Fire From The Sky | Book 9 | Brimstone

by Reed, N. C.

  “'Our situation'?” Abby repeated. “And just what is 'our situation', Mister Thompson,” she asked softly, her teasing manner having vanished into something more serious, though still kind.

  “We are. . .at least, I'd prefer to think that we will. . .I'm not good at this kind of thing,” he sighed in frustration as he gave up.

  “Do your best,” she turned to face him, riveted on him now. “Tell me what our situation is, Jody,” she urged.

  “I… I care very deeply for you, Abigail Sanders,” he finally looked at her, his brown eyes full of intent. “I care deeply for you, and among my people, it is considered the height of disrespect to hide anything, any kind of behavior, from someone who might one day be more to you than simply someone you care deeply for.”

  “More?” Abby raised an eyebrow. “How much more?” she wanted to know.

  “More in the sense that I must speak to your father, more,” he admitted, his face actually darkening a bit as he blushed beneath her scrutiny.

  Abby fought not to gasp at that information, and managed it only by the slimmest of margins.

  “My father?” she managed not to stammer. “What does he have to do with anything?”

  “We can go no further in this. . .situation, without his blessing, Abby,” Jody told her plainly.

  “Jody Thompson, I am a grown ass woman,” Abby replied, though still in no way unkind. “I do not require my father's blessing to do a damn thing!”

  The look he gave her very nearly took her breath away, and this time she did gasp, and even drew back a tiny bit.

  “I do,” he said simply, a degree of finality in his tone that she could find no way around. “It is disrespectful to the family, otherwise. One must include the family that he hopes to become part of.”

  This time Abby recoiled as if struck. That almost sounded like. . . .

  “Hey, Abby!” Carol Kennard, one of the young women that had been rescued from Peabody, yelled. “Come here and check this out!” The two had gone to high school together and were moderately friends.

  “You should join your friends,” Jody told her at once, as if grasping a life preserver. “This is not a discussion we should be having in this setting.”

  “I don't want to join my friends; I want to finish this 'discussion'!” Abby all but whispered, raising a hand toward her friend to forestall further interruptions.

  “Later,” Jody shook his head stubbornly. “We will talk later. Preferably after I have spoken to your father.”

  “Dammit, Jody, I told you-,” Abby began, only to be cut off, something that was rare for Jody.

  “Later,” he insisted simply.

  Defeat mingled with disappointment showing on her face, Abby got to her feet.

  “Later,” she sighed, shaking her head. Then she turned to go and join Carol Kennard, building up resistance to the idea of slapping the shit out of her as she walked. She had just interrupted a conversation that Abby had very badly wanted to have.

  -

  Clean up was a chore, as always, but no one complained. Dishes were washed and dried, then carried to whichever home or kitchen they had come from. Tables and chairs brought out for the occasion were carried back where they belonged by young men, assisted by young boys who wanted to act like men. Soon, the area looked as good as it had before the start of the celebration, save for a few places where the grass was flattened or else darkened from the heat and fire of the meat that had fed everyone. It would all recover nicely, as was nature's way.

  Everyone agreed that it had been a good day. The weather had been perfect, as had the food, and no one had been looking to cause trouble for anyone else. Just a peaceful day full of good food and good company. For once, everything was wonderful, all the way around.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nothing lasts forever. Most especially, peace doesn't last forever. Not peace of mind, not peace among neighbors, and most especially not peace on Earth.

  One week after the big swimming party, the sound of a great many heavy vehicles floated on the breeze to the cupola atop Building Two. Mitchell Nolan listened for less than a minute before lifting the telephone to call Operations, asking them to notify Clay without using the radio. He warned them that from the sound of things, this was military traffic, and they just might be able to intercept the radio.

  Soon, people all over the farm were running for cover, either the bunkers they were assigned to defend or else for the shelters they were supposed to take cover in. It took time for the farm to reach full readiness, and therefore it was better to launch them toward it for a false alarm than to wait until it was too late for everyone to reach safety.

