Scorched Earth (Book 1): Good Fences

by Craven III, Boyd

  “Hold on a sec,” Frank said, walking towards the truck and smiling big as Randy came bounding out, pumping his hand and smacking him on his shoulder.

  “Hey, I didn’t know you two knew each other?” I asked Randy, looking first to my boss and my buddy.

  “Yeah, well. Remember when I said we had a group?” Frank asked.

  Oh, wow.

  * * *

  Turned out Randy had been talking and prepping with Frank, for a few years. Because of OPSEC (operational security) Frank was never mentioned and Frank never mentioned Randy.

  “I always thought you looked at me like I was borderline kooky when I first brought this stuff up to you,” Randy admitted.

  “I did, but then I looked at things… Wow. So... was this whole thing set up in advance?”

  I had to know. Had Randy gotten me interested in prepping in order to recruit me later on? I was dying to know the motivations, but I also felt a little hurt that my friend had been holding back; or was the friendship simply an effort to recruit me also?

  “No, not really. I just can’t keep my mouth shut entirely, and I figured if you were interested in it you’d tell me and if you weren’t you weren’t.” Randy shrugged.

  “I’m the one who brought up recruiting you one night as we were having a couple of beers,” Frank said, “You guys were already friends and you’d already started prepping. I joked to him that the group should go find a big farm and buy it for a bug out location and Randy said he already had a spot at his neighbors.”

  “You do,” I confirmed, “Speaking of beers, I’ll be right back,” I said, knowing I should have connected the dots when Frank was talking about twins and SpongeBob; he’d been dropping me a hint and I missed it!

  I headed into the house, leaving them sitting on the chairs on the front porch talking. I figured this would be a long one, so I grabbed a twelve pack of Coors out of the fridge and went outside. I took the chair opposite of them, pulled the box open and handed the beer out.

  “So you guys want to bug out here?” I asked Frank

  “I hope I never have to bug out,” Frank took a long pull and looked at the bottle in disgust, “I thought I paid you better than this!”

  “It’s been a slow month,” I said, grinning.

  We all clinked our bottles and started to talk again. It wasn’t just current affairs they wanted to talk about, it was also their other group member team. One was a Veterinarian who married a nurse practitioner, the Simons’. They both were well to do, but didn’t have much practical knowledge other than doctoring. To me, it sounded great in theory but I didn’t think things like that would happen, still…

  “You know what, guys?” I asked, pulling the last beer out of the box another hour later, “I like the idea of it. Tomorrow I’m dropping a big tree back there, and then I’m going to have a bunch of folks come out on Saturday and shoot some guns, why don’t you and the Simons’ come out. I’ll call Lucy up and we’ll do a big potluck on Saturday.”

  Frank and Randy were all smiles and agreed. It was going to be quite a bit of fun, and if it tweaked Landry’s nose a bit, even better. I almost hoped the cops showed up. Nothing to see here boys, move along. For once, it’d be a riot and not the normal grind of all work and no fun.

  We finished our beers and Randy and Frank said goodbye, promising to bring their families out. Apparently Frank lived in the older subdivision further down the road near where it split off the highway. All these preppers, all within a 5 mile radius. I made a note to self to text Lucy to let her know more folks were coming. I smiled and enjoyed the beer buzz, my feet up on the porch. I knew I had to go do animal chores before I fell asleep, but sitting in the fading sunlight felt good.

  I reluctantly got up and did them, collecting eggs, making sure the critters had water and put in the day’s ration of hay in for the goats, along with a few scoops of grain. The pasture was good this year, so they didn’t need much, but I liked to check out the animals and make sure the water troughs weren’t full of mosquito larva. That done I headed out of the barn, locking up and thumbed a quick message to Lucy on my phone. I got one in return and smiled.

  “I can’t wait to see you again. Someday we’ll have to go on a real date. I’ll get a sitter and we can go somewhere fancy like McDonalds or something!”

  I snorted and headed in.

