by Z. A. Recht
Keaton stopped mid-stride and turned to face Thomas. “Ah. Don’t believe we’ve properly met, yet. Keaton Wallace, Sheriff.”
Keaton extended a hand in Thomas’ direction. The old sergeant pretended he didn’t see it. Sherman coughed and performed the introductions himself.
“Keaton, this is Command Sergeant Major Thomas, US Army. He’s been with me for years. Pardon his demeanor,” Sherman said, casting a sidelong glance at Thomas. “His bark’s worse than his bite.”
“My bite’s pretty bad, too,” Thomas growled.
“Ah, yes, well,” Keaton stammered, dropping his hand. “Pleased to meet you, anyway. If you two would like to meet me out front . . . ?”
“We’ll be there. Where are the rest of you going?” Sherman asked the remainder of the group.
“I’m going to find a bench somewhere and sit down,” Ron said through gritted teeth. He was using a warped branch as a crutch to support his wounded leg, and it was extremely uncomfortable.
“I’m with Ron,” Katie said, shrugging and smiling.
“What about the rest of you?” Sherman asked, gesturing at Jack, Mitsui, Rebecca, and Mbutu.
“Well, I can’t speak for all of them, but I’m going to go exploring,” Jack said. “Been a while since I’ve had a chance to meet anyone new.”
“I’m up for that,” Rebecca said. “Let’s go.”
1623 hrs_
The golf cart tour had turned out to be a grand idea. The little vehicle’s top speed was a modest ten miles per hour, and Sherman lounged in the passenger seat, listening to Keaton ramble on about the history of the town and its current state.
“We were founded in 1905, so that puts us just over a hundred years old,” Keaton said. “Pretty young in the scheme of things, but we’ve built a lot of history in the time we’ve had. That over there is the city hall and courthouse,” he said, pointing.
The large, two-story brick and stone structure dominated the other, single-story buildings of downtown Abraham and featured a clocktower and steeple. Wide stone steps led down to a grassy park area, which had been plowed through in places to allow vegetables to be grown. A few townsfolk, wearing dirtied clothing, worked the half-acre, sowing seed for the upcoming growing season.
“We’re using whatever land we can find that’s safe to grow food,” Keaton explained, nodding in the direction of the townsfolk. “In the early days, right after Morningstar hit the area, we got together and raided a distribution center about ten miles north of here. We got away with a few truckloads, enough to feed the people for several months, but when we went back to get more we found it had been occupied.”
“Let me guess,” Sherman said. “The raiders?”
Keaton nodded slowly. “Not sure where they came from, originally. Must have been on the road a while and when they found the distribution center they decided to set up camp. Good spot, actually. Just as secure as our little burg. Fences all around, guard shack at the entrance—they boarded it up tight, made it their personal fortress. Enough supplies in there to last a year. Just the same, they’re not satisfied. We’ve run them off three times now, but they’re still harrassing our outlying farms.”
“Was that the trouble you were referring to earlier?” Sherman asked.
“Yes,” Keaton replied. “It’s dangerous to leave the perimeter we have set up here. And it’s not just the raiders we have to worry about, either. Some of the other nearby towns weren’t as lucky as us. There’s quite a few infected wandering around these parts. Occasionally a few will wander up to our fence. That’s what the roving guards and dogs are for. If they spot one, they take it out and then we send out a detail to burn the body. If you were to walk the fence you’d see a lot of burned-out spots on the ground outside—one for each carrier.”
Sherman let his eyes wander as the golf cart continued down the main street. “I see a lot of your businesses are still open.”
“Well, we’re trying to keep some semblance of civilization going here,” Keaton said. “Money’s worthless, of course, so we’re back to the old barter system. It’s been working well so far.”
“Damn fine work you’ve done here, Sheriff,” Sherman said, nodding in approval. “Much better than a lot of other places have managed.”
“Speaking of which,” Keaton said, “We’re kind of starved for news here. Like I said earlier, we don’t get a lot of visitors through these parts anymore. Hell, we didn’t get many visitors before the pandemic. What’s life like out there?”