  Mitchell reported the sounds getting closer, which most likely meant that whatever was creating those sounds was coming their way. With bitter regret, Clay ordered heavy weapons broke out of their storage lockers and prepped for use. Jody Thompson arrived in the cupola and replaced Mitchell Nolan, who then raced to assist Nate Caudell prepare their crew weapons in the large bunker near the pad.

  The farm was ready with time to spare as Clay stood on the pad alone once more, waiting for a potential enemy to appear before them. He spared a moment to hope it was just someone with a large truck who had heard about the market and had taken a wrong turn.

  That hope evaporated as an armored HumVee came into view, coming up the road at the head of a column of other vehicles. Among them a Guardian MP vehicle similar to their own.

  “Well. . .shit.”

  “Maybe it's the real thing,” Greg Holloway made Clay jump as he spoke from beside and slightly behind him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Clay demanded. “You're supposed to be-,”

  “Man, with all those women trained and ready, every defensive position we have is crammed full,” Greg waved Clay's comment away. “Sides, you ain't got no business out here alone, no way. You can barely manage to talk to anybody new without starting a fight.”

  “Is that right?” Clay asked, even as the HumVee pulled to a stop on the road, just to their front.

  “That's right,” Greg nodded, taking two steps away to open the distant between them. “Still, we'll see how you do this time,” he added with a smirk as a man in a BDU uniform got out of the HumVee, alone.

  “Can I help you?” Clay shouted to be heard. The man was studying a map, but also looking around him from time to time. When Clay shouted, he put the map down and looked at Clay directly.

  “We're trying to find the town of Jordan!” the man called back. “But I think we made a wrong turn, somewhere!”

  “Didn't you though,” Greg muttered.

  “You got the right exit,” Clay walked closer, careful to keep his rifle hanging on the sling and his hands open and in sight. The turret hadn't turned his way yet, but it might.

  “You got the right exit,” Clay repeated as he got within easier speaking distance, “but turned the wrong way. Jordan is back the other way,” he pointed back the way they had come. “Maybe. . .twenty minutes from the interstate at your speed.”

  “I see,” the man sighed, rolling his small map cap up and snapping it close. “Well, someone took all the signs down, so we had to guess if we even had the right exit. I'm glad we got that much right, at least.” He looked around him.

  “I'm assuming this place isn't as abandoned as it appears,” he almost sounded as if he were making a joke.

  “You may safely make that assumption,” Clay nodded, ignoring the comment about road signs. “This is the Sanders Farm, by the way, and I'm Clayton Sanders,” he slowly offered his hand. The man took it just as carefully, a firm hand shake from each man forthcoming.

  “Captain Lake Adcock, Tennessee National Guard,” the soldier returned his introduction. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Clay nodded, though in truth that had yet to be seen. “Where are you guys out of?” he asked.

  “The Military Police among us are out of Murfreesboro,” Adcock nodded back to the convoy. “Heavier vehicle
s we left along the interstate are from other units spread around the rural areas. Engineers, armored cav, artillery, it's a mixed bag of folks. And gear.”

  “I see,” Clay mused. “I guess I just assumed you guys were out of Nashville. State-,”

  “Nashville's lost,” Adcock's face hardened slightly as he interrupted Clay's next sentence. “Put that out of your mind. What's left of the city is a no-go zone for the time being. No one knows how long that might be.” The man's face told a story that his mouth left unsaid.

  “I see,” Clay mused, letting the subject lie. “I assume the other major cities are just as bad?”

  “You may safely make that assumption,” Adcock's reply was accompanied by a wry smile. “It's bad all over, Mister Sanders. And not just here. Everywhere.”

  “You guys have communications with other states, then?” Clay asked.

  “We have very limited connections to certain other facilities,” Adcock nodded. “It's nothing like as good as what we had, but then nothing else is, either. Several larger cities are, or were, burning. I have no idea what the current death toll is. I don't think anyone is much counting anymore.” He paused as Clay raised a hand.

