He was right. It took a week. We set the drilling equipment up in the basement, started cooking fuel in an abandoned home a couple of miles away, and became miners.
• • • •
While two of us mined, the other pair began reshaping the house and “compound” to look like every suburban home—aged, abandoned, and decrepit.
We demolished the wall, scattered the remnants in other unfinished luxury homes. Instead of fortress, we went with subterfuge, surrounding the house with blackberry bushes and thistle woven through rolled razor wire, the kind you see at prisons. We added more bells in the barbed wire, heavy enough to not be bothered by wind, but animal or human movement would start them ringing.
We replanted buckthorn saplings from the woods all over the lot. They grew like dandelions but were a soft wood tree with nasty thorns. Like dandelions, the could not be killed and within two years they would be a formidable barrier in combination with the razor wire. For added support and food supply, we planted more green and red grapes under the razor wire. Added to the ones we had, the vines would soon resemble a thick rope barrier, making quick passage to the house nearly impossible. We now had two types of grapes and raspberries for Sarah’s turkey salad.
Flower beds and vegetable gardens now appeared wild and unattended and moved further away from the house and into the backyards of our dead neighbors. The chickens could remain, but had to be free range and we lost many to foxes, raccoons, and coyotes. The pigs and cows we gave to the indies way out west. They had pens and fences and their settlements were too far away for clan forays. The indies let us have bacon and such whenever we could hike or bike out there.
• • • •
One night, a month into the process, Sarah put down her book and said, “Mac, have you ever thought about what has happened?”
We each had our retro little reading lamps scavenged from Penny Mustard. The blackout curtains were tight. Weasel and Stevie were either reading or watching vids with headphones or earbuds. Duke was in the hallway, as close to the middle of the four of us as possible. It felt safe. All of us knew it was an illusion. But it was a warm, comfortable fantasy.
“I’m not sure if you’re referring to the house, our group, or the collapse,” I said.
Even in the limited light of the reading lamps, I could see her green eyes sparkle. “This,” she said spreading her arms to welcome the world. “Us. A year ago it was you, me, Duke, an outhouse, rain barrels and water buckets, and a flimsy medieval wall.”
I said, “I’ve thought about how one day, one decision, changed everything. Me and you meet this strange loner who has lugged an arsenal and half of an electronic store over to us in the snow…”
“And invite him to live with us in less that 24 hours. That’s not normal behavior for us,” Sarah said.
“It wasn’t random,” I said. “He had been scoping us out. Hell of good people reader. Weasel might have known more about us than we ourselves did. It was a huge risk for him, not physically, but psychologically. Saying hi to the neighbors. Bringing gifts. Telling us we were idiots.”
Sarah laughed. “And he was right. We have learned so much from him. And I’ll tell you what, Mac. We have just begun to scratch the surface of what’s going on in that man’s mind.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EARLY OCTOBER 2055
During the huge remodel, nearly a years’ hard labor, when we ultimately became nearly invisible, no one forgot Stevie’s horrific tale. Nor did we forget the Babe. But from the moment he described his journey from clan kid to feral child, Stevie grew with us, became part of our fabric. He wasn’t a victim of a depraved tyrant any more. He was one of us. And we were all victim’s of The Collapse. After the night he revealed the horrors of his life as a member of Satan’s Messengers and victim of The Babe’s legendary appetites and then his years alone, Stevie was no longer a crippled thing we were nurturing. Stevie became part of our family.
No longer was it, there’s Stevie. The poor thing. What a horrible hand life dealt him. It slowly became, there’s Stevie. He’s getting better at some of our daily tasks than we are. Isn’t it great to have him as part of the family. So we didn’t forget Stevie’s tale. It gradually ceased to be the defining characteristic in our view of him.
Weasel, however, had a more active memory bank than the rest of us. Allow tragedy to make you stronger, he believed. Also let it make you more vigilant. He never spoke of Stevie’s past and never treated him differently. But he was also secretly scouting for information the beast who almost ended Stevie’s life at the innocent age of nine.
In October of 2055, at the breakfast table where the five of us met at the dawn of each day, Weasel turned to me and said, “Pack up for a two day trip. I got something to show you.”
