by Bobby Akart
Stubby fidgeted in his chair as he nervously glanced out towards the highway. Unlike the Splinters, who were comfortable in their surroundings, Stubby knew Savannah was abuzz with activity.
“Will your planes fly?” asked Stubby.
“Absolutely,” replied Horst. “We have kept them maintained and they’re full of fuel. Gunther and I understood that at some point, if things did not get better, we would be out of food. Also, these Durhams are like the SchutzStaffel, um, the SS. They were the Nazi criminals capable of unspeakable acts. The Durhams are no different.”
Gunther stood and put his hands in his pockets as he paced the floor. “Our family has experienced tyranny by Der Fuhrer and the Soviets. We will not live under the thumb of these tyrants.”
“Come live with us,” Alex blurted out. “We have a farm and dairy cows. You can fly us home and we’ll find you a place where you can be safe.”
“Alex, that’s a decision that has to be made by more than the two of us,” Stubby admonished.
Gunther patted Alex on the shoulder. “Thank you, young lady. My brother and I must make a decision, as our supplies will run out eventually. We would prefer to be a part of a safe community, but only if we’re welcome.”
Stubby thought for a moment and considered the importance of getting these weapons and themselves across the river. These men and their airplanes could be assets. His mind raced as he considered whether to fly to Shiloh Ranch, where there wouldn’t be a sufficient landing area, or to Childer’s Hill, which was their bug-out location.
“No, you know what? Alex is right,” said Stubby. “Gentlemen, our group, our extended family, will welcome you with open arms. If you will fly us home, then our home can become your home as well.”
Chapter 9
Dawn, November 23
Court Square
Savannah
Major Roland Durham, Rollie as his adoptive stepfather preferred to call him, stood next to the gazebo where just the day before, the people of Savannah had rejoiced in their freedom with a Thanksgiving feast. The Welcome Home banner hung by a thread, tattered and torn by the FEMA soldiers as they rounded up the violators of the martial law declaration.
Unlike his brother, whom Rollie considered to be a mama’s boy, he’d paid his dues. When one seven-month tour of duty in a Middle Eastern theater ended, he’d insist upon having it extended or being sent to another. When the Corps forced him to return stateside, he hadn’t visited Savannah, a town he’d never considered home. Rather, he’d fulfilled his annual training requirements and undertaken additional training on the side with his buddies in survivalist schools. He’d become a jarhead in every sense of the word while serving in the United States Marine Corps.
Rollie was recalled from overseas like many others when the solar storm hit. Initially, he was sent to FEMA Region One to help stabilize Washington. As the city came under the control of the military, he was reassigned by a pencil pusher to Jackson because it was close to home.
Rollie protested the redeployment to his commanding officer, to no avail. He’d said to Rollie, “The country has bigger problems than your preferred deployment, Marine. Besides, by accepting this command, you earn your gold leaf, Major Durham.”
It was hard to argue with that, Rollie had thought. He could suffer a tour in West Tennessee while the President got the nation back on its feet. Besides, as a major, he could have some influence over his future back in the Middle East, killing terrorists.
It was three days after Rollie arrived in FEMA’s Jackson headquarters that he discovered Ma and Junior locked up in a holding cell. They were about to be transported to the federal penitentiary in Atlanta to stand trial when Rollie released them into his custody. The next day the evidence against them disappeared and the two began planning their revenge on those responsible for his family’s arrest.
Much to Junior’s chagrin, Rollie was not prepared to roll into Savannah with tanks and helicopter gunships. Rollie tried to impress upon his family that despite the fact that he controlled a sizable military contingent, his activities were still monitored by his superiors. He was also a new commander to this unit. He needed to get to know his men and determine who would be on board with any type of military takeover of a small town.