  * * *

  I wouldn’t normally drink four beers at a sitting, and I felt it the next morning. It was becoming a habit that Fridays were slow and slack. Frank pointed at me and gestured to the door, so I got while the going was good. I’d forgotten to pay the park, and I’d just pulled in when I saw Mr. Matthews on his tractor, hitched up to a single wide. I pulled in shame-facedly and waved as I cranked my window down.

  “You forgot to pay,” he called, grumpy.

  “I just came here to do it.”

  “I gave her money; follow me to your place and you can pay me there,” he said and put the old 70 horse in gear.

  I gulped and turned the truck around to follow him. I was almost out when a bottle caught my peripheral vision and it smashed into the side of the truck right behind the driver’s window. I put it in park and got out, careful of the glass underfoot. I could smell it; it was some sort of cheap tequila. I looked around to see three guys standing there, another one pulling his arm back to make another throw. They were all about 20 or 50 depending on how the shadows played across their features; one wore a white wife beater and the other two had sagging jeans, barely covering their privates. Mr. Wife beater let go of the bottle he was holding and I jumped as it impacted at my feet, showering my legs with booze and glass.

  “What the ever loving fuck?” I shouted, walking towards them.

  I knew three-on-one odds weren’t good, but I wasn’t planning on fighting them. Only a fool would take those odds, but I was pissed. I looked back and saw the small dent on the side of the truck where the first bottle had smashed, and I got up close to the men. I vaguely recognized the one in the wife beater; I’d seen him around town begging for cigarettes and generally being an ass. He was usually drunk, and now I knew where he hung around.

  “That’s my momma’s trailer,” he slurred.

  “Why are you throwing shit at me and my truck?” I yelled, hearing the door to the manager’s office open somewhere behind me.

  “You took my Momma’s trailer,” he repeated.

  “Yeah, uh huh,” the other two agreed.

  I looked them over from about five feet away. The one had sores on his arms and neck and was scratching at them, and the other guy was in even rougher shape. They had the look of drug users, tweakers to be exact. Crystal meth had become the drug of choice for many drug users in the area. It was supposed to be cheap to make and give an irresistible high when smoked. But it also turned users into slobbering idiots, like the ones in front of me.

  I knew a lot of the folks in the park from church, and they were probably as horrified at these men living there as I was having to deal with them. I knew they weren’t an indication of how folks who live in modular or mobile homes are, but these three were prime examples of the types breaking the laws and getting news coverage. In short, they represented the stupid minority who were making it worse for everyone else.

  “Don’t throw shit at my truck. You do that again, we’re going to have problems!” I threatened, pushing a finger into Mr. Wife beater’s face.

  He swiped at my hand and then swung a lazy fist at me. I stepped back, pulling his arm from the telegraphed haymaker, and he tumbled to the ground, too drunk to right himself.

  “That was my momma’s trailer. I know who you are, motherfucker.” The man child slurred.

  “And I know who you are.” I said, pushing the one tweaker who started to get too close. He stumbled backwards over the drunk. “Now knock it off, or I’ll call the cops on you guys,” I snarled, and the last of them backed up.

  “We’re cool,” he said with his hands up.

  It was hard to hear him be
cause the drunk in the wife beater was staring to swear up a storm and the tweaker I pushed was making vile threats. I didn’t care, as long as they didn’t do anything else. I stormed up to the truck, looked at the minor dent and decided to just let it go. It wasn’t that big of a deal, and if the dent really bugged me, I could pop it and repaint that section.

  “Everything all right? Melinda asked, standing on the other side of my truck by the passenger side fender.

  “Apparently that’s his momma’s trailer,” I said, pointing to the guy who was only now gaining his feet.

  “Yeah, it was.”

  “Did they cook meth in it?” I asked her.

  Her eyes opened wide and a shocked expression covered her face.

  “No, of course not why would you…” her voice trailed off as she looked at the other two and then stomped back towards the office.

  “Don’t forget to put a good word in for me,” she yelled over her shoulder and slammed the office door, most likely to call the police.