“What about the rest of us?” Sarah asked.
“There’s a certain amount of, ah, subterfuge involved,” Weasel told her. “Two of us is all we need. And we don’t want our place here unoccupied.”
Sarah raised one eyebrow, soaked up some egg yolk with a piece of wheat toast. “‘Subterfuge,’” she said. “I’m impressed.”
“It was in one of them James Bond books,” Weasel said. “Had to look it up. Pretty nice little word.”
“Yeah,” Stevie said. “Sounds like some kind of engineering part.” He went into his pompous teacher voice. “Well, son, if you don’t incorporate a subterfuge to your foundation, you’re gonna get water in your basement every spring.”
“What about Duke?” I asked Weasel.
He usually accompanied Sarah or me whenever we left the compound. At the mention of his name, he lifted his head. Maybe a piece of food, he was thinking. I scratched his ear, tore off a piece of my biscuit which disappeared down his gullet.
“Two’s plenty,” Weasel repeated. “There’s only four of us hear. Two should always be max for scouting. One pair here, one, out there. Duke’s our wild card. But today he stays home.”
“Is this going to be dangerous?” Sarah asked.
“No more dangerous than any day someone leaves the compound,” Weasel told her—the implication being that it was always perilous.
“Well,” she said, “you two just better be careful out there. Stevie, Duke and I will keep working to make this place look like an abandoned dump. And don’t forget, Mr. Secret Mission People,” she added with a twinkle in her eyes, “it’s your day to do the breakfast dishes. I assume this trip won’t preclude your doing chores.”
• • • •
Weasel and I headed north, the Fox River on our left, but not close enough to see it. There were decent north/south roads that were passable on foot or bike. Plus game trails and what appeared to be networks of walking or bicycle riding paths. It seemed like everyone pre-Collapse had a car and they all left them on the roads and walked away. It was still common to find skeletons in cars. Sometimes whole families. Sometimes bags of bones with guns and trucks or SUV’s pocked with bullet holes.
“We ain’t gonna break until we get there,” Weasel said. A good sweat was popping and our pace was brisk, maybe three miles and hour. “Figure us for an hour and a half. Got a spot picked out.”
“What’s our plan?” I asked.
“You know them vids where the cops are sittin’ in a van all day, watchin’ someone, fartin’ and belchin’ and generally stinking up the place?”
“Yeah, stakeouts.”
“Right. That’s what we’re gonna do. A stakeout operation. Like Bronson or Bruce Willis.”
“But without the van,” I said.
“Right. Fresh air and sunshine for us.”
“Whose the target of our surveillance?”
“You know the fat fuck that’s makin’ everybody miserable and nearly killed Stevie?”
“The Babe? We’re staking out The Babe? Jesus Weasel! We need some more bullets or armor or machine guns or something.”
“Don’t plan on gettin’ close. Just watchin’. He’s got something going on.”
&nbs
p; “I’ve seen him up close already,” I said. “It was … unpleasant.”
Weasel stopped walking. “You were in the same room with The Babe?”
“I was in an indie bar up near the old airport,” I told Weasel. “The big one up north, O’Hare. Our winter larder was low. Sarah and I needed some shotgun shells for hunting. I had a three pound can of coffee for barter. I’d be able to get an excellent return. Ammo was abundant. Coffee rare. This was spring, 2050, two and a half years before we met you.
“Sarah and I had more luck than smarts. We were smart enough to live in isolation, but not smart enough to realize I needed schooling when I went into the occupied areas. Like how to always sit with a clear line to an exit. I hadn’t figured that one out.
“Sitting along a back wall of the indie bar, sipping a rancid home-brewed beer, I scoped out the dozen or so patrons, looking for hunters or clan soldiers. I had a 12 gage Winchester leaning against the table and a long barrel 38 Special in my back pack on the floor beside me. About five minutes into my search, the Babe and four of his clan came in.”
We resumed walking, heading north. Weasel said, “This here is settin’ up to be a real good story. And here you are with all your arms and legs.”