Rollie began to lay the groundwork for a proposed military occupation of Savannah under the martial law declaration. He gained favor and loyalty by quickly promoting several men to the ranks of second lieutenant and platoon sergeant. Under the circumstances, the men within his unit were largely made up of Tennessee National Guardsmen from various military branches of service. First, he sought out his fellow Marines, especially those without Tennessee ties. After his selective promotions, he allowed these chosen few to pick out the rest of the thirty-man platoon.
While Rollie agreed to clean up Junior’s mess, he wasn’t gonna destroy his career in the process. However, if the good people of Savannah didn’t cooperate, then by the power vested in him by the good old U. S. of A., he’d clamp down hard. One thing Rollie wouldn’t tolerate was disrespect.
Now, as the sun was rising over the deserted downtown, Rollie began to feel the power that rank provided him. In just over twelve hours, he’d arrested hundreds of residents and locked them up in the Detention Center. By last count the jail, which usually held fifty or sixty inmates, was now packed to the gills with nearly three hundred locals.
Based upon the affidavits provided to his predecessor, Rollie and Junior created a list of those who might have the most knowledge surrounding the raid on Savannah and Cherry Mansion the night of their arrest. At Rollie’s insistence, Junior would start his interrogations with the locals before they executed arrest warrants on the real perps, as Junior called the ranchers on the west side of the river.
The worst of the disdants, Junior said, can get the heck out of his town and rot in the FEMA camp. Rollie expected others to volunteer for that fate. That was fine by him because his pay structure with the Department of Defense included a bonus based upon the number of refugees he managed. Rollie asked Junior to encourage as many townspeople as he could to volunteer themselves to FEMA’s protection.
“Major?” asked a young pimple-faced corporal.
“Yes,” replied Rollie, slightly annoyed at the corporal for interrupting the serenity he was enjoying.
“Sir, the prisoners are secured and we have commandeered several homes in the neighborhood five blocks north of our position. One home is ideal for you, sir.”
“Thank you, Corporal,” said Rollie. “Let’s get a few hours’ sleep and then let’s see what we’re dealing with around here.”
Rollie spun around and took one final look at Court Square. Actually, I could get used to this—my own town.
Chapter 10
Morning, November 23
Hardin County Detention Center
Savannah
The roars and howls of the three hundred plus people crammed into the Detention Center were deafening, yet it was music to Junior’s ears. If it were up to him, he’d line them up against the wall and shoot them for their insubordination and disloyalty. In his mind, he and Ma had gone through a lot of effort to secure their town from outsiders and protect these people from starvation or murder. Some might not agree with our methods, Junior thought to himself, but you people are still alive as a result of our actions.
He and Ma got settled into Cherry Mansion once again after they cleaned the blood off Ma’s bed. Junior hoped to find the killer of Bill Cherry so he could thank him for the favor. Then, of course, the murderer would be immediately executed for committing a capital offense.
Once again, Junior was frustrated by Ma, and now his brother, for preventing him from going after the big prize—the rich folks across the river. He knew they were behind this and he would exact his revenge with the help of the military. They’re not gonna outgun my guys this time.
Junior leaned back in the leather chair that occupied the head of the conference room table. He munched on a partially
thawed Egg McMuffin-type sandwich that was part of the MRE supplies provided by Rollie for the prisoners. Junior didn’t intend to feed anybody until he got his answers. If they knew nothing and were of no further use to him, he’d force them to sign a request to be admitted to the FEMA camp. Going back to their home wasn’t an option.
He dropped a few crumbs out of his mouth as he scratched another name off the list. The next two names were James and Clayton Bennett, brothers and teenage boys, according to his notes. As he ordered his only deputy to retrieve the boys from their cell, he wondered to himself why they hadn’t been part of his work crew at the Vulcan Quarry.
“Sheriff, I have the Bennett brothers here,” announced the deputy from outside the doorway. “Do you want to see them one at a time?”
“No,” said Junior with a mouth full of food as he stuffed the rest of the sandwich inside it. “Let’s see them both.”
The deputy forcibly shoved the stout young men into the room and then grabbed them by the collars to keep them upright.
