Thunder and Ashes

by Z. A. Recht

“Thanks, Becky,” Ron said, nodding at her. “Feels a lot better now.”

  “That’s the anesthetic. It’ll start to wear off in a few hours. When it does, let me know and I’ll give you another dose.”

  “Hey, hey,” came a call from behind them. It was Brewster, waving his bloodied hand. “How about patient number two? No love for Brewster?”

  “None at all,” Rebecca quipped. “Besides, I’m running triage. Ron got the worst of it, so you’ll just have to wait.”

  “I’ve been waiting,” Brewster whined. “Is it my turn yet?”

  “All right, all right,” Rebecca sighed, shouldering her bag of medical supplies and moving to where Brewster sat on the hood of the sedan. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Brewster held out his hand toward her, and Rebecca carefully turned it in hers, inspecting the wounds.

  “Looks like three bits of shrapnel,” she said. “Move your fingers for me.”

  Brewster flexed all five of his fingers, grimacing at the pain it caused him.

  “Well, that’s good,” Rebecca said. “Didn’t sever any tendons, and from the amount of blood you’ve got here it doesn’t look like you’re in any real danger. Give me a moment.”

  Rebecca dug around in her bag and came up with a pair of long, thin tweezers. Brewster eyed them with trepidation.

  “What’re those for?” he asked.

  “Well,” Rebecca said, “I can’t bandage this hand while you’ve still got pieces of bullet in there, can I?”

  “Can’t you give me some of that anesthetic you gave Ron first?”

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Rebecca replied, frowning at him. She grasped Brewster’s hand firmly, took the tweezers in her other hand, and jabbed them into one of his wounds. Brewster hissed through his teeth at the pain and grimaced. After a moment, Rebecca yanked the tweezers free, displaying a chunk of bent metal that had embedded itself in Brewster’s hand. “There’s one of the culprits.”

  “Let’s just hurry up and get the rest of them out so this can be over with,” Brewster groaned.

  A crash sounded from the direction of the bridge, causing the group to look over their shoulders. Mitsui and Denton had succeeded in pushing one of the disabled trucks off the road. It careened down the ledge and crashed into the gulley below, rolling over onto its top. Jack was right behind them, struggling to push the second vehicle over in the same spot. Mitsui and Denton joined in the effort, and the second truck came crashing down on top of the first. The roadway ahead was clear.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get saddled up and move on,” Sherman said. “Don’t want to be here if those bandits decide that they’re going to try again.”

  Thomas slid into the driver’s seat of the utility truck and turned the key. The engine whined, sputtered, coughed, and died. Frowning, the Sergeant Major tried again, with the same result. “Sir.”

  “Yes?” Sherman asked, turning to face Thomas.

  “Problem here. The truck’s dead.”

  “Pop the hood. Let’s have a look,” Sherman said. “Anyone here know much about engines?”

  “I’ve got you covered, Sherm,” Jack said, still brushing dust from his hands after pushing the dead vehicles over the embankment. “Did a stint as a mechanic before I took up my welding.”

  “Come and have a look at this, then,” Sherman asked, beckoning Jack over. Thomas popped the hood of the utility truck and Sherman raised the hood, latching it open.

  Jack leaned on the front grille, peered in at the engine and frowned. “Oh, damn.”

  “Damn?” Sherman asked.

  “This thing’s been torn up something bad, General,” Jack said. “Looks like it took a lot of rounds in that firefight. Look, here—one of them sliced clean through the fanbelt. Hell of a shot. Here’s two more holes in the radiator. And it looks like one of the cylinders took a shot, too.”

  “So what’s the verdict?” Sherman asked.

  “Uh, off the top of my head, this thing isn’t going anywhere, at least not without some replacement parts. We’d need a new belt—which shouldn’t be hard to find. Might even be able to pull one off one of those dead trucks we pushed over the edge. The radiator and the cylinder will be harder.”

  “Can you get it running again?” Sherman asked.

  “With the parts I have here, and the tools we’ve got, barring any other problems that I just can’t see with my naked eye—”

  “Can you get it running again?” Sherman repeated.

