by Noah Mann
I took it and eyed the offering.
“We found it in Remote,” Mike said. “We’ve run several scavenging patrols there and past that, almost to Camas Valley.”
Remote, a town that fit its name. If one could call the collection of houses and an old, small store a town. Forty plus miles inland, it was near the limits of where our regular patrols had penetrated inland seeking to gather supplies that still existed across the landscape—clothing, weapons, ammunition, tools, batteries. The latter was the most crucial, as the supplies of the once ubiquitous items used to power flashlights and some portable radios was dwindling. As it was, we had no one with the skills in chemistry to recreate the necessity, though attempts had been made, all unsuccessful, and some outright dangerous. Minor explosions had convinced those involved to suspend their efforts until more brain power could be brought to the table. Our broadcasts to any survivors was crucial to that, and to other aspects of our recovery. Beckoning those who’d weathered the blight to join us would serve to bring new, maybe needed skills into our numbers.
And now, those numbers, it appeared, would be decreasing before we’d get any response to our beacon. No fresh influx of souls who’d managed to survive what had almost been the end of the world had yet materialized, to our collective frustration.
“That’s where we want to settle, Fletch,” Mike said. “In Remote.”
“Remote,” I parroted. “Remote?”
“We know it’s not much,” Nick said.
“It’s actually perfect,” Rebecca interjected. “And it would be ours. All ours.”
I looked between the three residents. The three friends. Neighbors. Two of those things were going to change if they went through with their plan to leave. I didn’t want our friendship, however tenuous it might be on an individual basis, to be ended by this. By any of this.
“You want me to let the Council know about this,” I said, lifting the present a bit as I spoke. “You didn’t just come bearing gifts and news, right?”
“We have some demands—”
“Requests,” Mike said, cutting Rebecca off. “Requests.”
“Fletch, you’re right,” Nick said. “We did come to you to act as a sort of...intermediary. The people on the Council listen to you. They trust you.”
People see you as a leader...
Elaine had told me that. I’d also felt that, but was never comfortable with people putting an inordinate amount of trust in me.
Apparently, though, that was exactly what was happening just beyond the front door of my house. Behind the trio who’d come to me, the light rain had lessened further, just a wispy mist settling upon the yard, and the street. And upon the town they wanted to leave.
And I was to be their messenger.
“I’m listening,” I said.
Eleven
“How many?”
Mayor Allen waited for an answer as Schiavo and Martin looked on.
“Forty,” I said.
“Forty?” Martin asked, surprised by the number. “Forty people want to leave?”
I nodded. Martin rose from his seat at the conference table in the Town Hall, this gathering of the Defense Council off to a sobering start. He walked to the window and looked out. From his vantage, not much of the town could be seen. But it was out there. They were out there. The people he’d helped shepherd through the worst of the blight. He’d given up the mantle of leadership, but the responsibility for Bandon’s wellbeing was a feeling he could not shed.
“Forty,” he repeated, his breath briefly fogging the window and blotting the world outside from view.
“Martin...”
The man turned and looked to me.
“This isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” I told him.
“There is strength in numbers, Fletch,” he said.
“And keeping all our eggs in one basket isn’t always the wisest strategy,” I countered.
In that instant, right after I spoke, Mayor Allen and Captain Schiavo exchanged a look. What I’d just stated, so simple a concept, immediately had meaning that none of us had considered. Until now.
“We have to face the reality that in Bandon, we only have Bandon,” I said. “A new settlement would expand our footprint. No different than the planting we have set for spring.”
In a few months, with the weather right, teams would set out from town to begin planting sapling trees which had been germinating in greenhouses. Scattered throughout the once green forests, set to sprout in clearings where mighty pines and firs had once towered, this new growth would, we hoped, begin the regeneration of the landscape.
If new homesteads beyond our borders could also sprout, and flourish, then we, too, would be fulfilling our destiny. To grow. Expand. Thrive.
“Also, with settlements, we have outposts,” I continued. “Each could serve as a warning of anything like the approach of the Unified Government forces.”
“And if this group leaves, Fletch, what then?” Mayor Allen asked, a true concern in his voice. “Next week another forty go. Then fifty. Maybe ten the next week.”
“And pretty soon we’re not much of a town anymore,” Schiavo said.
I knew there’d be resistance. Even I wanted the would-be settlers to stay. But there was a natural order to this that it had taken me a few hours to grasp. I could only hope that those with me would do so much more quickly.
“We want to grow,” I said. “But maybe we should be more concerned about growing the species. Because that will be much easier with diverse groupings. Our species can weather illness, disasters, attacks much better if we are not all in the same physical location.”
“Maybe,” Martin said. “But that’s not behind this. They just don’t care for the leadership.”
I’d shared their sense of discontent with some decisions that were made, particularly those actions taken by Schiavo in the heat of out fight with the Unified Government forces. Martin, I thought, was mostly reacting as a former leader of Bandon. But I also sensed that there was a measure of animus that came from his wife being the source of such scorn.