  * * *

  The old farmer was nowhere to be seen. I caught up with him just before he turned in my driveway and put my flashers on, something I should have been doing instead of dealing with the three guys. Traffic was very light for a Friday, but it was still early, not quite 4pm. I followed him all the way up to the house and the barn and I jumped out of my truck to open the big gates to let him into the back field.

  In horror, as the single wide was passing through the gate, I realized that I hadn’t set up a spot for it. I shut the gate so the pigs wouldn’t escape and waved to get his attention. He slowed down to a stop before the hill and then idled down his tractor. I climbed up the right side so he could hear me.

  “I don’t have a slab poured for it!” I yelled.

  Mr. Matthews shrugged, “It’s got two axels. Go get me some bricks.”

  I ran back to the barn and hopped into the Kubota and drove it out, locking things back up again. On the north side of the barn was a ton of old cinder block and stones from various projects. I quickly filled my front end loader with the most perfect blocks I could find and drove up the hill. I must admit, the whole thing was exciting and worrying. I climbed the hill out behind the house and looked up to see that he already had the trailer in position. I’d given him a vague idea on where I wanted it, but he had it exactly where I’d had thought to place it in my mind’s eye.

  I pulled up beside him and he looked at me on the tractor and smiled. The grouch gave me a smile?!

  “Put a couple under the tongue and we’ll jack it up and get it off my tractor,” he yelled. I hurried off to comply.

  With some sweating and grunting I got everything into place and, with the hand crank, it lifted off the hitch easily.

  He motioned me to go towards the gate and I raced down there with a now empty bucket, leaving the rest by the trailer to use to jack up the corners and middle at a later date. I beat him there first with my little tractor and got the gate open. He pulled out and parked his tractor next to the barn, beside the piles of fence posts. He turned the key and hopped off.

  “Hey, thanks Mr. Matthews,” I said, a little louder than I’d intended. Standing beside the tractor had been noisy and I’d underestimated the silence.

  “No problem.” He took the keys out of the ignition of the tractor and started towards me.

  I pulled out my wallet and pulled out $400 from earlier and gave him that.

  “What do I owe you for transport?” I asked, remembering to be a little quieter.

  “A ride back to my place,” he said, nodding at my truck.

  “Is your tractor getting too hot?” I asked.

  “Naw, it’s not hot. Runs rough but she’s a good girl.”

  “So, what do I owe you for transport?” I asked again totally confused.

  “A ride back. I don’t use that beast much anymore and I seen you looking at it with lustful eyes. Truth is, this is probably my last year farming. Going to just enjoy writing my letters and reading books till Jesus takes me home. I figure you can get some use out of it.”

  The enormity of what he was saying had me stunned, and I tried to talk a couple times.

  “Listen boy, I don’t have no family left. Me and my wife never had kids. It was wonderful that your parents always included me and Greta in family stuff. I’d always intended to leave your father the farm, but he was taken home too early. Something happens to me, it’s already set up to go to the heirs of your parents.”

  “Is there something wrong? Are you sick?”

  I certainly felt sick; I’d had no idea and I was floored.

  “No, but I’m 84 years old this year. Farming and watching you grow up are about the two things I loved the most. I’m sorry your Cathy died so young like she did, I was hoping to see you two with some little rug rats, but the Lord took my Greta the same year he took your Cathy. I figure you have enough sense to run things or sell it when I’m gone.”

  “I don’t know what to say., I said lamely.

  He opened the passenger door and climbed in, slamming it behind him.

  He yelled through the open window, “You say ‘yes sir, thank you sir,’ or ya get cuffed. Now get yer ass in here before I get ornery. General Hospital is coming on and my DVR is on the fritz.”

  “Yes sir, thank you sir,” I repeated, trying to swallow a lump in my throat.

  The ride back to his farm was very short, we were practically neighbors through the fields. I didn’t want to talk about it, I was still overwhelmed, but he told me that if anything ever happened to him he had a copy of his will in the credenza of the house and another in the safety deposit box at the bank. It was already signed and notarized.

