Breakdown: Episode 7

by Jordon Quattlebaum

  Another crunch of twigs and gravel, and he understood.

  Two men walked out of the woods wearing boonie hats and sporting woodland camo full of iron-on patches. Each bore a high powered rifle in his hands; what kind, Linus didn’t know. He did know that they were the black kind that held a whole lot of bullets, and they scared the crap out of him.

  Yes, Linus, he thought. You are in trouble, and diapers have very little to do with it.

  The men caught up and stood next to Talia, one on each side. Linus realized that the guns weren’t pointed his way, and his heart rate began to slowly fall from the hummingbird staccato it had been racing at.

  “Gentlemen,” was all that he could think to say.

  The two men nodded. One of them, an older man with a salt-and-pepper goatee, spoke up. “Howdy. My name’s Chuck Jenkins; this is my son, Carl.”

  Carl nodded in Linus’s direction and spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the trail between them. Linus nodded in return. Macho, he thought. His eyes clicked down to the rifles in their hands. “How can I help you, Chuck?”

  The two caught his glance, and a heartbeat later Chuck slung the rifle onto his back. “Sorry about that. Can’t be too careful.”

  “Apparently,” Linus agreed.

  Linus met Talia’s panicked gaze and tried to will her to be calm. Everything was going to be all right. This was just a misunderstanding.

  “We live not too far from here. We’ve been keeping an eye on the trail, knowing it was just a matter of time before people started using it to avoid the highways. You’re the first batch we’ve bumped into, which makes you either pretty smart…or very dumb.”

  Linus scowled. The men were beginning to get on his nerves.

  “Cut to the chase, Chuck. Are you going to shoot us, take us prisoner, or let us go?”

  Chuck hadn’t expected this line of questioning. He backpedaled a bit, holding his hands up. “You’re free to go, but we’d appreciate it if you answered a few questions for us.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, first of all, who are you?”

  “My name is Linus. These three are my friends. We’re just passing through, trying to meet up with some other friends further east of here.”

  Chuck nodded, and Carl spat again. “Boy, you stop that,” Chuck said. “These are good people until I say otherwise. Why don’t you look around, make sure there’s no one else coming.”

  Carl nodded and headed down the trail in the direction Linus and Talia had come from.

  “Sorry about my boy. When he gets his hackles up he can’t act a decent man until I remind him he’s not so grown that I can’t bend him over my knee.” Chuck smiled, revealing a set of wonderfully straight, white teeth.

  “What do all of those stickers mean?” Juliana said, pointing to the patches on Chuck’s shirt.

  “Stickers? Oh—my patches!” Chuck smiled and knelt down next to the girl. “These are just some stickers that show I belong to a club. And this one,” he said, pointing to a patch of an iron sight over top of an apple, “shows that I’m really good with my rifle.”

  Juliana nodded and furrowed her brow. “Is it a good guy club, or a bad guy club?” she asked.

  “It’s a good guy club. We only let good guys in. Are you a good guy?”

  “Nope. But I’m a good girl.”

  “Whew!” Chuck said, wiping a hand across his brow. “You had me worried there.”

  “What’s the name of your good guy club, Chuck?” Talia asked, finally breaking her silence.

  “Boone County Minutemen,” he said. “Probably doesn’t mean a whole lot to you.”

  Linus shook his head. “You guys are a bit far west for Boone County, aren’t you?”

  Charlie held his hands up in the air, as if he’d been caught in the act of stealing candy from a convenient store. “Guilty as charged. Son and I were on a forward scouting mission and thought we’d do a little hunting while we waited. There’s a checkpoint set up a few miles down the trail. Make sure to tell them Carl and I sent you. They shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

  Talia nodded and searched her memory for some recollection of their group’s name. Finally, she shook her head. “I can’t say I’ve heard of you, either.” Her eyes flashed to one of the patches he wore, and something dawned on her: she’d seen similar patches before. “Where’d you shoot Appleseed?”

