Breakdown: Episode 7

by Jordon Quattlebaum

  Breakdown

  Episode 7: Factions

  A Piece of SHTF Fiction

  Jordon Quattlebaum

  © Copyright 2015 by Jordon Quattlebaum

  Breakdown is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter 1 – The Price of Security

  Martha Henson pulled a fresh-baked apple pie from a Dutch oven resting on an old wood-burning cook stove that had once belonged to her grandmother. She was dusting it with cinnamon and sugar when her chocolate lab Rosie’s ears perked up.

  A plume of dust announced the presence of a convoy of trucks long before Martha’s own ears could hear the engines. She felt a moment of panic as the trucks pulled onto the long gravel drive leading to her home. They appeared military, but were much fancier than the trucks she remembered from her husband George’s old photos. These were all angles and intimidation with their armor plates and black tinted windows. They scared her.

  The trucks pulled around the circle drive and cut their engines, and a handful of soldiers in black uniforms filed out, scanning their surroundings. One of them—a young man, handsome even with the deep acne scars that pocked his face—turned and addressed her.

  “Martha Henson?”

  Martha eyed the young man in the unmarked uniform warily, pushing her schoolmarm glasses up the bridge of her nose and squinting her eyes to get a better look at him. The glasses were out of fashion by a couple decades, but she liked them all the same. People tended to underestimate Martha when she put on her old lady act.

  “Yes; I’m Mrs. Henson,” the woman replied, her tone hinting that they were by no means on a first name basis. “Who’re you?”

  The young man smiled. His boyish grin was disarming. Against her better judgement, Martha felt herself relax a bit. “Sergeant Edward Parks. We’re with the Government. We’re here to help.”

  She laughed at the line, thinking it cliché. “Is that what they train you to say, young man, or have you just watched too many old movies?”

  The man stood there, a twinge of frustration cracking his otherwise friendly façade.

  It worried her, inviting strange men into her house, especially well-armed men. The longer she thought about it, the more obvious it became that they were military. George still carried himself the way these young men did. There was something to all of that training.

  She looked down at the pie in her hands, its warmth radiating through her oven mitts, and sighed. Don’t be rude, Martha. These young men are just doing their jobs. Invite them in.

  She took a deep breath and put on her best motherly smile. “Please, come in and have a seat,” she offered, allowing the soldiers to breach the threshold of her doorway. She motioned to the large butcher-block table her son had built for their 35th wedding anniversary, and three of the men sat down with her. The two who remained standing looked around alertly, as if expecting to come under fire from tiny rebels under the sofa.

  Martha snickered, imagining guerilla fighters the size of action figures swarming around the place.

  “Mrs. Henson?” the soldier in front of her asked once again.

  She chided herself for letting her imagination run away with her. “Hmm? What was that?” she asked, to the slight irritation of the soldiers.

  “Is there anyone else staying with you? My men are performing a sweep of the house, and I don’t want any surprises.” Gravity filled his young face. “Accidents could happen. People would get hurt. Our files say you have two boys?”

  “Oh yes, but they’re grown and moved on. Out of state.” She sighed wistfully and pouted. “I never get to see my grandbabies.”

  The young man at the table nodded, opened the file folder in front of him, and scanned the documents.

  Mrs. Henson tried to sneak a peek, but received a nasty glare and sat herself back down. “Just curious,” she mumbled.

  The young man nodded, not really hearing her. “This is a lovely old farmhouse, Mrs. Henson. How many bedrooms, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Five, but they’re small—and only one-and-a-half baths. I keep asking George if we can remodel, but he says with the kids grown and gone, there’s really no need. He’s a good man, but tight with his wallet.” She smiled to herself. His frugality had served them well in lean times, and she was looking forward to seeing George get to enjoy a nice, relaxing retirement when all of this was over.

  The soldier nodded and returned to his folder, scanning it again before speaking. “Nice bit of land, too. It’s got a good mix of forest and field. I bet there are a lot of deer and turkey around. You do much hunting?”

  Mrs. Henson nodded hesitantly. “Yes. George always took the boys hunting when they were younger. He doesn’t do it as much these days, it’s hard for him to take time off from work. George used to hunt whenever he could, though. He did pretty much everything but muzzle loading season.” She thought about the time she came out onto the back porch one morning to drink her coffee and saw a beautiful buck not even thirty yards from the porch. She ran inside, grabbed the rifle, and dropped it in a single shot, right behind the shoulder blade. The memory made her smile. “I’ve taken a couple of deer down myself, from my seat on the back porch. I can field dress them, too.” The corners of her mouth twitched. She was rambling; she always did when she was nervous. She hated that about herself. “What’s all of this about?”

  “Mrs. Henson, we’ve reason to believe you and your husband are the owners of several firearms. Is that correct?”

  She frowned. “I just told you we hunted. Don’t you listen?”

  The young man continued taking notes, ignoring her question.