“The bottom line is, they’re leaving,” I said. “And we need to figure out how we can support them.”
Mayor Allen sat back in his chair, considering what I’d just said. Martin took the seat next to his wife and could only shake his head.
“There are things they would like in order to make this go smoothly,” I told the Council.
“Things they want,” Martin repeated. “That’s rich.”
Schiavo gave her husband a sideways look, then faced me again.
“What sort of things?” she asked.
“A small supply of livestock once they are settled in,” I shared. “Medical care when necessary. Those are the major items. Everything else is supply oriented.”
Schiavo looked to Mayor Allen, each seeming to weigh the possibilities of what I’d told them. That mere act of entertaining what was being proposed visibly agitated Martin. He stood again, eyeing each of us, a joyless chuckle slipping past his lips.
“Are you all forgetting we’re in the middle of trying to figure out who’s penetrating our security?” he challenged us. “And you want to allow some permanent foray beyond our protection?”
“Martin,” Schiavo began, “what we want isn’t really relevant. What matters is what they want.”
“I don’t see how we can prevent anyone from striking out on their own,” Mayor Allen agreed.
For a moment, Martin just stood there, seething within, controlling his reaction as best he could. Then, with a breath that came almost involuntarily, he closed his eyes briefly and nodded.
“I know,” he said, leaning against the window sill. “I know.”
I’d fulfilled my duty to bring this information to the Council. I’d acted as intermediary to see that the issue was handled smoothly. My part in this was done.
Except it wasn’t.
“There is a problem, however,” I said. “I’ve been to Remote on several scouting trips. It’s not r
eady to be inhabited. There could be structural issues with some of the houses, and the bridges along the highway need to be checked.”
“Several years of runoff and battering by dead trees that have fallen into the river,” Mayor Allen said, reading exactly the concern I was alluding to.
“Do they know this?” Schiavo asked.
“They believe they can handle any repairs,” I told her. “But that may be wishful thinking.”
“They’re going to need more support than a few goats and doctor visits,” Martin said.
Schiavo processed the opinion I had shared, mulling that, and more, for a moment before addressing the town’s elected leader.
“This should be a two way street. If we provide for their needs, something should flow our way.”
“An agreement,” the mayor said.
“A treaty,” Schiavo clarified. “Something formal.”
“Dear God,” Martin said. “We’re not the U.N.”
“No,” Schiavo mostly agreed. “But we might need to start acting more official at some point. This won’t be the first group that wants to plant a flag somewhere else.”
“On that note,” I began, “there is one condition I told them was non-negotiable.”
“What is that, Fletch?” Mayor Allen asked.
“I told them that they may be leaving Bandon, but they are not leaving the country. They’re still Americans.”
“And if they hadn’t agreed, we wouldn’t be having this meeting,” Martin said.
I nodded. It might have been presumptuous on my part to insert some condition before the town’s leadership had a chance to weigh in, but, to be honest, I didn’t care. Without that stipulation, I would not be giving them the time of day. To my pleasure, their reaction had been more than acceptable.
“They said they’d fly the flag proudly,” I told the Council, then took the opportunity to stand and slide my chair against the table. “Now, if it’s not a problem, I’m going to let you all discuss any more issues related to this so I can go home and be with my family.”
There were no objections, and I left the conference room, heading to the pickup truck I’d been allowed to use by the town. I was in the driver’s seat and starting the engine when I realized I’d been followed from the Town Hall. The driver’s window lowered easily at the touch of a button.
“Martin...”
He approached the open window and stood close.
“I wasn’t doubting you in there,” he said.
“I know this town means a lot to you. And the people.”
But he shook his head at that fact I’d just stated.
“It’s not that, Fletch. It’s...”
“Martin, what is it?”
He hesitated just an instant, like one might before ripping of an adhesive bandage.
“I checked out all the other people who’d had break-ins,” Martin told me, confirming what I’d already known he was doing. “None had any mention of their absence from their houses transmitted on the radio. Whoever broke in had to just see them leave.”
“Crimes of opportunity,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Martin told me.
“I don’t understand.”
Martin stepped closer and made sure no one was in earshot before explaining.
“Fletch, your house was marked on a map. The intruders had a radio and would have heard you were at the hospital. You and Elaine.”
“We know that, Martin.”
“That was careful planning,” he said. “So why weren’t the others? There was no pattern to those houses being empty at the time the intruders hit. One was only empty because Christine Polk went across the street to sit on her friend’s porch and watch the sunset. That’s spur of the moment, Fletch. Completely unpredictable. You don’t need a map and a radio to pull off that burglary.”
He was right. But I still didn’t know where he was going with the line of reason.
“Where are you saying, Martin?”
“What if the other break-ins were diversions?” the man asked and suggested in the same breath. “Corporal Enderson said you were targeted when they found that map and radio. Maybe he was more right that he knew.”
