The area had taken a lot of fallout from the attacks on Dallas and Fort Worth, and was sparsely inhabited. The few people he met were far more stand-offish than Craig expected, considering his stock of trading goods. When he asked the locals about the rumors of bandits in the area, they just exchanged glances with one another and shook their heads.
Confused, and not a little annoyed, Craig pressed northward along the river. He was west of the abandoned town of Fort Adams when he found the answer he was seeking. He had the shock of his life when he discovered it. It was the middle of August, and despite the changes in the global weather patterns, southwest Mississippi, along the river, was more than just hot and humid. It was stifling.
Craig was taking it easy on the horses. He had just let them drink from the river and turned back when Clyde shied, almost dumping Craig off. It so startled Craig, since Clyde was usually so steady, that he didn’t notice what had caused it at first. Then he heard a sound that he shouldn’t be hearing. It was the sound of an elephant trumpeting.
Holding a tight rein on Clyde, Craig finally looked up and forward to see a rather large elephant, complete with large tusks, flapping its ears and trumpeting in anger. Growing up, part of the home schooling was watching DVD’s of Animal Planet and Discovery programs. Craig knew what a bull elephant ready to charge looked like, with a small herd behind to defend.
Turning quickly, Craig gigged Clyde. Clyde didn’t really need the touch of the flat spurs. He was more than ready to leave the area of the elephants. So were the other horses. Craig let Clyde find his own path through the trees at a gallop. Craig could hear the elephant behind them for a few seconds, but the sounds faded almost immediately.
Craig eased Clyde to a walk, having to rein him in firmly. The other horses, on their lead ropes, tried to get around Clyde, but Craig was able to calm them down finally, as they kept moving away from the area.
Looking around, Craig began to notice the condition of some of the trees. Limbs fairly high up had been stripped of foliage. The elephants were living in the area, Craig decided. It took him longer to figure out a reason they were there at all.
“Clyde, it has to be either zoo animals turned loose when the attack began… or maybe circus animals… or both… or… I guess it could be animals from one of the animal preservation refuges…”
Craig vaguely remembered something that had interested him as a kid. Refuges had been set up before the war to get breeding populations of endangered species going in safe refuges in the US, for repopulating the areas that were their natural habitat, once conservation efforts restored those habitats.
Looking around warily, Craig searched the surrounding thick forest. There’d been other animals besides elephants in the refuges. And zoos. And circuses. Like lions, and tigers. Leopards. Rhinos. Hippos. Monkeys… Craig couldn’t remember everything. That had been many years ago, with him just seven or eight years old at the time.
The point was that there seemed to be exotic animals in the area. If the elephants were here, others very well could be, too.
Craig was convinced of it when he heard the sounds of a jungle at night, that night when he set up camp. He noted the horses staying even closer than usual; stirring at the loud sound of what Craig was sure was a leopard on the hunt.
Suddenly remembering the .460 Weatherby, 10-gauge double rifle drilling he’d found, and the thought of elephants that had crossed his mind at the time, he rather wished he hadn’t left it at the Retreat, having come to his senses, leaving it behind since there weren’t any elephants in the United States.
He kept the Marlin .45-70 and the M14E2 close at hand during the night. He might not have an elephant gun, but he did have some firepower. It was several days before the horses went back to their old routine, and he ran into people again. He got some curious looks when he rode up to a small town, coming out of the wilds south of it.
He did a little trading, mostly for fresh fish, staying only a day. When he was ready to leave, he told the small group that it might be a good idea to warn people traveling south of the town that… well… it was dangerous. Like many other people, Craig couldn’t quite come to say there were jungle animals in the forest south of the town. He wasn’t sure he would ever tell anyone. Who would believe it, if they didn’t see it?
Craig certainly did believe the reports that started to become common, as trade increased, of other exotic animals roaming in various areas of the United States.
Aside from some locals eking out a living along the river, Craig didn’t find much of interest the rest of the way north in Mississippi. Wanting to see a bit of Tennessee, Craig swung west of Memphis.
It had been hit with only one nuke and while much of the city was destroyed, Craig was able to do a bit of salvaging, mostly looking for high value items. He didn’t find much. The place had been picked over heavily. And the people in the area turned out to be territorial. More than once he ran into highly aggressive groups of people manning roadblocks at the edges of their territories.
After the fifth such encounter, and three sniping attacks that were unsuccessful, though enough for Craig to get Mule Ears and the rest of the horses into a gallop to get away from the danger, Craig turned due east to get away from the city. There wasn’t much reason to try to stop activities that were a way of life. It couldn’t be done, especially by one man.
There weren’t very many people out away from Memphis that he could find, so Craig decided to just head for Kentucky and leave west Tennessee to its own devices. Though, as he traveled further north, after getting back to the river after bypassing Memphis, Craig began to find people a bit more sociable. He spent a couple of days with people from Dyersburg, Tennessee that had set up a presence on the Mississippi at the I-155 bridge head.