  “What are you after in Jordan, Captain?” he asked plainly.

  “Food,” Adcock replied at once. “We were hoping to find somewhere to buy or trade for fresh food. We're a bit tired of MREs at this point, to be honest,” he sighed.

  “I can well imagine you are,” Clay nodded. “How many men are we talking about?”

  “I have ninety-seven men in all,” Adcock replied, seeing no reason to lie. “Men and women, I should say,” he amended. “I left the majority of them and our heavy equipment on the highway.”

  Clay looked at the Hummer, then the Guardian, then the two MRAPs behind it, and the Hummer playing Tail End Charlie. He considered for a full minute before speaking again.

  “You an honest man, Mister Adcock?” he asked the soldier suddenly.

  “I'd sure like to think so,” the man took no offense. He was beginning to suspect that Clay was former military. “I'd probably leave the final declaration to those who've had to do business with me,” he shrugged. “But I would hope it would be favorable.”

  “There's nowhere up here stable enough for heavy vehicles,” Clay came to a decision. “You can pull off the interstate and point your rigs the other way so you can turn around, or else get back on the interstate and keep going north. There's a big parking lot, other side of the interchange, used to be a friend of mine's truck stop,” he pointed back to the interstate. “You can establish a camp there, and we can feed you and your men this evening. You can bring them up in three different groups so long as your men behave themselves, which I will be holding you responsible for,” he added with a raised eyebrow.

  “What will that cost us?” Adcock asked. “I don't know-,”

  “It won't cost you anything, Captain,” Clay assured him. “Just good behavior, that's all. And I should warn you now that you were right. This place isn't nearly as abandoned as it seems. Not by a long shot. This is why I warned you about your men and their behavior. There are quite a few women here as well, and all of them are well armed, well trained, and not in an overly friendly state of mind, if you know what I mean,” he stressed. Adcock caught on quickly.

  “I read you,” he said firmly. “I have two very young lieutenants, but four excellent sergeants. Would you mind feeding us in four groups rather than three? I can assign a lieutenant to supervise two of the groups, though in reality the sergeants can be aiding me in training them a bit better.”

  “A good friend of mine used to say that's what sergeants is for,” Clay smiled sadly. “I'll invite you to supper yourself and then ask you to stay and talk. We can fill you in on what's happening around here and you can do likewise for us about the rest of the state and region. That sound fair?”

  “More than fair, Mister Sanders,” Adcock held out a hand again.

  “Just Clay, Captain,” Clay smiled. “You'll meet Mister Sanders in a bit. Give us until. . .,” he looked at his watch. It was two in the afternoon. “Give us until six, and then start bringing your men this way. I think we can have something on the fire and ready by then.”

  “This is very kind of you, Mist-, Clay,” Adcock nodded. “We appreciate it.”

  “Wait til you taste it before you make that promise,” Clay grinned. “Six o'clock.”

  -

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jose asked softly as people scurried to prepare a larger than usual supper. They could feed one hundred extra people, but not without a good deal of effort.

  “Not even remotely,” Clay admitted. “But they already know we're here, so there's no hiding. In all honesty, we could probably take them, but the cost to us would be ruinous. That Captain knows a good deal about what's going on elsewhere, though, and he seems like a decent enough guy. Didn't try to strong arm us or anything else. If he does have that many people along with whatever heavy equipment, then he could have threatened it, just to see how it went, but he didn't. That tells me he might just be okay. And I'd much rather face them in small, hungry groups, with food on the table, than in one big one, behind the kind of weapons they can bring to bear.”

  “Well, that does make sense,” Jose agreed. “So, what are we feeding them?”

  “Steaks,” Clay grinned suddenly. “Steak and potatoes, to be exact, along with corn, still on the cob. Easiest thing to fix for so many, and also the most plentiful food items we have. We can feed them tonight and not have it hurt us through the winter. Sound like a plan?”

  “Sounds like a menu,” Jose nodded in agreement. “I'll work out a watch schedule. We'll have to keep a lot of our posts manned through this.”