“Well, lookie here.” Junior cackled. He stood up and circled the boys. “We’ve got us a couple of football players. Well fed, too. Whadya make of that?”
“They are pretty hefty, sir,” replied the deputy.
Junior grabbed Clay by the arm and forced him to sit in the chair to his right. “Plant the other one at the head of the table,” he ordered his deputy. Jimbo was led to the other end of the conference room and shoved into a chair. He wiggled to get comfortable in the seat, having to lean forward because his hands were cuffed behind him.
“Okay, let’s start with you,” gruffed Junior as he flopped in his chair. “You two are the Bennett twins. Ain’t that special?”
Neither Jimbo nor Clay responded.
Junior nonchalantly leaned forward in his chair, ostensibly to review his list, but then he swatted Clay across the side of his head. “Wake up, boy! Which one are you?”
“Clay. Clay Bennett.”
“Now, there’s a start. Okay, Clay Bennett, where have you been for all this time that has allowed you to stay fat, dumb, and happy?”
Clay glanced toward his brother as the ringing in his left ear subsided. He set his jaw and silently returned Junior’s gaze.
Junior shook his head. “Deputy, smack the other side of his face to see if you can shake his memory,” ordered Junior.
Before Clay could react, the deputy hit his other ear, causing him to nearly fall out of his chair before he caught his balance.
“Stop!” yelled Jimbo.
“Well, glory be,” said Junior. “This one speaks, but unfortunately, it’s not his turn yet.” Junior raised his arm to provide Clay another whack.
Clay rolled his neck to alleviate the tension and then responded, “We went to Nashville to watch the Cowboys on TV with some friends. We heard the town was back to normal, so we came home.”
“How’d ya hear?” asked Junior.
“Huh?”
“How’d ya hear that things were back to normal?” Junior pressed the issue, putting a sarcastic emphasis on the word normal.
Clay glanced at Jimbo again and thought fast to provide a plausible answer. “We were at a FEMA food distribution location and were told by one of the soldiers that the mayor and the sheriff were arrested.”
“And you considered that a good thing? Good enough to return home? Back to normal?”
Clay became nervous and fidgety. He demurred. “Well, I mean, we were going to head home anyway.”
“Here you are. Both of you, in fact. Now, where is Carey’s real kid?” Junior asked as he thumbed through his list. “Beau Carey.”
Jimbo answered for his brother. “He’s back too. We’re all back,” he said defiantly.
Junior stood and punched Clay across the face, knocking him to the floor. “Not your turn, twinkie! When it’s your turn, you’ll know it. Now, I’m gonna keep bustin’ on your brother until, A, he answers or, B, you shut up!”
Clay managed to get onto his knees as blood dripped out of his mouth. “We don’t know anything. We just got back a few days ago, I swear.”
“Get him up!” ordered Junior. “Stand him up!”
Clay stood up, allowing the blood to flow freely onto the front of his jersey.
Jimbo attempted to stand and shouted, “No!”
In a flash, Junior pulled his revolver and cocked the hammer. He pointed it first at Jimbo, who immediately sat back in his chair, and then at Clay.
“This next answer better be a good one,” started Junior, pushing the revolver closer to Clay’s chest. “Who would be wearing a Hardin County Maroon sweatshirt with the number one on it?”
Clay answered, spitting blood onto the conference table and Junior’s list, “We all have one because we’re winners. We’re all number one.”
Chapter 11
3:00 p.m., November 23
Savannah
Coach Carey jimmied the locks on the back side of the State Farm offices and popped the door open. He waved for Beau, who was hiding between a hedgerow and a block wall, to join him. For over an hour, the Careys patiently waited to gain access to the small office building less than one hundred feet to the southeast of the Detention Center. From this vantage point, they could choose any number of windows to gain an unobstructed view of the jail’s intake location.