“Like I told you, More luck than smarts. Before I could process what was happening, most of the customers scurried out the back door. Two of the Babe’s soldiers immediately positioned themselves by the front and back exits. A feeling of overwhelming dread washed over me. It made a lousy combination with the adrenaline. I had to use two hands to set down my beer. For the first time since my years alone, when fear was as common as the sun and moon, I was afraid. I could die here, in that nameless, dusty hovel.”
We continued the hike. Weasel tapped his head. “You got some smarts in there, somewhere, cuz you’re telling me the story.”
“Maybe a bit,” I said. “I visualized Sarah. In about 24 hours, she would start to worry. Just a little. She’d talk to Duke, keep busy, maybe tend the vegetable garden, take Duke hunting for quail or turkey, maybe fish the Fox, anything to take her mind off my absence. Day two she’d get serious about worrying. Day three, she’d know. I was dead or hurt bad. She’d load up some ammo for the Mossberg, take the Glock too, and she and Duke would start to search. Hoping, but knowing they were probably never going to find me.
“So there we were—me, the bartender and one other customer—some poor bastard who was too drunk to move and was dressed in the wrong color scheme.”
“You were wearin’ your camo, right?” Weasel asked. I nodded. “You see,” he said, “not so dumb.”
“The Babe and two of his men walked to the bar. They were all dressed red and black. The men at the exits were white guys, as was the Babe. The two soldiers who flanked him at the bar were Hispanic and black. The Babe towered over them. If you put both soldiers side to side, they wouldn’t have equaled his massive girth.
“I felt like a rabbit in tall grass. I put both hands on the table, wrapped around the glass of tepid beer like it was a portal to sanctuary. Didn’t move a muscle, except for my eyes. Watch The Babe, then the drunk at a table across the room. Then back to the Babe. The guy at the table was dressed in black and gold.”
“You knew that was a bad choice.”
“Oh, yeah. Everyone knew The Babe and his colors. He walked over to the soldier in black and gold. He said something in Spanish. The guy replied and the Babe spat in his face, pulled his .45 and shot him in the face, blowing him off the chair.
“He turned and looked at me. I stayed frozen as he walked to my table, extraordinarily graceful for a man his size. His hands were at his side. The .45 in the right, smoke curling up its barrel. He held it casually, softly, like a tiny pet. I watched, squeezing my glass in both hands so he couldn’t see my hands shake.
“The Babe looked down at me from what appeared from my perspective about twelve feet up. Beady eyes inspected my clothes. Camo pants, sweatshirt, hiking boots, back pack. John Deere cap. No colors.
“Indie,’’ he growled.
I nodded.
He glanced at my Winchester. His meaning was clear. I reached out with my right hand, grasped the barrel and handed it over to him.
“What else you got for me, Indie?” he asked.
I reached down for my pack.
“Careful,” he rumbled and took the pack. He put it on the table and began pulling everything out. There was a turkey sandwich and an apple in a brown paper bag, some ammo for the Winchester, the coffee can, two clips for my Glock, some underwear and spare shirts and a skinning knife.
The Babe took everything but the clothes. Then he took my Glock and clip knife. He ripped open the brown bag and devoured my sandwich. With a mouth full of turkey, lettuce, tomato and mustard, he said, “Get the fuck out of here, Indie.”
I stood, stuffed the clothes into the backpack and walked briskly to the front door, eyes straight ahead. As I walked, I wondered if I would hear the retort of a pistol shot before the bullet hit my back.
“In 60 seconds it was over. And what I remember most was being pissed. Not at him, but myself. The anger probably masked my fear. In the winter we wear coats so we don’t freeze to death. We don’t get mad at the winter. It is what it is. So is the Babe. Evil, vile. Everybody knew it. And he wasn’t the only thing. There were other clans, dog packs, infections, cholera, small pox, wild boar, wolves, tornadoes, blizzards. If you weren’t careful, you were out of the gene pool.
“You know better now,” Weasel said. “And today you get to pay another visit. But I don’t think we’ll be in the same room with him. This here’s a stakeout, not an attack. James Bond would call this intelligence gathering.
