by N A Broadley
He considered himself a soldier. He’d seen war, tasted it in his soul; not any war overseas, but the war in his homeland. Years of nightmares plagued him from what he’d experienced on the streets. He’d been in law enforcement and was fully aware of the horrors and realities of what humans were capable of. His experience included SWAT and Anti-Human Trafficking. He had fought in the trenches, on his own soil. And it had left a lifelong stain on his soul.
Never did he think the United States would fall. Never did he think he’d have to see combat again. His heart hardened at the thought, how the many towns he traveled through had now become nothing but ghost towns. Filled with violence and destruction, the towns had an aura of hopelessness that hovered in the air like a heavy, black cloud. Rubbing a thumb across his lips, he continued to watch the riders pass.
This group before him reminded him of the gangs he’d seen in the inner cities. Every town they touched burned, along with the slaughter of every man, woman, and child.
Peckerhead growled softly by his side and he looked down at the rooster.
“Yup, wonder what these folks are up to? Methinks something stinks about this. I say we mosey on back a bit and follow. What do you think?”
The rooster, dubbed Peckerhead, hissed and bobbed his head.
“Yeah, I agree,” Mitch whispered then laughed softly.
“You know? I love fried chicken, right?”
Peckerhead growled and fluffed his white feathers.
As he waited and watched he drifted in a swamp of memories. He hailed from Herington, Kansas; spent his law enforcement career in Kansas City. When the event had hit, he’d been traveling across the United States visiting his brotha’s and sisters, friends that he considered family. He’d met with Claude out of California, Joe in Wisconsin, Alan in Kentucky. They were all members of the Truth Seekers. The event hit when he was far up into the North East, where he’d spent weeks in New Hampshire at Naomi Stilters’ compound. Every one of the Truth Seekers, and their families, had all built compounds. They were scattered from one end of the country to the other. Except for him. He was a nomad, a wanderer. His feet had had a tough time staying planted in any one location. But that didn’t keep him from adding to his experience and knowledge, or in the helping others.
Now he found himself on his way to see Roger at his compound in Connecticut. He’d left Naomi’s compound two weeks ago. He started his journey driving his old beat-up Ranger until that ran out of gas, somewhere on the border of Massachusetts and New Hampshire. After walking for several days, he happened upon a farm. That was where he had picked up the old nag, along with the tag-along rooster. The farmhouse he’d stopped at had been abandoned and ransacked. But he’d been able to find enough supplies to hold himself over. If worse came to worse, he’d cook the damn rooster if he got hungry enough.
He followed the group for miles, staying just a bit behind, ghosting them from the deep woods. He watched with growing horror, as in each town they stopped, they attacked anyone unlucky enough to be in their path. They were the worst kind of animals—the dangerous kind, ones who relished in the gang violence mentality.
Stopping for a rest, he pulled the map from his jacket pocket and swore softly. He traced the route they were on with his finger and saw it led straight to the compound where Roger lived. There was nothing he could do to warn Roger about the danger coming his way.
He looked at the rooster and shook his head and muttered under his breath. “I wish the heck you could fly!”
Peckerhead gave an indignant squawk and glared at him.
Climbing on his horse, he stayed hidden in the shadows, trailing them. He sent up a silent prayer that they would veer off in another direction and head away from his friend’s domain. But as prayers would have it, it seemed that no one was awake and listening.
∞
A fluttering of activity flowed through the compound as everyone scattered, getting prepared. Mary Anne looked at Beth, who was hobbling back and forth, her eyes darting everywhere trying to see where she could be of help. The girl was as nervous as a cat on a tin roof.
“Beth!” she snapped, getting the woman’s attention.
Beth turned to her.
“You can help with dinner. We’ve got fifty chickens to slaughter and pluck.”
Beth’s eyes widened in horror. Slaughter and pluck? She’d never seen a chicken, other than the ones in the little Styrofoam packs at the meat department of her local grocery. Was this woman serious? She wanted to help, but the idea of handling a live chicken made her cringe. Not to mention the fact that they were on the brink of war and all hell was about to come raining down on the whole compound. She thought it was crazy, thinking of food at a time like this! They should be doing something, but slaughtering chickens was not the something Beth had in mind!