  “Uh, no,” Jack admitted. “She’s a goner.”

  “Damn it all,” Sherman said. “What about the other vehicles?”

  Katie had already taken some initiative and jumped into the sedan. She gave the ignition a try. The engine caught almost immediately and purred contentedly. “This one works, Frank!”

  The pickup was in worse shape. When Mbutu tried the engine, it started, but both of the rear tires had been popped during the firefight and the underside of the vehicle was pockmarked with bullets that had ricocheted off the road.

  “So we’re down to two vehicles,” Sherman said. “We’ve got that truck the raiders left and the sedan. That’s no good; we can’t all fit in both of those unless we pack ourselves in like sardines—and if we did that I’m not sure where we’d put our gear. No, we’ll have to get one of these trucks repaired.”

  Mitsui, who couldn’t understand much of what was being said but had a pretty solid grasp of the situation by looking over folks’ shoulders, suddenly became a whirlwind of action, slapping Jack on the back and gesturing wildly at the raider’s black pickup Denton had pulled onto the bridge, then pointing back at the utility truck.

  “What?” Jack asked, throwing up his arms. “Slow down, man, slow down. What?”

  Mitsui spoke in rapid-fire Japanese, pointing at the black truck once more and then pantomiming pulling the utility truck with an invisible rope.

  “You want to . . . pull the truck?” Jack guessed. Mitsui shook his head rapidly and jogged over to the working, undamaged pickup. He leaned down and tapped his hand against the towing stud attached to the truck’s rear bumper, then ran back to the utility truck and slapped his hand against the two towhooks there. He straightened himself out, folded his arms across his chest, and looked victorious.

  “Oh, I get it! I get it!” Jack said. “He’s saying we should tow the utility truck with the raider’s truck until we figure a way to repair it.”

  Mitsui nodded, despite not having understood a word Jack had said. “Tow,” he said, still nodding.

  “Good idea,” Sherman said. “That way we should be good, space-wise. As long as we don’t lose another vehicle we should be fine.”

  “All right, people, we’ve got a plan. Let’s get to work,” Thomas growled.

  1534 hrs_

  There had been a moment of uncertainty as the group attempted to hitch the utility truck to the working pickup when they realized they didn’t have any chains. Denton had solved the problem by rooting around in the beds of the disabled raider vehicles and came up with a heavy chain that served the purpose beautifully.

  The convoy had crossed the bridge and put several miles between them and the raiders when they came upon another obstacle in the middle of the road. This one, however, had less of a look of a roadblock and more of a checkpoint air about it. A pair of hastily constructed guard towers flanked the road and a heavy wooden bar blocked the road.

  Beyond the checkpoint lay a small town, completely cordoned off by chain-link fences topped with barbed wire. It was a survivor’s encampment.

  Thomas voiced concern that they might have come upon the bandit’s home base, in which case Sherman expected them to be fired upon at any moment, but no rifle reports sounded and the only activity was a flurry of movement between the guard towers as the small convoy, truck in tow, rolled up to the gate and stopped short of it by a good two hundred feet.

  A sign next to the side of the road proclaimed that this was the town of Abraham, Kansa
s, population 900. Someone had come out with red spray paint and put a large X through the “900” and replaced it with “830.” A further addendum reduced the population to “621.” Below that was yet another addition, this one claiming the population of the town to be at “363.” The town might have survived, but not without paying a price, it seemed.

  Sherman dismounted from the black pickup and walked around to the front of the vehicle, hands on his hips.

  “Stand where you are!” came a commanding shout from one of the guard towers. Sherman froze in place. He knew better than to set an armed guard on edge by disobeying commands. “Hands in the air!”

  Sherman slowly raised his hands above his head.

  “Turn in a circle!” commanded the voice. It belonged to a man bent over the edge of the tower, eye to the scope of a rifle he had trained on Sherman’s chest. “Slowly!”

  Sherman obeyed, turning around so the man could see what he was carrying and whether or not he was a threat.

  “Disarm!” came a third command.