“Hanging on by its fingernails,” Sherman replied. “We’ve been circling around most of the towns we approach. Yours is the first we’ve come across that seems to have survived. The roads are dangerous and cities are deathtraps. Basically, outside your fences, it’s no-man’s-land.”
“Any word from the major cities?”
“They were the first ones to go,” Thomas grumbled from the back of the golf cart. “Last we heard on the radio, San Francisco was under siege and Los Angeles was a lost cause. Not sure about the East Coast, but I’m guessing it was about the same there.”
“What about Denver?” Keaton asked.
“Dead,” Sherman replied, shaking his head. “We gave that town as wide a berth as we could.
“Damn,” Keaton said, gritting his teeth. “I was hoping we weren’t the only ones left.”
“You’re probably not,” Sherman assured him. “If Abraham made it, other towns might have made it. It’s just a question of finding them, and hoping that they’re still as accommodating as you all have been.”
“Then there are the raiders,” Keaton said. “People like them make travel next to impossible.”
“There will always be those who prefer to take rather than produce,” Sherman said. “Always someone out there who thinks it’s better to steal than to craft or to rob rather than build.”
“How about that mechanic, sir?” Thomas asked from the back seat. “Might want to pay him a visit and see if he can fix the utility truck.”
“Good idea,” Keaton said, pre-empting Sherman’s response. “I’ll take you by his shop. Now, remember, this guy has lost his wife and his daughter. He’s not exactly on an even keel, if you get my meaning.”
“We’ll see what we can do with him,” Sherman said, and then sighed. “Makes me wish we’d brought Hal along.”
“What, that old screw-up?” Thomas answered, scowling. “Better off without him.”
“If he could fix a destroyer’s engines, I’m sure he could fix a truck engine,” Sherman said in the man’s defense. Hal was a retired Master Sergeant who knew Sherman and Thomas from the days of the Gulf War. He’d been a tank mechanic then and had since retired and moved to the islands of the South Pacific, bought a patch of land on a remote isle overlooking the ocean and dubbed it ‘Hal’s Paradise.’ The man was a true eccentric, always working on this invention or that, and had a lasseiz-faire attitude toward just about everything. Sherman found the man entertaining and trustworthy. Thomas saw him as undisciplined and annoying, although worthy of respect due to his service. Hal had been recruited to fix a fuel pump on the USS Ramage during the survivors’ trans-Pacific journey months before.
The golf cart pulled into a narrow alleyway flanked by two poured concrete buildings that had cracks running through them in places. Keaton dodged a half-full dumpster and pulled the cart to a halt in front of a pair of garage doors built into the side of one of the buildings. A faded sign above the doors read, “Arctura’s Bodyshop.” Directly below that, in red spraypaint, was scrawled, “Closed until further notice.”
“Closed, eh?” Sherman asked. “We come at a bad time?”
“No,” Keaton reassured him. “He’s in there. Just not a lot of business these days, plus the guy likes to keep to himself.”
Keaton approached one of the garage doors and banged on it with a closed fist.
“Jose! Jose! It’s Keaton! Open up!”
A long moment passed without any sign of acknowledgement from the other si
de. Keaton repeated the pounding and raised his voice another level.
“Come on, Jose! Open the doors! You’ve got customers out here!”
From inside, muffled by the closed doors, the small group heard a response.
“Don’t have no customers. Don’t have nothing. Go away and leave me alone.”
Keaton frowned and looked over at Sherman. “See what I mean?”
Sherman stepped forward and leaned in close to the door. “Jose, is it? I’m Frank Sherman. Look, we ran into some raiders before we got here and they busted up our vehicles something awful. We sure could use your help getting them back on the road.”
“Raiders are everywhere,” Jose said from the other side of the door. “Raiders, raiders, bandits, raiders. Killing, looting, stealing, killing some more. Not my problem.”
“Well, we killed a couple of them, but they’ve pretty much stranded us unless we can get our utility truck running again. What do you say? Will you help us out? We’re desperate, here.”
There was a moment of silence on the other side of the garage doors, then came a quiet, curious question.
“Killed some, you did?”