First, Coach Carey and Beau cleared the building and made sure that they couldn’t be seen by anyone from the outside. They located an attic storage space where they could hide if Junior sent anyone after them. Coach Carey was satisfied, so they settled in to watch the activity going in and out of the jail.
“Dad, I don’t know what’s worse, the devil you know or the devil you don’t.”
“I agree, Beau,” said Coach Carey. “Ma and Junior aren’t the brightest bulbs, they’re the meanest ones, however. They have no regard for human life. They proved that over and over again.”
“Should we have executed them?” asked Beau, who offered a sip of his bottled water to his dad.
“I’ve thought about that every day since we caught them,” his dad replied. “Honestly, as it turns out, we’re better off that we technically did the right thing by turning them over to the federal government. If we had summarily executed them, I don’t think Rollie would’ve been as professional as he was. There probably would’ve been a slaughter yesterday.”
Beau left the window for a moment and pulled up a couple of chairs stacked in the corner. The men settled in for the long haul.
“Whadya think is goin’ on in there?” asked Beau.
“I don’t know, but they’ve locked up half the town. I suspect Clay and Jimbo are in there too.”
“Did you get a good enough look at that body last night to determine if it was one of the guys?”
Coach Carey stretched a little closer to the window to get a look at an approaching vehicle off Water Street. “It was hard to tell in the low light, but I think the body they were dragging was taller and thinner than either of our boys. Whoever it was looked pretty dead from my view.”
The low rumble of a diesel motor grew louder as two M35 troop carriers came into their view. They slowed as they drove through the unattended security gate, entering the Detention Center compound. The trucks passed intake and drove to the rear parking lot before circling around next to the roll-up doors.
“They’re not too tall to fit in the building,” said Beau as both intently watched the activity.
“Might be more soldiers,” muttered Coach Carey. “Great, just great.”
However, only the two drivers exited the vehicles. They lazily walked to the rear and pulled open their canvas coverings.
“They’re not bringing anyone in,” started Coach Carey. “Maybe they plan to transport some out.”
“To where?” asked Beau. “Why not let them go?”
Coach Carey stood and made his way to the hallway. “C’mon, we can get a better look from the storage room.”
Beau hustled to catch up with his dad
and they arrived at the last window in the building just in time to see the prisoners being escorted out of the jail and toward the rear of the trucks. They all wore chains around their waists and then were tied together by a long chain. There were ten per group.
Several guards escorted them to the rear of the trucks and then brusquely forced them to climb into the back. One woman slipped and fell, busting open her chin on the grated steel steps. She received an additional kick in the ribs for her mistake.
“Dad, look! The last one in line. That’s Jimbo!” Beau exclaimed.
“Thank God he’s okay,” said Coach Carey. “Wait, is that …” His voice trailed off as Clay led a second group into the truck parked to the rear. His jersey was covered in blood and his face was battered.
“They beat him up!” shouted Beau, whose raised voice momentarily caught the attention of a guard. The guard stared in the direction of the building and accompanying parking lot before turning to the task at hand.
“I know, son,” said Coach Carey. “I saw, but he’s alive. Your brothers are tough boys. Besides, it isn’t the first time Clay’s had a busted mouth.”
“Are you talkin’ about that big fight we got into with Memphis Carver last year?”
“Yep, that’s the one.” Coach Carey chuckled. “Clay learned that if you’re gonna fight on the football field, keep your helmet on. It wasn’t two seconds after he threw his helmet down that one of their players sucker punched him in the mouth.”
“I remember,” said Beau. “Clay’s bloodied up, but he looks okay. He probably gave them the what for and it earned him a couple of shots.”
The trucks were filled with four sets of ten chained prisoners before they departed toward the north. Coach Carey surmised that they were being taken to Jackson and the FEMA camps. Based on their surveillance, none of the prisoners had been released to go home. It was possible that Rollie intended to move everyone to Jackson, where he could control them better. There were a lot of hungry mouths in that jail, and a lot of the food had been taken out to be used for the Thanksgiving Day dinner.