Besides harvesting fish, game, and wild fowl along the river, the city sponsored several people with boats in river transport work up and down the river between St. Louis and Memphis. There wasn’t a great deal of traffic, but there was some.
Craig did a bit of trading, just for the sake of trading, and to lubricate peoples’ tongues a bit to find out if there was anything worth investigating in the area. People were doing fine, but Craig couldn’t find anything to suggest a major deal.
Though he did make note that it was a very good place to cross the Mississippi. All the bridges in Memphis and St. Louis were down. There weren’t many places between the cities to cross. The I-155 bridge was one of them. With the small settlement that had grown up at the bridgehead, travelers could take a rest at the inn and tavern that had been built for such purposes. Craig took advantage of the inn and slept a couple of nights in a real bed and took a real shower.
Craig thought about crossing the river and heading home, but Kentucky was beckoning. “Might as well see it while I have the chance,” he told Clyde as they left the settlement and headed north again, along the river.
Much to his surprise, Craig ran into almost exactly what he was looking for, not long after he crossed the state line between Tennessee and Kentucky. While the area around Sullivan had quite a few horses, thanks in part to Craig, there were only a tiny handful of dray or draft horses. St. Louis had been checked for the Clydesdales not long after the war, but none had been found.
Though there was diesel available, increasingly so, farming with horses was still growing much faster than powered equipment farming was. Craig wanted a source of good draft animals. He found it in the western tip of Kentucky.
His thoughts that there wasn’t much going on east of the Mississippi weren’t entirely accurate. There were several horse ranches in the area, with most of the stock going east. There was life well east of the Mississippi. Some ranches raised riding and light harness horses. Craig didn’t want the competition from them. He concentrated on the draft animals.
Craig found both Clydesdales and Percherons being raised in the area. He cut deals with four different ranches to import some animals to Sullivan, with the intention of starting his own breeding ranc
h, with the ranches providing genetic diversity in the breeding.
Since it would be a few years before he would have animals for sale, the deal included trained animals in good numbers to get the use of the animals established and help create a market for the draft animals for farming, rather than the much lighter riding and light harness horses that were being used, since they were all that were available.
Quentin okayed the deal and asked when Craig might be headed back. Craig heard the quiet concern in his friend’s voice. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it with the others present on Craig’s end of the radio, but Craig was sure something was up at the Retreat.
The deals made, with a hefty down payment in gold to get the process started, Craig saddled up Clyde and loaded the other horses. It was time to go home. For a variety of reasons.
As he headed for Cairo, Illinois to cross the Mississippi, Craig began to wonder if he’d done enough to earn his place in post-apocalyptic society. If he was contributing as much as he was taking. Smiling slightly, Craig patted the ring boxes in the inside pocket of his duster and urged Clyde into a slightly faster gait. It was time to get home to Sally, and building a home for them and their children. And to see what had Quentin worried.
CHAPTER FIVE
Craig took the most direct route possible between Cairo, Illinois and Sullivan, Missouri, stopping only to allow the horses plenty of rest, and to hunt a bit to supplement his traveling provisions. There were a couple of trades for fresh foods made on the way, but as more time passed, the more worried Craig became.
The horses seemed as eager as Craig to get to Sullivan. Perhaps they sensed they were getting near home and a long rest. Craig let them set the pace, actually holding them back a bit at times when the going was good.
Craig, his hair down to his waist and a full beard, dressed in the Drover’s coat and well-worn Rogue River hat, had to have the guard at the lower gate radio for someone to come identify him before the guard would let him past.
Something was definitely up. There hadn’t been this kind of security since just after the war. He was pacing, Clyde ground tied nearby, with the pack horses on their leads grazing when two horses came galloping down the drive.
Both slid to a stop and Quentin and Sally hopped down from their respective horses and hurriedly got the gate open. Sally was in Craig’s arms before he realized it and Quentin was pumping his right hand in a powerful handshake, saying, “I am so glad you are back.”
The guard, looking a bit embarrassed, handed Clyde’s reins to Craig as Quentin and Sally moved back to their horses. “Sorry,” the guard muttered.
“Don’t be. Security is important. Keep up the good work.”
Quentin and Sally waited for Craig to come up to them and they rode up the drive side by side, silently. They passed the inner gate without stopping and Craig headed for the storage barn to unload the pack horses into his storage room.
Still with only minimal conversation Quentin and Sally helped Craig unload the horses. “I’ll take them over to the barn and make sure they are taken care of,” Quentin said, taking Clyde’s reins.
Craig started to protest that he could do it himself, but Sally had taken his hand and was leading him out of the storage barn. Craig turned toward the fifth-wheel trailer he’d used since the family had moved into it.
