by G. R. Carter
“Who should we help? I mean, those look like government vehicles fighting a couple of ragtag Chevy Suburbans. How do you know who the good guys are?” Clark demanded.
“Right, we’ll just go defensive and see what happens. I’ll get everyone out of the building.”
Quickly gathering everyone inside the building, Phil returned from the office complex with his salvage team in tow. As he trotted toward the group, he could tell that the mission had changed. The two Suburbans were now positioned behind the defensive array of Turtles, and several men were climbing out and headed for the sheriff's post. They carried a motley array of battle rifles and handguns, though they were clothed in combat fatigues. Olsen seemed to have decided whose side Shelby County’s forces would be on.
The sprawling office complex had a series of parking lots, split into smaller squares and separated by landscape islands with small trees. Olsen had positioned the Turtles behind these mounds, providing some line of sight cover although the small plants and landscape mulch would provide little stopping power for heavier weapons. As they peered through the trees, the lead Humvees of the pursuers were splitting to get on either side of their positions. Phil could see that there were at least three other Humvees stopped on the frontage road just outside of the office complex. Though everyone was in rifle range, there was no fire from either side; the newcomers seemed to be getting a measure of this new development, and the sheriff apparently had decided not to be the one to open fire first.
In a split-second decision, Phil sent half of his group to help Olsen and the new arrivals. He took the rest back into the building, making for the emergency stairway next to the long-dormant elevators. Running up the steps as fast as his middle-aged legs would carry him, he decided to stop at the third floor. Being inside the stairway had kept them from knowing what was going on outside, so he had no idea that the fighting had already begun before they reached the windows looking out over the parking lot. He sent two of his men on up to the next floor, while the rest took positions separated by several yards.
As soon as he realized that the Humvees below were firing on his friends, time seemed to slow down. He could hear himself directing men to blast out windows and giving each one a different target to fire on. As soon as the AR–15s and SKS rifles opened fire, he saw the look of surprise and confusion coming from the soldiers in the Humvees. Phil recognized at least one of the enemy vehicles with what appeared to be a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the roof. The gun would sporadically fire with a roar that could be heard even over all the multitude of other rifles going off. Phil shouted for everyone to make that their target, and their weapons began to unload on the uniformed men below.
Even with the incredibly inaccurate aim of untrained civilians with automatic weapons, the sheer volume of lead heading towards one area ensured some found their mark. The man directing the .50 caliber slumped over the top of the vehicle, while others swiveled to face the threat coming at them from above. With the loss of their heavy weapon, the morale of the soldiers in the Humvees seemed to dissipate. Phil watched them gun their engines and pull out of the parking lot back to the frontage road.
Leaving two men to keep an eye out for a feigned retreat, Phil sprinted to the stairway to get back to his friends down below. As he ran out of the jagged opening in the front of the building, he could see one of his Turtles with a plume of smoke arising from the engine compartment. The still form of a man lay just behind the vehicle, with two others beside him performing first aid. Phil ran past heading for the sheriff's command vehicle. A man he didn’t recognize was talking with Olsen, who was glaring at the man as though he was on trial.
“We barely cleared the fence when the alarm sounded,” Phil heard the man in camouflage say as he slowed to a walk and approached. “We tore out as fast as we could, but within a few minutes those Humvees were catching up.”
“Why were they chasing you, and why were you trying to escape?” Clark asked. “I don’t even know your name, and now I’ve got a man down and a vehicle destroyed.”
“I’m sorry about your guy, I truly am. But I’m so thankful for your vehicles, although I have to say I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in the Sandbox,” the man said. Phil recognized the term; the men and women who were veterans of the Middle Eastern wars all referred to that part of the world as “the Sandbox.”
“My name is Captain Martin Fredericks, formerly of the United States Army Reserve. My little group and I were stationed at the National Guard base here.”
“We’re aware of the National Guard post, we made our first salvage trip here right after the computers went to sleep,” Clark said. “The police chief told us then that he thought the National Guard major was going to be trouble for them. He said we should get out right away.”
“The chief should have listened to his own advice,” Captain Fredericks said. “He’s probably dead by now, along with the mayor and several of the city council who didn’t go along with martial law. The major insisted that his last orders were to take control of all resources inside the city and provide security by any means necessary. That’s why we left; the 'any means necessary' part turned out to mean weekly executions on the steps of the courthouse. I signed up to protect Americans, not kill them.”
“So government here is still functioning?” Phil asked. “I figured it wasn’t with the city looking like this.”
“No, it’s still functioning, though with a much smaller population. Major Stillman has turned it into a military base. The old National Guard armory is the hub, sort of a capital building. There’s zero tolerance for crime, which is where the executions come in. And no looting or black market food allowed. It’s safe, but the price is you do what you’re told, when you’re told, or you and your family don’t get your ration allowance. People there have to trade freedom for survival,” Captain Fredericks replied.
“I have to admit, Captain, when you look at the wreckage we’re standing in now, it’s hard to argue that the man didn’t do the right thing. Those citizens are alive, not dusty bones lying in the middle of a ghost town,” Olsen said.