  It suddenly occurred to her that these men could be lying about who they were with. In the movies they always asked to see the police officer’s badge. What were you supposed to ask someone claiming to be in the military? She remembered she and George both had military ID’s when they lived on base.

  “Can I see some sort of identification?” she asked, her brow furrowed in suspicion.

  The soldier’s face turned red, but the colonel had asked them to play nice, so he grudgingly obliged and handed Martha his laminated ID.

  “Sergeant Edward Parks, ATLAS,” she read. “I’ve never heard of ATLAS before. Who are you guys?”

  “Private Sector. As I said, ma’am, we’re here to help.”

  Martha wasn’t satisfied with the young man’s evasive answer, but she nodded anyway. She knew when it was time to move on. The lack of answer was proof that these men didn’t really know Martha Henson. Anyone who really knew her would know giving her such a dodgy answer would just make her dig all the harder. It would be like an itch in the back of her mind until she found the answer.

  “Private sector? Is everything all right, young man? I understand that there are horrible things going on with the power out this long, but why all of the questions about my George? Has my husband been involved in something? Is this some kind of investigation?”

  Sergeant Parks closed his folder and once again made eye contact with her. “Ma’am, we as a nation are under a state of emergency. The acting President has declared martial law. Do you know what that m
eans?”

  “The acting president?” Mrs. Henson shook her head and took a second to process what she was hearing, “The only thing I know about martial law is from what I’ve seen in the movies.”

  Sergeant Parks nodded. “The executive branch is typically limited by a system of checks and balances. Some permissions have been temporarily granted, to allow certain measures that might otherwise not be possible.”

  “And all of that means what exactly?” she prodded.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to need to confiscate your firearms.”

  Mrs. Henson blanched. It had been difficult having George away, but she knew how to shoot, and she knew that if someone came looking for trouble that she could handle herself. This “request” put a burr in her boots. “Listen, I understand that you’re the authority, but I can’t just let you waltz in and take those guns. I’m alone here, at least until my George comes home. How am I supposed to protect myself when you leave? What am I supposed to do if some junkie in withdrawal comes kicking in my door looking for pills?”

  The young soldier smiled. She was sure he meant it to be reassuring, but the calculating nature of it gave her chills. “Mrs. Henson, I wouldn’t worry so much about that. We’re not going to let anyone anywhere near the place, junkies or otherwise.”

  “What about when you leave?”

  “Until we receive further orders, maintaining your current state of health is our top priority.”

  “So you’re not going to leave, then?”

  “Our orders are to stay as long as needed to keep you safe.”

  Martha wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.

  She nodded, still wondering what made her so special. “What’s all of this about? Why me? I have some neighbors up the road, an elderly couple. They could use your help more than me.”

  “Your husband is a very important man, Mrs. Henson. He’s doing good work, and we want to make sure that he’s able to continue doing that work. Knowing we’re here will help him do that without worrying about you being all alone.”

  Martha nodded. Her eyebrows knitted together to create deep furrows in her skin. It made her forehead look like the earth after too much sun and too little rain. This was about George…of course; it was all about him.

  “So you’ve been in contact with my husband? How is he? Has he eaten, or showered? That man will work himself to death if someone doesn’t keep him in check.”

  Sergeant Parks nodded and glanced down once more at the file folder in his hands. “Our records indicate that Mr. Henson is in good health for the time being. It appears they were all a little dehydrated, but they’re recovering nicely now that they’ve been resupplied by some of my comrades. We’re in the process of making sure he and his crew have everything they need to keep the reactors cool. We have soldiers there to make sure everyone is safe.”

  Martha sighed a heavy sigh and melted into her chair. She hadn’t realized how much stress she’d been carrying, worrying about her husband. Now that she knew he was safe, she could finally let it go. A tear slid down her cheek.

  “Are you all right Mrs. Henson?”

  She sniffed and wiped the tear away. “I’m sorry, yes. I’m fine. I’m wonderful, in fact.” A smile dawned on her tired face. “Thank you so much! I’ve been so worried about him. He’s so stubborn sometimes…it’s been hard not having heard from him.”

  Sergeant Parks nodded once more, glancing down at the file folder and making a few hand signals to the other soldiers, who dispersed.

  For the time being Martha was just happy to be safe, and to have some company. She always liked entertaining. It wasn’t that she trusted these men, but for now, watching the men carry her guns out to their trucks, her choices were limited. She’d play along until she could learn more. She’d have to be careful not to tip her hand. It would be like all of those novels she enjoyed, where the housewives were really spies for the resistance. This would be a great adventure.

  Martha smiled, “How would you and your men like a piece of apple pie?”

  “I’d like that, Mrs. Henson. I’d like that quite a bit.” Edward said.

  Martha plated up pie for the handsome young men while they carried the weapons from the house, wondering what would come next.