“That’s right. Three or four. The rest ran. Anyway, look, we’ve got a busted radiator and a torn fan bel—”
Sherman’s sentence was cut off as the garage door suddenly rolled up with a clatter, revealing an oil-stained, ill-kempt mechanic wearing a pair of filthy overalls and sporting weeks’ worth of beard growth. He didn’t look as though he’d seen the sun in days.
“Killing raiders is a good thing,” Jose said, approaching Sherman slowly. The General didn’t back away, despite the man’s overripe smell. “Raiders took my girl.”
“That’s what the sheriff told me,” Sherman said, jerking his thumb in the direction of Keaton.
“Sheriff,” Jose said, nodding at Keaton. Keaton nodded back.
“I’m sorry they killed your girl, Jose, but we really need to get back on the road, and you’re the only man around who might be able to do that for us—” Sherman started.
Jose cut him off.
“Who said anything about them killing her?” Jose snapped, eyes suddenly full of fire. Then his shoulders sagged and a look of profound sadness crossed his face. “I said they took her. Took her to that place of theirs, and they’re doing god knows what to my little girl. She’s only seventeen, dios mio, how can this happen? I’m a good man, never did hurt anyone, and she—she is an angel, would never harm a fly. Why did this happen to us? Why?”
“I can’t answer that,” Sherman said quickly, putting a hand on Jose’s shoulder. “And I’m sorry for what’s happened to you.”
“Sir,” Thomas said softly, “the trucks?”
Jose looked over at Thomas with sudden interest, eyes taking in the man’s posture and the respectful way in which he addressed Sherman, but said nothing.
“Jose, we’d really like to hire you to fix our vehicles,” Sherman pressed on. “We have a good bit of supplies we can offer in trade—ammunition, clothing, food, weapons, whatever you—”
“Kill the raiders,” Jose said softly, still looking at Thomas. His eyes flicked back over to Sherman. “Kill the raiders. That’s my price. Kill the raiders.”
Sherman seemed taken aback for a moment. He glanced at Thomas, who seemed just as surprised at the request.
“What makes you think we—”
“I’m not a fool,” Jose said, eyeing Thomas once more. “You’re soldiers, aren’t you? I can tell.”
Thomas nodded curtly.
“Not all of us,” Sherman said. “Just a few of us, and certainly not enough of us to mount an attack on a raider fortress. We’d be cut down.”
“Then get me my daughter back,” Jose said. “If you can do either of those things, I’ll fix your trucks. No, wait—I’ll do one better. I’ll make your vehicles better. Better tires, better parts—you’ll get everything.”
“Jose, I can’t—” Sherman started to say, but Thomas cut him off.
“We’ll see what we can do, Jose,” Thomas said, nudging Sherman’s boot with his own.
Jose nodded slowly, looking down at the ground. “You come back when it’s finished. Don’t come back if it’s not.”
With that, the mechanic backed into his garage, reached up, and slammed the door down. They could hear the sound of a lock being turned inside. Just like that, they were dismissed.
“Charming fellow,” Sherman said.
“Can’t blame him,” Keaton replied. “He’s lost his entire family. That’s enough to drive anyone to the brink.”
“Thomas, what was the nudge for?” Sherman asked, turning to face his longtime companion.
“I think we can meet his price, sir,” Thomas said.
“Explain.”
Thomas turned to the sheriff first. “Keaton, how many times have you attacked the raider compound?”
“Attacked them?” Keaton asked, then laughed out loud. “Never. I’d lose too many of my people. There are about thirty of them in there, all armed.”
“And how many times that you know of have they been attacked in general?”
Keaton shrugged. “I’d say never. I mean, I’m sure they get shamblers and sprinters along their perimeter from time to time, just like we do, but they probably just put ‘em down and move on.”
Thomas turned back to Sherman. “I’m thinking that they won’t be expecting us, sir. No one’s been stupid enough to attack them before. They’re probably feeling very safe and secure in their little makeshift fortress.”
“So you’re in favor of taking on thirty armed bandits with less than a dozen armed volunteers, one-third of which have had any kind of military training? It’d be suicide, Sergeant. Not going to happen,” Sherman said, folding his arms across his chest and shaking his head.