  Sherman reached a hand down slowly to his hip holster, unbuttoned it and pulled free his pistol. Just as slowly, he leaned forward and deposited the weapon on the ground.

  “All right,” shouted the guard. “Move on up closer.”

  Thomas started to get out of the truck to follow Sherman, but the general waved a hand at the sergeant major, telling him to remain where he was. Thomas sank back into his seat with a clearly displeased expression on his face. Sherman approached the guard towers alone. As he got closer, he let his eyes take in the sights.

  The towers were made from the trailers of 18-wheelers, turned upright and supported with steel rebar. Platforms and a makeshift roof had been welded onto each one, providing some protection from the elements for whomever was on duty within. Beyond the barred checkpoint Sherman found he had a better view of the town. A main street ran straight through the little burg, lined with shops and apartments. Farther out were several blocks of small, single-family homes, interspersed with trees and power lines. Sherman spotted an armed man with a leashed dog walking the perimeter of the chain-link fence.

  “All right, stranger,” came the voice from the guard tower. “Why don’t you explain who you are and why you’ve come here?”

  “Francis Sherman,” Sherman said, looking up at the man. “Formerly of the U.S. Army. As for why we’ve come here—well, we didn’t mean to. Just looking to pass through. We’re on our way to Omaha. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

  “Sherman,” said the guard thoughtfully, rubbing his stubbled chin. “I knew a Sherman before this shit jumped continents. He was in charge of some operation around Suez.”

  “That was me,” Sherman said. “Lieutenant General Francis Sherman, at your service.”

  The guard chuckled. “Pleased to meet you. And I’m Emperor Hirohito.”

  Sherman shook his head and grinned. “If you say so, Emperor. Look, we’re not here to cause any trouble. We just want to head through.”

  “I’d love to let you, Francis, but we’ve been having some problems of our own recently. I think you’re familiar with them.”

  “Bandits,” Sherman said.

  “Exactly. Mind telling me where you got a hold of one of their trucks?” the guard asked, pointing at the black pickup that now led the makeshift convoy. “Because my gut’s telling me I’m looking at a Trojan horse. What if I let you in and you start tearing up our town?”

  “No tricks,” Sherman assured him. “We had a run-in with your raiders a few miles back at a bridge crossing. We took a couple of them out. The rest ran. They dinged up our vehicles and wounded a couple of our people. The truck’s what you might call a spoil of war.”

  The guard looked back and forth between Sherman and the convoy, where the other survivors were milling about, watching the exchange intently. He seemed undecided for a moment, then snapped up his rifle and shouldered it.

  “Name’s Keaton Wallace. Acting Sheriff of Abraham. You and your people can enter—but you’ll have to surrender your weapons at the station before you’ll be allowed access to the rest of the town.”

  “Sounds fine, Keaton,” Sherman said. “You wouldn’t happen to have any mechanics in town, would you?”

  “Might,” Keaton said. “Whether or not he’ll be willing to work for you is another thing. He lost his wife to Morningstar. Lost his daughter to the raiders. He’s a little on edge, if you follow.”

  “I follow,” Sherman said, nodding slowly. “We’ll have a talk with him.”

  “Good luck,” Keaton said, scoffing. “In the meantime, welcome to Abraham.”

  Keaton signaled a fellow guard to raise the bar that crossed the road. Sherman stepped back and waved the convoy onward. The vehicles rolled slowly past the towers and into the security of the chain-link fence that surrounded the small town. Guards directed them to park alongside a squat concrete structure just within the town limits that was marked clearly as the Sheriff’s office and dispatch center. Grass had already begun to grow up in the springtime air, and had gone uncut. No doubt the townsfolk thought gasoline was better spent on vehicles and generators than lawnmowers.

  The survivors dismounted as Sherman caught up with them. Denton jumped out of the rear of the pickup and pulled a pair of sunglasses from his wide eyes, taking a moment to survey the town they found themselves in.

  “This is incredible,” Denton said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this is an actual town—a living town. How did Morningstar miss this place?”