  I just never knew the cranky old farmer thought of us as family. I always knew he liked hanging around, but after my parents died I’d not seen much of him, figuring he was dealing with his grief the same way I was. I thanked him profusely until he turned pink and swore and then he gave me half a hug, barely making contact with me. I was touched.

  Driving home, my phone buzzed and I answered, recognizing Kristen’s number.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey, we’re here now. Did you know there’s tire tracks going up the field behind your house?”

  “Yeah, just dropping off Mr. Matthews then I’ll be right there.”

  “So I see you bought the tractor you’ve been lusting after, huh?” her voice betrayed her amusement.

  “Naw, I practically stole it,” I told her and let her know I’d be less than five minutes.

  We hung up and I shook my head not knowing what to think. I was pulling in my driveway as my phone buzzed again. It was Kristen, but she must have seen me and ended the call. Parked beside her Acura and the tractor was a box truck, about twice the size of Randy’s cube van. Country Life. I kicked myself, I’d put that order in two weeks before and I’d forgotten. Good thing I had company, but I didn’t know if I wanted them to see where I was going to put it. I decided I’d just unload it all to the bench and call it good.

  “Oh, hey,” I said, shaking hands with the driver who was already opening the back of his truck.

  “Howdy. Ms. Kristen there introduced herself and told me you were seconds away,” he said, trying not to stare at my friend, but failing.

  “Hey Kristen, Ken,” I said waving.

  I signed for the pallet, counted the number of items instead of doing a hard check through every box and unlocked the barn door so I could start carrying stuff. The driver gave me a quick wave, and shot a look at Kristen again before he climbed back into his cab and made an awkward reverse and then tried to make a three point turn.

  “So, how you two doing?” I asked, picking up a big bag of oats and carrying it into the barn.

  “Pretty good, looks like you had a busy day,” Kristen said.

  “You have no idea,” I said.

  I filled them in. From the trailer park, to Mr. Matthews to the punks and the order and all the work that needed to be done.

  �
��If you’re too busy to shoot tomorrow, that’s ok.” Ken said.

  “Oh no, sorry for complaining, it just seems like there’s never enough hours in the day and I forget appointments like the Country Life order!”

  “You going Amish?” Kristen teased.

  “Naw, it’s just—“

  “He’s a survivalist, Kris,” Ken said.

  I laughed. “Naw, I’m not a survivalist. Timothy McVeigh was a survivalist. I’m just a farmer, or a prepper if you want to use a label.”

  “Well, it’s smart,” Kristen said. “I’ve always wanted to get into it, just never did.”

  “I’ve got a storage unit all set up,” Ken said surprising both of us.

  “A storage unit?”

  “It’s a unit full of food, cot, composting toilet and some of my extra toys I can’t keep in my apartment.” Ken smiled.

  “Things that make you go boom?” I asked, meaning his guns.

  “Guns and my reloading gear mainly.”

  “Damn. Is everyone in this world a secret prepper?” I asked him.

  “No, the zombies are the neighbors who never prepped! Those are the ones you gotta worry about. The rest of us go along to get along.”

  “What about lone wolves and mutant zombie bikers or whatever?” I asked, referring to my favorite post-apocalyptic fiction.

  “Don’t worry about them none, if you have a group—“

  The gravel crunched and I groaned. I was so getting that gate and I was going to do it right away. Coming down the driveway was a state police cruiser, its lights flashing but no siren. I sighed and walked out.

  “Don’t pull your gun on this one,” I said sweetly to Kristen.

  “I didn’t pull a gun on the Landry man, though he deserved it, I was just making sure if it came to a fight, it would be a fair one,” she grinned.

  The trooper pulled in and parked in a cloud of dust.

  “I’m so putting a gate across my driveway,” I said to them both.

  “True that,” Ken said with a grin.

  “Good afternoon Mr. Cartwright. I’m sorry to bug you again.”