  “And make sure both cupolas are manned,” Clay agreed. “They'll need to use the night vision gear to make sure none of their people sneak around on us. I need to get the boys digging a latrine for them to use, too, I suppose,” he added to himself. “No, I can just get Ronny to do that, actually. I gotta go, man,” he told Jose absently.

  “Yeah, you go, bwana,” Jose chuckled. “I'll make sure someone is in the hole on the far side of the house.”

  -

  The first group of soldiers arrived in two Hummers and two MRAPs. Twenty-seven soldiers in all, including the Captain, a young woman who turned out to be a first lieutenant, a very tough looking sergeant, and twenty-four others, eighteen men and six women, of various ranks ranging from PFC to buck sergeant.

  “Captain,” Clay met the man with a handshake.

  “Mister Sanders, Clay,” Adcock corrected himself. “This is Lieutenant Triana Flores, and this is First Sergeant Hewie Maxwell,” he introduced the people in charge of that particular group. “This is Clayton Sanders, the owner,” he informed his people.

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Flores smiled slightly, extending her hand. “And thank you for your hospitality.” She was tall, Clay observed, and lean. Her features were fairly plain, though not unpleasant, and her face was open and honest.

  “Sir,” Maxwell was next, his gruff voice matching the gruff exterior. His hand was slightly scarred, and one finger was crooked, but his handshake was firm. Maxwell was taller than Flores by at least three inches, and broad shouldered, carrying a good deal of muscle that Clay figured was earned the hard way. While not as large as Brick or Jake, he was still a very large man, and his attitude was that of a no-nonsense NCO who was tough enough to handle even the most disruptive of enlisted men.

  Clay immediately liked him.

  “Lieutenant, Top Sergeant, welcome to Sanders' Farms,” he smiled. “There's a small table set up for your people to get cleaned up,” he pointed to a nearby field sink, “and then the tables are set up on the pad. I hope steaks are acceptable to everyone?” he asked deceptively.

  “Steak?” someone behind them asked, but Clay couldn't pick him out.

  “Quiet,” Maxwell said over his shoulder before anyone else could speak.


  “Steaks sound wonderful, Mister Sanders,” Flores replied for the group as Adcock watched. “Sergeant, please get our people in line and have them get started,” she ordered Maxwell.

  “Yes, ma'am,” Maxwell snapped to attention before turning sharply.

  “You heard the Lieutenant!” he didn't quite yell. “Double line, right now! By twos to the sink, and then fall in at the mess! Move it!” Pause. “Kendrick, you shove someone again and I'll pull you out and make you watch until the last group is through!” he barked as someone tried to better his position.

  “Yes, Sergeant!” the offender called from within the group. “It was an accident, Sergeant!”

  “My ass,” Maxwell muttered, but didn't challenge the answer openly.

  “Captain, if you and Lieutenant Flores would like to join us, we can step inside,” Clay pointed to Building Two. “There are facilities inside, as well,” he told Flores, who nodded appreciatively. “We can dine in a bit more privacy. I'd like to introduce you to my father and then we can tell you our story and we can hear yours. We have heard very little since all this started.”

  “Thank you, Clay,” Adcock nodded. “Lieutenant, after you,” Adcock motioned. The young woman nodded her thanks and started for the building.

  “Tough sergeant,” Clay complimented Adcock as they followed Flores.

  “A good man,” Adcock agreed. “Solid and reliable. I'm very fortunate to have him and the others. As I said, we're a mixed bag of personnel, and they have only been working together a few months as a group. Having good, reliable NCOs is a godsend in that situation especially.”

  “That it is,” Clay said absently. Adcock looked at him.

  “I'm assuming here, which we know is dangerous, but I get the feeling that you're former military, yourself,” he said casually.

  “Many of us are,” Clay admitted freely. “And those who aren't have been trained up to military standards. We're very fortunate ourselves, at least at the moment.”

  “Sounds like that's not always been the case,” Adcock noted as they stepped into Building Two.