“No, sir,” Thomas said. “I’m in favor of going at night, maybe three of us total, getting in there and bringing this man back his daughter, if she’s still alive. I want to get these trucks fixed and get back on the way to Omaha, sir. I don’t fancy spending the rest of my days in Abraham, Kansas. No offense, Sheriff.”
“None taken,” Keaton shrugged. “We’re not everyone’s cup of tea.”
“Thomas, do you really think we could pull off that kind of an assault? I mean, assuming we did, for a moment. What do you think the bandits are going to do once they realize we’ve paid them a visit? They’ll come gunning straight for Abraham,” Sherman said. “They’ll be out for blood.”
“Now, that is a worry, isn’t it?” Keaton said with a laugh. “As long as they see you they’ll recognize you’re not from this burg. There’s probably a couple of dinged up survivors from your little road encounter embellishing the gunfight right now. I’m not too worried about an attack here yet. But don’t ask for our help on your little endeavor,” Keaton continued. “I can’t in good conscience send out our townsfolk to help you. You’re still strangers to us. Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Sherman replied. “I understand your position.”
1702 hrs_
“What this place needs is music,” Brewster slurred, slumped halfway over the bar in Eileen’s Pub. The electricity had been out for months, but large candles suspended in makeshift chandeliers gave the bar a dim, flickering light that added to the atmosphere. Denton and Krueger sat on either side of Brewster on their stools, nursing dark, malty brews.
A few locals populated the pub, sitting in darkened booths or at tables around the bar and discussing the day’s events in low, murmured tones. The bartender, presumably Eileen herself, was a stout, middle-aged woman whose service was quick but lacked a smile. The locals didn’t seem to mind as long as the alcohol kept flowing.
“I don’t care if it’s bitter, it’s beer,” Krueger said, taking another quick gulp from his mug and grimacing at the taste. “It’s been too long since I’ve had one of these.”
“Almost like old times,” Denton agreed. “We might as well be out on Saturday night. I�
�m telling you, guys, sometimes, despite all the shit outside, life’s good.”
“Music,” Brewster repeated, annoyed that his comment had been ignored. “This place needs music.”
“And right you are, compadre,” Krueger said, slapping Brewster on the back and causing him to slosh his lager on the bar. “Unfortunately, the jukebox went out with the power, so we’ll just have to do without.”
“You know what I miss?” Brewster asked, taking a sip of his lager. “I miss cold beer.”
“Don’t we all,” Denton said. “But, like the jukebox, the refrigeration is out. We’ve been over this.”
Brewster was too far gone to notice. His shoulders jerked in an exaggerated shrug.
“I never used to like beer,” he rambled on. “I used to like liquor. Whiskey. Figured you could drink less of it and get just as drunk. Nasty-tasting stuff, alcohol.”
“Unless you mix it right,” Krueger said around the rim of his glass mug.
“Then I started drinking beer, and I figure, hey, this stuff is like water compared to whiskey,” Brewster said, waving his mug in front of Denton’s face. “You have to drink more, but it’s not so bad.”
“That’s right, Brewster, it’s not so bad,” Denton said, humoring the private.
Brewster had gone to work the moment the three had entered the bar, drinking twice as much as Denton and Krueger in the same amount of time. He wasn’t quite plastered, but he’d passed the line from tipsy to drunk a while back.
“You know who liked beer? Wilson liked beer,” Brewster said, suddenly sober. He stared at his mug. Denton and Krueger also felt the mood go from jovial to mellow. “He’d have liked this place.”
For a moment, the trio was silent, reflecting on the loss of their friend. Suddenly, Krueger broke the reverie.
“A toast!” Krueger said, raising his mug. “This one’s for Wilson!”
“For Wilson!” Brewster shouted, raising his mug and clinking it against Krueger’s. Denton followed suit and the trio tipped back their glasses, draining what remained of the warm, dark beer within.
“Hey, hey, hey, Eileen,” Brewster slurred, holding up his empty mug. The bartender looked over at him lazily, hand on her hip. “Refill, please.”