“Maybe,” Captain Fredericks allowed, “but is that how you all live? I just had to believe there was a better way to make it. All my crew did. And meeting you guys makes me think we were right.”
Their discussion was interrupted by Father Stephen Simpson. Although Father Steve was the parish priest for St. Mary’s Catholic Church, he was also an avid hunter and a former college athlete. That he volunteered for this mission surprised no one. Phil remained a through-and-through Protestant, but Father Steve had become a close friend and confidant. Father Steve also challenged Phil’s stereotype of a priest; this man of the cloth was a man’s man. To everyone’s relief, he shared the belief that using force to protect the innocent was not only allowed by God, but required of those who could accomplish it. In Father Steve’s mind, the AR15 slung across his back was the equivalent of a Templar broadsword a millennium before.
“We couldn’t save him,” Father Steve reported to the group. “He just lost too much blood. But he wasn’t in any pain, and he’ll meet God with a clear conscience today.”
Phil noticed the surprised look on Captain Fredericks’ face. He clearly wasn’t expecting to find a warrior monk here in an office parking lot. Of course, the Captain also didn’t know there would be armored cars here, either.
“Let’s get him loaded in the back wagon. Nothing else is in there, so it will serve as a hearse. Thank you, Father.” Phil saw the sheriff hang his head for a moment as though trying to bring some sense to this.
“I can’t even remember the guy’s name,” Olsen said, “I know he was from Strasburg. But that’s all I can remember. Another man dead under my command, and I can’t even remember his name.”
Captain Fredericks stepped in before Phil could. “Sheriff,” the Captain said, “I’ve lost men under my command, too. It’s never easy, and it never should be. But just remember what the Father said. Your man w
as doing what he believed in, and helping protect his friends.”
Fredericks’ eyes narrowed and his voice lowered: “I just don’t think there’s a better way to live than that. I know it doesn’t make it any better for you right now, but I hope over time it will. Besides, it’s not like we have much choice in this world we’re living in right now.”
Olsen didn’t say a word, just nodded to them both and turned to start getting the column together. Phil took over command when he saw the state his friend was in, shouting, “Everyone, we need to get out of here ASAP! I want each vehicle ready to stage on the frontage road right outside the south parking lot. Gunners on top, with eyes toward where those Humvees went. Give me two men to get that wrecked vehicle stripped and set on fire. We’re not going to leave behind anything useful for those other people. “
Phil turned to Fredericks. “Captain, we don’t have any room to spare now that one of our vehicles looks to be out of commission. So you’ll have to pile all your people back into your Suburbans. I have no idea how you fit so many in, but you’ll have to do it again. We’re about forty-five miles from home and it took us over five hours last time. It'll be longer going back since we'll be hauling extra weight.”
“I understand. Wherever you're going, we’re grateful for your help.”
“One request, though,” Phil interjected. “I would like you to ride with me in my vehicle on the way back. We’ve got some questions to get answered. I don’t think Sheriff Olsen is up to it right now, so I’ll do the debrief. You can take the navigator spot in my vehicle, and we can figure out what in the world is going on.”
“Roger that,” the Captain said. “It will be my pleasure.”
Chapter Three– Shield of the Okaw
Jim and Julia Ruff’s Family Farm
Seven Miles from Old Main College
Five Months after the Reset
Jim Ruff rubbed his hands together, trying to generate any possible heat to warm him from the chilly rain drifting down. Spring was coming, but not soon enough. He shifted his feet on the metal grating below, forcing his mind to stay focused on the task. This was his weekly rotation in the night’s watch, standing on the service platform of his farm’s grain transfer leg nearly fifty feet in the air.
Usually a sentry could see for nearly a mile from here even after dark if the moon cooperated. There was no lunar cooperation tonight, but the duty remained. With limited visibility he resorted to listening for the trip-wires holding rattle cans and squinting through the rain to pick up any movement.
Weeks had gone by since the power went out in the surrounding communities and he felt very fortunate that so far no one had tried to break into their farm. In the back of his mind he was sure somebody was out there. Someone or something watching and waiting for the Ruff family and the people they had taken in to make a mistake and let their guard down.
Half of the people living in the farmhouse and barns below him had barely escaped with their lives from raids on the farms they lived previously. Partly because of community obligation and partly because extra bodies helped in work and security, Jim had taken each neighbor in. His wife Julia continuously begged him to move onto the Old Main College campus. But there was no way he was giving up a farm that had been in their family for nearly two hundred years. No matter what the threat was he would stay and fight for what was theirs.
Besides, if they made the farm a tough enough target, whoever was out there raiding and looting would just move on. For five months the strategy had been working, but the attacks seemed to be getting worse in the area around Old Main. Even with limited communications, word still got around. Julia reported to him that people still straggled in from the countryside. Every time a farm got hit, any survivors along with most of the neighbors in a close proximity showed up at the college where there was some type of militia available to respond to threats. The days of a few families moving in together for help and protection were apparently coming to a close.