  Chuck’s face split into a huge grin. “You know Appleseed? Shoot, I knew I liked you.”

  “You didn’t answer.”

  “I shot a-ways east of here, near Hermann.”

  Talia nodded. “I shot out west a bit, about two hours into Kansas.”

  “You in a good guy club?” Chuck asked, his grin turning serious.

  “Was. We were attacked and had to leave.”

  Chuck nodded.

  Linus tried, but he still wasn’t quite following. “Appleseed? Good guy club? What are you two going on about?”

  Talia sighed and rolled her eyes. “Appleseed is an organization dedicated to teaching marksmanship skills and American History. I’m guessing the Boone County Minutemen is a militia group?”

  Chuck nodded.

  Linus looked concerned. “I thought militias were full of crazy gun-nuts.” He held his hand up quickly, mimicking Chuck’s earlier gesture. “No offense, Chuck.”

  Chuck just laughed. “None taken. Sometimes that’s true, but it’s not for us. Nothing racially or religiously motivated. We just wanted to take care of our own. Think of us as a heavily-armed neighborhood watch group, with a really big neighborhood to watch over.”

  Linus nodded. “So there are more of you guys wandering around out here?” He suddenly felt paranoid as he began to scan the woods for others.

  Chuck just nodded and smiled. “Don’t worry. We’re the good guys. Besides, chances are you wouldn’t see us coming anyway. To answer your earlier question: yes, there are more of us—about a hundred of us in all spread throughout the county. Most of us are former military men and women…and we’re hardly ‘wandering around.’ We’ve got a pretty good idea of where to set up to keep an eye on things. We’re just gathering information and reporting back, trying to keep one another safe. We don’t engage in any acts of aggression unless we’re forced to. Not enough of us out there for that sort of nonsense.” Chuck looked down at Juliana and winked. “We have good girls in our group, too…not just good guys.”

  Juliana nodded, her brows still furrowed in thought. “Are there bad guy clubs, too?”

  Linus was taken aback by the thoughtfulness behind the question.

  Chuck looked to Talia, who offered a curt nod that said “go ahead,” so he told her. “Yes, hon, there are.”

  “And your Johnny Appleseed club fights them?”

  “If we see them doing bad guy stuff, then yes, we’ll try to stop them.”

  The little girl nodded, having come to a decision. “Then I’d like to join your club.”

  Chuck laughed. He couldn’t help it. The request was just so heartfelt.

  Juliana planted her hands on her hips, and her bottom lip stuck out angrily. “It’s not nice to laugh,” she warned.

  Linus had to give her credit; she had “the look” down pat.

  He and Talia hid their smiles behind their hands while Chuck struggled to regain his composure. It took several moments, but the older man was eventually able to settle his laughing fit down to just a rosy-cheeked grin. “You’re right, hon. It’s—”

  “My name’s Juliana, not ’hon.’”

  “I’m sorry. Juliana it is. And you’re right: it’s not nice to laugh. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

  Juliana nodded. “I accept your apology. Just don’t let it happen again.”

  Linus hid a new bout of
laughter behind a coughing fit. Talia just grinned, proud of her girl.

  “The thing is, Juliana,” Chuck started, “We like to know our good guy club members a little better before we invite them in. You all seem like good folks, but we’ve only just met you. Does that make sense?”

  Juliana nodded. “I guess so,” she said, but her tone said, “That isn’t fair.”

  Chuck smiled, “You all look like you could use a rest. I’ll tell you what: Carl and I have a small camp set up nearby. The place is just about a five-minute hike from the trail. How would you like to cool down and get out of the heat and away from the mosquitos for a bit?”

  Linus looked at Talia, who offered an almost imperceptible shake of the head. “That’s really kind of you, Chuck,” he said, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to decline.”

  Chuck looked a little disappointed, but he hid it well. “I understand completely. You guys good on food? Water?”