“Are you serious? Food? Chickens? We’re about to go to war!”
Mary Anne nodded her head.
“Yup, you are right, Beth. But, in spite of all this, in spite of our men and women going off to fight, we still need to eat! Work still needs to be done here, in the compound! We can’t and won’t just sit here, twiddling our thumbs and worrying. It does no one any good. When those men and women get back, they’re going to be hungry and tired. If they bring back any prisoners, they too are going to be hungry and tired. We need to prepare!”
Beth nodded, feeling the heat of shame redden her face. Mary Anne was right. Life didn’t stop because of her panic.
“I’m sorry. I’m just overwhelmed, stressed, and freakin out.”
Mary Anne laughed. She too was freaking out, but she wasn’t about to let anyone else see that. If she gave in to the panic that chewed at her stomach, she’d end up just sitting down and crying, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good.
“Okay, back to the chickens then?”
At the look of horror that crossed Beth's face, Mary Anne burst out laughing.
“It’s not hard, and you can do it sitting down.”
Beth nodded and rolled her eyes. Good God, what had she gotten herself into?
Jenny set up the table for the chicken duties. She smiled at Beth shyly. She placed a sharp knife on the table in front of her. Beth grimaced. A kettle of water set over an open pit, boiling furiously. On the table were knives of every size, a basket for the feathers, and a plastic cooler, filled with cold water from the well. Beth slipped an apron over her head which Mary Anne had handed to her. The coolness of the morning gave way to searing afternoon heat and Beth found herself sweating beneath the cotton apron. She peered up at the cloudless blue sky and sighed. It was turning out to be a hot day.
“Okay, it’s a simple process. We kill the chickens, cut off their heads, eviscerate them then dip their bodies in boiling water to help loosen the feathers,” Mary Anne instructed. Beth wrinkled her nose.
“I don’t have to kill them, do I?”
Mary Anne laughed softly.
“Well honey, I think they’d be mighty upset if we tried to pluck them while they are alive!” she said, shaking her head. Beth grinned sheepishly.
“You know what I mean.”
Mary Anne laughed and placed the first dead chicken in front of Beth. She then began to show her how to cut into it.
“First we cut off the head. I won’t make you kill them, but you do need to know how to dress them out. Once the head is off, we hang them upside down over here, “she said. She took the bird and hung it by its legs, attaching it to a long pole, between two sawhorses. “This is to drain the blood. We save the blood in this pail so we can feed it to the hogs later. Once done, we then turn it over on its back, find the Y between its breastbone and anus. We make a small incision like this,” she said. Taking the point of her knife, she made two small vertical cuts that met in a vee at the bottom of the tail section. Sliding two fingers in, she tugged and pulled out the anus and intestines. Beth felt her stomach jump with nausea as she watched.
“We do this so that none of the excrement gets into the meat. T
hen we take our knife, make a longwise cut right up to the breastbone, open it, and bring out the rest of the intestines, heart, liver, and stuff. The heart, liver, and gizzards we save and use for stews.”
Beth watched intently, biting back the urge to get up and hobble away. The odor of the dead chicken hit her nose. Blood stained Mary Anne’s small hands as she made quick work of the bird. It took her from start to finish about ten minutes to gut, clean, pluck, and dash the body into a cold bath. The screech and death squawk of another hen met Beth’s ears. Part of her was fascinated with the process, but another part of her recoiled in horror. She knew she would never look at another chicken the same after this.
Grimacing, she set to work helping Mary Anne, Ginger, Connie, Jenny, and Tempy harvest the chickens that would be the group's supper that evening. It was hot, hard, sweaty work, but once she got past the gruesomeness of it, she found herself loving every minute of the work. Smiling to herself, she couldn’t wait for Sarah to wake up so she could tell her all about it.