  “It didn’t,” came the answer. Sheriff Keaton was following closely behind Sherman and had heard the photographer’s comment. “We got hit, just like everyone else.”

  “How did you survive?” Rebecca asked, shutting the door to the sedan behind her.

  “We contained the infection,” Keaton said, a hard look crossing his face. The survivors grimaced. “Contained” could only mean they had executed anyone who had become infected and, most likely, burned the bodies.

  “I like your defenses,” Sherman commented, pointing over his shoulder at the towers and fencing.

  “Thank you,” Keaton grinned, loosening up somewhat. “Took half the town the better part of a month to put up, but they’ve been worth it. Guard towers at each road in or out of town, fencing running along the entire town’s perimeter. We have guards on rotating shifts. All volunteers.”

  “What do you do for food?” Brewster asked, helping Ron down from the back of the utility truck. “Not a lot of fields in town, looks like.”

  “No, but there are acres and acres of arable land just outside of town. That’s one of our problems, actually. Story for another time,” Keaton said. “In the meantime, let’s get you settled in. We don’t get a lot of visitors around here, and, frankly, we’re suspicious of any we do get. It’s nothing personal,” he rushed to assure the group, “but we’ll have to have your weapons. Follow me, please.”

  Keaton led the group into the sheriff’s office. It was a modest affair. The front desk butted up nearly against the main entrance and Keaton led them through a locked door and down a narrow hallway to a door marked “Weapons Locker.”

  “I promise you,” Keaton said as he unlocked the door and swung it open, “No harm will come to your gear while it’s in here. My deputies and I have the only keys, and most of the population here is privately armed. There’s no reason anyone would want to mess with your weapons.”

  “I don’t know, man, it’s been months since I haven’t had a weapon on me,” Krueger said, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Krueger,” Sherman said, eyeing the soldier. “Do as the sheriff says. We’re guests in his town right now.”

  Krueger made a sour face, but nodded and acquiesced, handing over his rifle to Keaton. The process continued as pistols found their way into lockers, rifles were placed onto racks, and ammunition was locked away and stored. The survivors disarmed themselves completely. The last of the group to surrender his weapons was Jack. He handed over the
semi-automatic carbine and his ammo pouches to Keaton, then turned and joined the rest of the group in the hall outside.

  “Well,” Keaton said as he re-entered the hallway and locked the door to the weapons room behind him. “Now that that’s taken care of, you’re all free to move about the town. Just remember, you’re not here to stay. If you can get your vehicles fixed and move on, great. If not, well, I hear walking’s good for the heart.”

  “What’s there to do in a burg like this?” Brewster asked, grinning.

  “We’re not New York,” Keaton started.

  “. . . which is good, because New York’s probably a dead zone,” Rebecca interjected.

  “We’re not New York,” Keaton continued, glancing at the medic, “but we’ve got our share of entertainment. Eileen’s down the street is where most of us go. Her husband ran a microbrewery just a few blocks away. Still does, when we can get him what he needs. There’s no power, so the beer’s warm, but it still packs a punch. Hope you like lager.”

  Krueger and Brewster glanced at one another and grinned. It had been quite a while since either had gotten their hands on something alcoholic.

  “That’s where we’ll be,” Brewster said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “If you need us, just call. I’ve got my radio on.”

  “Whoa, whoa, wait for me,” Denton said, jogging after the pair. “It might not be Canadian beer, but I’ll take what I can get.”

  “Canadian beer sucks ass,” Brewster taunted, voice fading in the distance. Just before their voices were lost Sherman could hear Denton tossing a snappy comeback Brewster’s way.

  “And that leaves the rest of us,” Sherman said, surveying the remainder of his group. “Sheriff, if you don’t have anything pressing to take care of, I’d love to take a tour of your little town here. I’m amazed at how well you’ve done so far.”

  “Be happy to oblige you, Sherman,” Keaton said. “We don’t much use cars anymore—guzzle what’s left of our gas—but we have a couple golf and lawn carts that serve the purpose just as well. Meet me around front. I’ll pull one around.”

  “I’ll go with you, sir,” Thomas said.