  “We could use a refill on our water. You guys have a well?”

  Chuck nodded, “Absolutely. Hand pump. Good, clean water. We can be there, fill up, and back to the trail in fifteen minutes.”

  Linus paused for a moment, sinking deep in thought. He felt responsible for the wellbeing of the Jackson family. On one hand, they needed clean water; on the other, they’d be following an armed man off of the trail and into the woods where who-knew-what waited.

  “Well?” Chuck asked without the slightest hint of annoyance or impatience in his voice.

  It was decision time. Now or never. Linus knew Talia would follow him whatever decision he made. That knowledge didn’t make the choice any easier. A feeling in the pit of his stomach decided it for him. Something about this just didn’t feel right, and the last time he’d rushed into a friendly relationship with someone he thought he could trust, it ended up getting Juliana kidnapped and her father gunned down in the street. He’d made his decision then. “Actually I just remembered…we have a couple of extra canteens in the kid’s packs. We should be all right until we reach our destination.”

  Talia relaxed at his words, and Linus noticed a weight lift from his shoulders as well.

  “You sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble at all,” Chuck asked a final time, a slight smile still on his face.

  “We’re sure. Thanks, Chuck.”

  Linus and Talia began to load the kids back into the wagon, and had just started their way crunching down the gravel trail when Chuck spoke up one again.

  “Oh wait! Before you go, I have something I want to give you.”

  Chuck’s hand disappeared into his pocket, and Linus tensed, reaching instinctively to the small of his back where the revolver John had given him was holstered in the event that Chuck was drawing a weapon. Instead of a gun, he fished a small business card from his pocket. Linus turned the card over in his hands. It was a simple card, white with black text. There were no identifying symbols or images. The only thing it contained were a few numbers and a couple of words, seemingly chosen at random.

  “What’s this?” Linus wondered aloud.

  “Contact information. If you get your hands on a short wave radio, you can reach out to us on that frequency. It’s our unencrypted channel. Those words are our first tier challenge and confirmation.”

  “No idea what that means, but thank you.”

  Chuck nodded. “It’ll be enough to get ahold of us, but we won’t be trading any sensitive information over those waves.”

  Linus shrugged and pocketed the card. After a few years in his line of work, he understood never to underestimate the importance of networking. It might come in handy further down the line.

  “Be safe, Chuck.”

  “You too, Linus. And God Bless America.”

  Linus nodded and pulled the wagon down the road, one step at a time. That was how they’d get through this: one foot in front of the other. One step at a time. The thought of that brought him little comfort until he thought of Carl out there somewhere with his rifle. It would be a few more hours before he could shake the feeling of having a bullseye painted on his back.

  Chapter 3 – In Stitches

  Thom’s shoulder itched, something Mrs. Jackson assured him was a “good sign of healing.” He believed her but he wished she’d let him scratch it.

  The old woman had sat in his room at his bedside in an old wooden rocking chair, knitting. The clickity-clack of the needles working their magic soothed him in some strange way. It must have been the repetition. He’d put money on the fact that Mrs. Jackson knew that, too. Those needles had put him to sleep within just a handful of minutes. When he awoke, she was setting down a tray of bread and leftover soup.

  The woman was a mind reader.

  She smiled as he gulped the soup down in great mouthfuls, not seeming to care that the first bite had burnt his tongue. It still tasted heavenly. Finally, he set the empty bowl down and asked the question he’d been meaning to ask for a while now. “What are you working on, Mrs. Jackson?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, I’m knitting a sweater.”

  “Mrs. Jackson, it’s the tail end of April. It’ll be summer soon.”

  “You think I don’t know that, Thomas Monroe? What kind of wool-headed buffoon do you take me for?”

  Thom held his hands up in surrender, and Mrs. Jackson smiled. Her bark was worse than her bite, he knew.