“No,” Sally said. “This way.” Sally led the way to a single wide park model trailer at the end of a line of similar units. “This one is ours.”
Craig’s eyes cut to Sally. “I got it a year back when we started a housing improvement project. I moved your stuff from the fifth-wheel. One of the unmarried women has your old trailer.”
“I see,” Craig said.
Suddenly Sally was in his arms again, her head on his shoulder, sobbing great wracking sobs, crying her heart out. “I’ve missed you so much,” she managed to say after a few minutes of Craig just holding her.
She stepped back and looked at Craig’s eyes with an intense stare. “I hope… you haven’t changed your mind about us… You’ve been gone so long… I’ve wondered…”
Craig took the engagement ring box from the inside pocket of the Drover’s coat, and as snow began to fall, opened it and handed it to Sally. “No,” he said softly. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Oh, Craig! It’s beautiful!” Her hands shaking, Sally handed the box back to Craig and took the ring out of the box. She slid it onto her ring finger and was suddenly in Craig’s arms again, this time tears of joy. She kissed him several times, but was finally interrupted by Quentin, who came up and stood for a few moments, before making his presence known.
“I know this is important, but I really need to speak to Craig, Sally.”
“I know,” Sally replied, stepping back. She bent down and picked up the two sets of saddle bags and the pommel bags Craig had dropped when she’d launched herself at him. She turned to Quentin and held out her hand to show him the ring. “And you said I should have been married long ago.” There was a big grin on her face. She turned and went up the steps to the trailer.
Quentin was more than a bit red when Craig’s eyes finally left Sally, since she had gone inside.
“Craig… About that… It wasn’t personal… It’s just…”
“Don’t worry about it, Quentin. I know you were just looking out for Sally’s interests. There was a very good chance I wouldn’t make it back. There are some places out there…” his voice trailed away.
“We have it pretty good here, don’t we?” Quentin asked as they walked into the community building.
“Compared to some, very much so. But there are other groups like this that are making a go of it. Trying to get back to… Not normal. That’s not the word. But to some semblance of society that allows communication, social interaction, and trade between the remote groups.”
“I think, from the few conversations we’ve had over the last few years, is that you are doing a great deal to bring that society into being.”
Craig chuckled. “Just trying to make my way in the world, and make a profit at the same time.”
“You’ve certainly done that!” Quentin laughed in turn. “Not only have you done yourself proud, I’m sure, but you’ve made this area a trade hub… Or it would be… If…”
“I take that ‘If’ is what has you so worried.”
Quentin nodded, all humor gone. “The troubles we’d been having stopped for the most part not long after you left that second time.” Craig didn’t bother to tell Quentin why that was.
“But for the past year, as some of your deals have brought more trade to the area, we’re hearing about some pretty bloody raids taking place on I-70 north of us, and even have had some incidents out here. Mostly probing raids, I think. One or two people, taking out a sentry and then sniping for a few minutes before disappearing. No concerted attacks. I think they are just checking out our responses to attacks.”
“I see,” Craig said. “Any guess as to the source?”
“I think it is some survivors from around Fort Leonard Wood that have migrated to Columbia. We know the base was hit, and between that and the heavy fallout from KC, there weren’t many survivors. We’ve had salvage parties that far southwest on I-44 and there were no signs of habitation at the remains of the base or around it.
“Columbia didn’t get hit, and was cleaned up after the fallout, from what some people have said. The general consensus is that the survivors from Fort Leonard Wood took over the city. And Craig, there are some rumors that heavy weapons are being used.”
“They’re using heavy weapons? Tanks and the sort, or…”
Quentin cut him off. “No tanks or APC’s that we’ve heard about, maybe some Hummers, but machine guns and lots of grenades. And maybe mortars. They are destroying as much as they take. Killing when it isn’t necessary.”
“That is a problem,” Craig said. “That I-70 corridor is important to opening up the Midwest again. Any idea how many there are?”
“We�
�ve heard anything from twenty or thirty to a couple of hundred. From what they’ve been doing, I’d say it was more than the lesser number, but much less than the higher.
“The buffalo we were expecting have been delayed. So, too, the fruit coming down and salt, sugar, beef, and fuel going north to Michigan. Everyone is afraid to get anywhere close to the nearby section of I-70.”
Craig, already planning what to take with him, said, “I’ll look into it.”
Quentin’s eyes were wide. “Just like that? You’ll look into it? Shouldn’t we be setting up better defenses and such?”
“Yes, we should,” Craig replied calmly. “But I prefer to take the battle to the attackers’ territory than have that battle here. Looks like you’ve strengthened security. Keep it up. But we need hard intelligence. My first priority will be to find out exactly what we’re up against.”
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