• • • •
Weasel and I were on a bluff overlooking the DuPage River, a beautiful little crystal stream that meandered about ten miles east of its big sister, the Fox River. In most places you could walk across it, but it had some great fishing holes and served as a north/south canoe highway. Below us, across the river about a hundred meters from the bank, was a development of thirty or forty townhouses. There were no rusted vehicles on the streets and a few of the peripheral buildings were obviously unfinished. The development was another victim of the collapse. No one had moved in before the hammer came down.
Oak trees dominated the bluff, blanketing us in shade, protecting our backs from the August sun. Weasel and I had been on our stomachs for about an hour, passing the binoculars and canteen back and forth. The birds and small animals had long since decided we were no threat and scampered, whistled, and scolded and in the canopy above us, oblivious to the small arsenal that lay between the two of us.
In a concession to comfort, we had stripped ourselves of weapons. It was warm enough for t-shirts. Weasel wore a Merle Haggard concert shirt. I was wearing a Roxy Music shirt Sarah has scavenged. Beside me was a portion of Weasel’s armory—replacements for our old M 16s, the most common American assault rifle, and the cheap semi-auto pistols we had carried pre-Weasel. I had chosen a Hechler and Koch HK 81 assault rifle as my primary weapon. Weasel went with a Galil SAR. Both had magazine capacities over 30 rounds and fired 7.62 mm shells, heavier than the 5.56 rounds used by the M 16s, the most commonly held clan rifle.
Beside the assault rifles were two machine pistols, an Uzi and a TEC 9, both adapted for 36 round magazines firing 9mm rounds. We each also carried two pistols, a couple of Glocks, a Beretta 93R and Steyr GB Auto. You ain’t never leavin’ the compound, Weasel had told us early on, without at least a hundred rounds at your finger tips and another two hundred in extra clips. Between us, as we lay on the bluff overlooking the activity below us, we had six hundred rounds available. And I knew Weasel had more weapons hidden beneath his clothes—pistols, knives, ice picks, even safety pins. Both of us were wearing vests, Kevlar IV, crotch to neck, beneath our pants and shirts. They were true 2023 state of the art. Found a military armory down in Springfield he told us. Wasn’t easy carryin’ all that stuff he groused.
“Today,
” he told me when had settled into our position, “is moving day. They got themselves new quarters. We’re gonna keep an eye on these boys’ operation. Then we’re gonna try’n figure out what kind of deal they got goin’ on.”
“And this is where The Babe lives?” I asked.
“Satan’s Messengers. Stevie’s clan. “Here,” he said, handing me the binoculars, “watch for half an hour. Tell me what you see.”
The binocs brought the activity below into sharp focus, allowing me close enough to see what people were doing, recognize individuals by clothing and body movement, even make out some facial features.
I counted about 200 in the clan, making them considerably larger than most. Men were predominant—only one in ten were children, who were either ignored or made to carry items from one location to another. At first I saw no women at all, until I noticed that one of the laborers with a shaved head had a pair of prominent breasts. Looking closer, within five minutes I found nearly 20 women, each completely bald.
“Son of a bitch,” I said to Weasel, “the women have shaved heads.”
“Seen it down south a couple of times too,” Weasel said. “Hair is important to most women. Sarah’s a perfect example. Gives ‘em a sense of individuality. Also makes ‘em feel pretty when they work on it. I can remember my mother always had a different feel about her after she washed and fixed her hair.”
“Half these women are clan sex slaves,” I said. “How come they don’t want them to feel pretty? You’d think they would do their job better if they felt pretty.”
Lying next to me, a meter away, Weasel looked across and smiled.
“You haven’t known many whores in your life, have you?” he commented.
Truth was, the only women I had known were my mother and sisters and Sarah. She was the only one left, Sarah was. I shrugged and Weasel continued.
“After a woman’s been whorin’ in a clan for a while, it don’t make no difference any more to her. The men don’t care, her life’s total shit and she knows she’s gonna be used up in a few years anyway. What the head shaving does is make them all look the same. They lose their sense of being individuals. It’s part of making them easier to control, Mac.”
Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation Page 12