  “It’ll be winter soon enough, and I don’t see that any of you brought much in the way of winter clothing. Figure I’d get an early start on solving that little issue.”

  Thom nodded, surprised and humbled by the old woman’s forward thinking.

  “You’re right. I know the boys have been chopping quite a bit of wood—”

  “Girls, too.”

  Thom smiled. “Girls, too. I guess I just hadn’t thought about clothing yet.”

  Mrs. Jackson nodded. “Thomas Monroe, it’s about time for you to get some work done.”

  “Mrs. Jackson, all due respect, but I’m not sure these stiches would hold if I went out and chopped wood, bailed hay, strung barbed wire, or dug an outhouse hole like the kids have been doing.”

  Mrs. Jackson nodded thoughtfully, and in a move that surprised Thom, she handed him a spare set of knitting needles. “You knit, then.”

  Thom laughed. He couldn’t help it.

  Mrs. Jackson gave a stern look that let Thom know any arguing would be useless. “Thomas, you aren’t trying to shirk your share of the work, are you? We don’t abide shirkers around here. It just won’t do.”

  Thom shook his head emphatically. “No, ma’am; that’s not it at all. If you’ll teach me, I’ll give it an honest try. It’s just that I’ve never been extremely coordinated, and the idea of moving those needles like you were is a little intimidating.”

  Mrs. Jackson nodded curtly, the wrinkles on her face rearranging themselves into a slightly more pleasant configuration. It was the only clue Thom had that she was pleased with his answer.

  She pulled her chair closer to the side of the bed and set her own needles down. Then she got up and walked over to an old set of drawers. She spent a long minute rummaging through the items within. After a moment she settled back into her chair, satisfied with her find.

  Thom peeked over to see a small wicker basket in her lap, from which she pulled a third set of needles. “Now, I’m going to set my sweater aside and start you on something a bit simpler.”

  Thom nodded, and a wave of relief washed over him. “Simple is good.”

  Mrs. Jackson nodded. “If simple is good, then my son is the best thing that God’s ever blessed the His Earth with.”

  She grinned, tossing a wink toward Thom, who laughed at the joke. Andrew was a sharp guy. He’d seen his grades.

  “All right; now watch closely. I’m going to show you how to get a scarf started. There’s two stitches
we’re going to learn—one is to get things started, and the other’s to keep things going. You follow?”

  “Get things started, and keep things going. Got it.”

  “Now, they’ve got proper names, and we can get to that later when you’re ready to try something more advanced. But for now we’re just doing a single-color scarf. No need to switch colors mid-way. Makes things easier.”

  “And uglier.”

  Mrs. Jackson boxed Thom’s ears playfully. “You mind your elders, and don’t you speak unless spoken to. Understand me?”

  Thom grinned, and nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Plenty of time for making pretty things once we’re sure everyone isn’t going to freeze to death come winter.”

  “Freezing to death is worse than ugly scarves. Got it.”

  The older woman ignored the jibe, and started moving her hands slowly so that Thom could follow. After several attempts and more than a little frustration (on his part only; Mrs. Jackson, as it turned out, was actually a very patient teacher) he was able to get his scarf started. The old woman moved the lesson forward, teaching him the knit-stitch…and again, after several failed attempts, Thom got the hang of it. “Remember to count so your rows are even, and don’t ever stop in the middle of a row. It’ll pull funny.”

  Thom nodded.

  The two sat in the quiet farmhouse bedroom. For a long while, the only sounds were their steady breathing and knitting needles doing their work.

  “Mrs. Jackson?”

  The old woman sighed, but a patient smile tugged at the corner of her lips ever so slightly. “Yes, Thom?”

  Thom thought for a moment, unsure how exactly to phrase what it was he wanted to ask. He decided that there were no right words, and that however he said it would have to work. He took a deep breath and spoke. “I’ve been here a couple of days now, and we haven’t talked about Andrew. I know you must be worried.”