  Chapter 2 – Out of the Woods

  Linus was tired. His hands, feet, back, and legs ached in ways he’d never dreamed they could, but he kept walking regardless. He knew that every step down the gravel path brought him closer to the perceived security of Jackson Farm. The crunch of the wagon wheels rolling over the gravel was hypnotic, and he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open.

  To his right, Talia plodded along, now carrying her son to give Linus a little bit of a break. That’s what she told him, anyway. He suspected at least part of the reason she carried the boy was the comfort feeling a loved one that close could bring.

  This family had been through a lot in the last few days.

  “Mr. Linus?”

  Linus smiled, looking over his shoulder. “Yes Juliana?”

  “Are we there yet?”

  Linus laughed. He was amazed that it had taken the girl this long to ask the age old road trip question. “Not yet.”

  “Almost?”

  Linus stopped for a moment and pulled the laminated map from his pocket, unfolding it carefully. The trees formed a nice canopy over this section of trail, pockets of sunlight filtered through the leaves, forming a beautiful patchwork of dancing light and shadow on the ground. He allowed himself to just enjoy the simple pleasure of something beautiful, something he hadn’t done in quite a long time.

  “Mr. Linus?”

  Linus shook his head and stared down at the map, nodding after a short while. They still had at least 50 miles to go, and he wondered for a moment how to explain such an abstract distance to the girl.

  He thought back to his own childhood: A young Linus stood in the kitchen of a dilapidated mobile home, wearing a stained set of footed pajamas that were at least a size too small. He clutched a ragged bunny by the ears in his right hand, hind legs dragging the dirty floor—Mr. Floppy, he remembered with a smile. The boy stared at a small artificial Christmas tree that rested on a table in the corner. There were no gifts under the tree, and he knew Christmas had come and gone.

  He turned to a woman who sat in a nearby recliner. She was thin; anyone who looked at her could see that she used to be a great beauty, before the years of hard living took their toll on her body. Bruises marked her bare arms, along with a series of needle tracks. One of her blue eyes was blackened.

  “Mommy, when is Santa going to visit?”

  “I told you baby: Santa won’t come until the end of the month. He’s very sorry, but he’s running behind this year, and needs a little more time.” She smiled, but even the young Linus could see the sadness there.

  The little boy nodded. He’d heard this before, had seen his mother talking with Dave, the man who lived with them, about Santa. The talking got louder and louder, and when he heard a crash, he ran and hid under the bed he shared with his cousin. The grown-ups yelled at one another for a long time. His mommy’s eye was black after that, and he hadn’t seen Dave in a long time.

  “Two more sleeps, baby. Two more sleeps and Santa will come,” the woman smiled.

  Linus nodded, focusing once again on the present. “Two more sleeps, little one,” he echoed aloud. “Two more sleeps, and we should be there.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, reminding him to drink. He reached for the water bottle and unscrewed the top, taking a deep drink. He passed the bottle to Talia, who drank her share and mumbled a quick thank you before passing the water along to her children. The bottle was empty when the rounds were completed. They’d need to find more soon.

  Looking over at Juliana, Linus noticed the gir
l squirming and doing what he now recognized as her “potty dance.” He sighed and couldn’t help but smile. It was pretty incredible how much joy this little girl added to his life even in the short time he’d known her. “All right, everyone: five minutes for a bathroom break, and then we’re back on the road. Understood?”

  Talia and Juliana muttered various affirmations and headed into the woods on the south side of the trail, hand in hand, leaving Linus and Nathan together.

  Linus carried the boy to the north side of the trail, and smiled at him. “Watch my back while I take care of some things, will you, little man?

  Nathan offered a quick, “Yerp,” one of the handful of words he’d been favoring as of late, and Linus began to mark a tree slightly off of the trail.

  “Glad you agree. We boys have to stick together.”

  Something crunched, and Nathan giggled. Linus glanced over his shoulder to see the boy playing with a few small twigs, his chubby little hands waving them around and breaking the smallest of them into pieces. “Hey, now—be careful. If you poke your eye out, your mom will kill me!”

  Nathan just cooed all the louder.

  Two shakes and a zip, and Linus was back to the boy’s side. He scooped him up with a smile that quickly moved to a look of revulsion when he caught a whiff of something foul.

  “Oh, you little scamp. Tell me you didn’t?”

  The boy grinned.

  Linus groaned, but a small smile betrayed his amusement. He really did like these kids. “We really need to get you potty-trained, little man.”

  Linus rummaged through his pack for the diaper changing supplies. They were down to the last two diapers. Potty-training would have to start sooner than later, he mused.

  A moment later, another crunch of twigs and gravel announced the return of Talia and Juliana. There was a look of panic on Talia’s face. He assumed she was upset by catching him changing her son, but she’d asked him to help once before, and it hadn’t been an issue. Perhaps now was different because he’d taken it upon himself to do it while she wasn’t around. “Almost out of diapers…I think we’re in trouble,” Linus grinned, waving a hand in front of his nose.