I processed what the man had offered. The idea of being targeted was, oddly, not an alien possibility to me. I’d been snatched from a getaway with Elaine and left in the middle of nowhere. That, though, had been done at the behest of Neil in an effort to protect me, and to save the town we’d thought he’d abandoned. But this...
“These were strangers, Martin.”
“So was Olin.”
His reminder was true, but, still, a swing and a miss as I saw it.
“All this might mean is that they didn’t drop their radio and maps at the other houses because they weren’t interrupted,” I told him.
“That’s always a possibility,” he said, with no conviction at all in the words he’d just spoken. “But so is my scenario.”
To that I nodded, equally as unconvinced in his theory as he was in mine.
“Be careful, Fletch,” he said.
He backed away from the truck and headed back into the Town Hall, having spoken his mind. I had no reason to doubt the sincerity of his belief, nor the man himself. But, in a way, I wondered if the recent events and indications of outsiders in our midst was resetting his manner of operation to one that was too defensive. We’d won the battle against the Unified Government. Martin, though, seemed to still be wary. To still be fighting.
I couldn’t be too harsh on him, though. He’d lost a son, and then an unborn child. Loss was ingrained in what he’d known of this new world. That he was fearful for me, I could only take as an expression of caring.
But I had to live. Had to return to the place where my life, and its new chapter, were already playing out.
Twelve
I was alone in bed when I heard the sound.
It was well past midnight, I instinctively knew, and a quick glance at the bedside clock confirmed my estimation—twelve after two in the morning.
Through the open bedroom door I could hear the rhythmic, muffled squeak of the rocker we’d placed in the nursery. Elaine was in there, feeding Hope, having just risen a few minutes earlier at the sound of our newborn fussing. But it was not that very expected sound that drew my attention.
Something was moving outside.
Be careful, Fletch...
Martin’s unexpected admonition echoed in my thoughts right then. Perhaps I’d internalized the warning I’d mostly discounted, allowing it to creep up from my subconscious as I was drifting back to sleep. That might have made me jumpy. Susceptible to alarm.
I allowed that possibility until I heard the noise again.
It rose up from the space below the window outside. In another place and time I would have simply thought a raccoon was scavenging. Or a possum. But those creatures were gone. They had not survived in old burrows for years as some whales apparently had in the deepest waters of the Pacific. No, something else was out there.
Someone.
I slid my legs over the edge of the bed and into my boots. There was no time to lace them, nor to add any clothing over the sweats and long tee I had worn to bed. From the nightstand door I took my Springfield, and I slipped slowly around the bed to Elaine’s side. From the identical piece of furniture there I retrieved my wife’s Glock. At some point in the near future, until out daughter could be taught to respect and use such weapons, we would have to devise some form of safe storage that would still allow us easy access. This night, this very moment, validated the need for such quick retrieval of our arms.
A few soft steps carried me out of the room and across the hall to the nursery. The soft glow of the nightlight revealed my wife there, in the rocker, cradling our daughter as she breastfed her. So focused was Elaine, so connected, that she did not note my appearance in the doorway.
“Hey.”
She looked now, the tired but content expression she’d worn changing instantly when she
saw what I carried in each hand. I reached out and laid her 9mm pistol on the changing table to one side.
“Something outside,” I said in a hushed tone.
She glanced at her pistol, then looked to me again.
“Call it in,” she said.
“I’m just going to check it out,” I said.
With a careful motion she removed our daughter from her breast and brought her sweatshirt down. The child remained quiet, having fed enough. Elaine laid her gently in the crib and took her weapon in hand.
“You’re not going out there,” she told me.
It was quite the role reversal, I thought.
“You know how you don’t like that overprotective streak in me?”
“This is different,” she said.
“Elaine...”
“I’m calling it—”
Her words were cut off by the sound of glass shattering, and something breaking inside, toward the front of the house, followed by a flash of orange light and a whoosh of hot air rolling down the hallway.
“Get the baby!”
I shouted the instruction as Elaine was already returning to the crib, holding our daughter against her chest with one hand, pistol in the other. She was a grizzly mama, prepared to fight to the death for her child.
So was I.
I brought my Springfield up and stepped back into the hallway as black smoke gushed past me. Through the acrid cloud I could see flames, hot and angry, boiling in the living room.
“Out the back!”
Elaine ran past me, into the hallway, speeding toward the back way into the kitchen. A quick dash past the stove would take us out back and to safety. I turned away from the advancing flame and followed my wife, turning into the kitchen where I expected to see her already at the back door.
But I did not see that. I did not see that at all.
Elaine stood frozen, holding Hope close, a rifle pointed at her face from a few feet away. A lever action rifle, the man wielding it lit up by the fire’s flickering light.
“Olin...”
“Eric...”
My wife’s plaintive voice, so impossibly small and frightened, cut me worse than any weapon. Her pistol hung limp in one hand at her side, fear that any motion on her part would cause the man, the murderer, to fire, putting the child she’d brought into the world in jeopardy. That was something she would not do.