Wiping her hands down after rinsing them in a basin of cold water, Beth set to help by cutting the chicken up into more manageable pieces. There were four large plastic coolers filled to the brim with whole, fresh birds. Mary Anne and Jenny brought large cutting boards to the table and handed Beth a chicken. Chatting, they set to work and for the first time in a very long time, Beth found she enjoyed herself. These women were knowledgeable, kind, and friendly. And her hands were busy. It felt good.
They took the chicken pieces; put them in a big pot of boiling water and cooked them until the meat fell from the bones, the meat then would go into a hearty stew that would feed the community. In another pot of water, they threw the bones, skin, and organs in to simmer for the day. It would cook down into a savory bone broth for future meals: bean soups, pastas, and rice. It would also be good over the coming winter for those who might fall ill to colds and flu. Nothing would go to waste. The bones would then be ground up and used to feed the hogs. It demonstrated an efficient use of the chickens, and Beth shook her head in amazement.
“Dang, I can’t believe all of this will come from just these birds?”
Mary Anne smiled and nodded. “Yup. Waste not, want not. That’s what I was always taught.”
“I was never taught this. When we ate roasted chicken or fried chicken, what we didn’t eat got thrown into the trash,” Beth replied a bit guiltily. She slid her shoes from her hot feet and curled her toes in the cool grass beneath the table. She thought of how much she had wasted in her lifetime, and it made her cringe.
“I’ll teach you how to can the bone broth tomorrow if you’re up to it,” Mary Anne said. Beth nodded eagerly. She would love to learn to can. Anything that would up her skill in survival.
“I would love that.”
∞
Brian sat with one hip propped on the edge of the table, sipping a cup of coffee, staring down at the map spread out in front of him. Spike circled in red where he thought the men should position themselves. Everyone murmured and nodded. The first wave would head out in an hour followed by two more groups of men and women an hour later who would station themselves a mile below the first wave just in case any of Bobby’s gang slipped through the initial ambush. They planned their ambush up on Diamond Ridge, which looked down onto Pyson Gap Road, the only road leading to the compound. They bet that Bobby and his men would be traveling it. They were far too confident and lazy to go over the trails.
Moving from the edge of the table to another table, Brian laid his rifle, a Ruger AR-556 semi-automatic, to clean it. He could feel eyes on him, and he turned to the group and smiled.
The rifle had belonged to one of the guards at the prison. He didn’t need it anymore, Brian shrugged. “Dead men can’t shoot.” He quipped to himself.
Noticing how they looked at his strange expression, he quickly recovered. “Don’t want no mishaps out there, right?”
After he finished, he got up, slung the rifle over his shoulder, grabbed his empty cup and rinsed in the barrel of water at the edge of the lean-to, and cut his eyes to Spike.
“I’m gonna go and see how Beth is doing.” Spike nodded. They would be in the first wave to leave, along with fifty others. He could see Brian was edgy, nervous. They all were. He thought of Rose and her sister, of his promise to the young woman. He hoped he could keep it. A cough from Roger brought his attention back to the group.
“So, I think Mark stays here with one group to protect the compound in case any of Bobby’s boys slip by us.”
Mark shook his head, arguing.
“No! I want to be out there with you all. Leave Cain here. He’s better at organizing things than I am.”
Roger turned and scowled at the young man.
“Boy! You’ll do as I say!”
Mark grimaced. He didn’t want to be left behind. But he’d do what Roger said.
“Bella can stay too. She’s not experienced enough to be in this fight,” Roger instructed. Bella was a twenty-one-year-old hot head. She trained day in and day out for the past few months along with twenty others. Max worked them hard, but Roger had his misgivings about their battle-ready status. He thought her too green, too quick-tempered and too impulsive to be out there in the field with them.