Jim still thought it difficult to conceive that any bandits would be well enough organized to take out some of the families whom he knew to be well-armed and well-prepared. For a generation before the power went out, rural people had been arming themselves for a day they prayed would never come. When Doomsday did arrive, the millions of rifles and shotguns stored in safes and basements came out ready to finally fulfill their mission. What most didn’t count on is that a lone gunman eventually gets overwhelmed. Even a larger group has to sleep sometime, and that’s usually when trouble hit.
The Ruffs and their neighbors discussed doing some sort of daily patrols to try and flush out the night stalkers, but chores and immediate needs of survival pushed those goals back every day. Nights like this one made him wish those patrols had been more of a priority. He felt real fear at not being able to see out in the dark. A visceral terror of the night reemerged after a hundred and fifty years of electric light had put it to restful sleep.
The Ruff farm did have some electricity, of course. The biofuel generators developed by Old Main and the Okaw Valley Cooperative whirred away down below, providing enough heat and light to make nights like these a little more comfortable. But Jim longed for enough power to send a searchlight beam out into the pitch black. Or perhaps have security lights out on the perimeter instead of just some metal cans with rocks inside. But they just weren’t there yet, even though Julia promised any upgrades would be tested at their own farm first.
He doubted that a little, even though he tried not to. She of course wouldn’t intentionally hold anything back; it's just that her sense of obligation often left him feeling like an afterthought. The two had drifted apart emotionally years ago when they first moved to the nation’s capital after she was elected to the Senate. Farm-raised work ethic mixed with a zealous drive to set things right with the world kept her away from Jim and their daughter Rebekah day and night. He never worried about infidelity, but he still felt abandoned in many ways. Frankly, he had never wanted her to be a Senator; they were just caught up in a whirlwind that took her from local government to state government to federal office in less than ten years. She was fast-tracked in spite of her beliefs; the political party handlers just assumed they could change her once she experienced the trappings of power and the evening dinner circuit.
Once the entrenched powers in DC realized she was a true believer and couldn’t be twisted into their image, the Ruffs went from rising stars to outcasts. The backlash they faced even affected the schools Rebekah could attend. Once their only child graduated high school, she immediately returned to their ancestral home and the college that sat just a few miles away from the farm.
Julia finally realized there was nothing that could be done to change the problems the federal government faced. An offer from Old Main College to come and give their commencement address led unexpectedly to an offer to run the entire institution. Once again a whirlwind swept the family up and before they knew it they were back to the life they both grew up with. As usual, the farm life wasn’t enough for Julia and she set to work making Old Main into a world-class institution. Whatever hopes the couple had for a closer connection never seemed to take root, and he drifted closer to the farm as she became a rock star in academic administration.
Even the world being plunged into darkness didn’t seem to bring them closer the way most survivors had; without the outside influence and with starvation now a very real threat, families closed ranks and forgot old grudges for now. But once again Jim and Julia ended up spending time apart, focused on making this crazy new world. Rebekah was their connection and she served as a messenger between campus and the farm.
The news she brought back was hopeful. Julia had helped create a committee form of government elected for two-year terms from the old wards just like before the Pullback. The new institution was referred to as the “Council of Neighbors.” Council members then nominated and selected the President. All sessions of government were held on the weekend, because each person was expected to retain t
heir regular job during the week. As those duties became more than just nine-to-five, increasingly the sessions were on weekend nights. But at least that kept things brief. There were no government employees, only volunteers. Any task not completed by volunteers had to be completed by the elected officials. There was little glory to the position, and the term “public servant” had some sense of truth to it once again. These were truly friends, and Neighbors, giving an extra ounce of effort to help the community succeed.
Even a militia had been developed under the leadership of the football coach and his first batch of recruits (who looked a lot like his football team). Combined with refugees from the farms and people in town, the assistant coaches each took squads of young men and women and began small arms training. Not enough to hold off any large scale attacks, but enough to patrol the campus and prevent any potential problems with looters.
Julia had blossomed into a brilliant leader after darkness fell. The creation of cereal bars by Old Main’s Applied Science department was a stroke of brilliance and had saved thousands of lives. Using all available resources, the bars were nutritious and easy to produce. But the bars had the consistency of cardboard mixed with the chewiness of fruit that had been sitting out in the sun. That was pretty much all they had to eat there.
The community still needed fresh food too, and farming the campus lawns wasn’t going to produce enough to keep everyone fed. So Jim felt it necessary that as many people as possible stay out on the farms like his. They were already planting a diversified crop and the livestock could be here on open pasture instead of unhealthy pens in town.
The main problem Jim still had to solve if he wanted to stay on the farm was security. He had asked Julia to request help from the people running the Okaw Valley Self Defense Cooperative. Jim knew the Cooperative, or SDC as they called themselves now, was working on ways to secure their own farms from attack. After several people were murdered by bandits, they were building some kind of fortresses to protect farmers and their tenants. Julia said she would talk to their leaders, but Jim figured she didn’t want to bother them with that when she already had the plan to create a fortified campus where people could live.