“I think she’s ready. And hell, Roger, all of them are ready. Yes, they are green, but they gotta get their feet wet sometime,” Max replied sternly. Roger nodded and squinted his eyes at the glare of the mid-day sun. The man was right. But they, the trainees, only knew of mock battles. The real shit hadn’t hit the compound yet. Dying was real. The bullets and blood would be real. It would not be the minor skirmishes they faced in the past. It would not be a training session where everyone got to get up after the mock battle and walked away. Good Lord, some of the trainees were barely eighteen, and then others were well into their sixties and seventies! These folks should not have to fight. The kids should be out dating and raising hell, the older folk sitting home on their porches enjoying retirement. Shaking his head, he rubbed a tired hand across his face.
“You’re right. Get them all ready,” he murmured. “And God forgive us.”
Brian smiled. He watched Beth at the picnic table with Jenny and Mary Anne, glad they gave her something to do. She was a funny woman, at once fierce and independent but on the other side, unsure and doubtful, quite the combination. His heart gave a small tug as he gazed at her, the sun shining on her shoulders and her hands busily working. Why did she intrigue him? She was the biggest pain in the ass, mouthy and stubborn, and had a fiery temper. But he also saw something else. Her fierce protectiveness for those she cared for, her unwavering persistence. Shaking his head, he walked over to her and sat beside her. She smelled of soap, barnyard, and sunshine — quite the curious combination.
“I’ll be leaving soon. If things go bad, and Bobby’s men get through us, you do what you have to and protect Sarah.” He then slipped one of his knives into her hand. Beth nodded. Her fingers slid around the smooth grip of the knife handle. She had two guns that she wouldn’t hesitate to use, and if she needed to, she’d use the knife. It wasn’t like she hadn’t stabbed anyone before, she thought. Images of her neighbor lying on her kitchen floor floated back to haunt her.
Her throat constricted with tears. This man, he saved her and Sarah from certain death, he fed them and stayed with them through the mud, the rain and the cold. He had walked miles alongside them. He didn’t have to; she knew that. He could’ve just walked away. But he hadn’t.
“I don’t care what happens out there. You come back to me.”
Brian smiled and nodded. “I’ll do my best, and I will try.”
With that, he bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Yes, he would do his best. There was something here he wanted to explore a little more. He bent and whispered into her ear.
“Take care of Sarah and yourself,” then standing, he glanced at her one more time before turning and walking away. She watched as he walked back to the group of men get
ting ready to leave. A single tear slid down her cheek, and she hastily wiped it away. Mary Anne wrapped a warm arm around her.
“My Roger will make sure they all come home, Beth,” she whispered. Beth nodded. She sure hoped Mary Anne was right.
Chapter Twelve
Spike, Brian, Roger and their group set to the woods just before dusk. Shadows broke, long and heavy. The men scattered, behind hills, brush, rocks, and trees. Brian chose a large boulder about fifty feet off the road and settled in behind it, sitting on a soft bed of dried leaves. If his estimation proved correct, they should be hearing the clip-clop of horse hooves coming their way soon. He’d estimated a good two days by road from where Bobby had planted himself in the small town of Lee, Massachusetts. He reached down and slid his knife from its sheath, pulled the stone from his saddlebag, and with slow, methodical movements brought the blade to a glistening sharpness. There would be wet work ahead. Of that, he could be sure.
The scent of earth, grass, and pine filled his nostrils, and he breathed deep, filling his lungs till they felt like they would burst. For so long, he’d yearned for the smell of just this. In prison, the only scents that he smelled were of the cleaning solution they used on the floors and toilets. His stomach clenched with anticipation, with anxiousness. He’d always been this way before a fight, even in prison when he would plan an attack against a foe who threatened to unseat his position, he’d gotten this same uneasy, nervous, gut-clenching feeling. He continued sliding his knife across the stone, calming himself with the soft, monotonous sound of it, feeling his shoulders and back relax.
“We’ve got everyone in position. You ready for this?” Spike asked. He kept his voice low and soft.
Brian gazed up at him with a chilly expression, then let his eyes slide into the darkening shadows of the forest.
“Ready,” he replied, then ran his thumb across the blade and watched as a fine bead of blood appeared. With a quick movement of his hand, he slid it back into the sheath.
