by Reed, N. C.
“True,” Clay agreed.
“Have you thought any about what I asked you last time?” Adcock changed the subject.
“We have,” Clay leaned forward and placed his elbows on the small table he used for a desk. “One of the major things people wanted to know was how many people, exactly, you wanted to base here, and for how long.”
“Like I said, it will most likely be between fifteen and twenty people,” Adcock told him. “Call it three or perhaps four fire teams, and a senior NCO in charge. I thought about trying to place an officer here, too, but if we base another group in Jordan, then I'll probably have one officer responsible for both groups. It's not that far, and with good sergeants, it should be enough.”
“The concern is having so many strangers on the place,” Clay told him. “Our folks want assurances that the men you base here will be on their best behavior. In return for that, we're prepared to try and feed them at least a few times per week, and provide riding lessons to anyone who needs them. You said you would end up on horses before long, so they need to learn to ride. We can help with that. For that matter, we can alternate the group from Jordan out here and teach them as well.”
“In return for what?” Adcock asked.
“Their help in getting new buildings up,” Clay replied. “We'll build a bunkhouse for your men, with their help, but we'll also build another for our own use, and perhaps a few small cabins. Their help would go a long way in getting that done in a timely manner. Even just standing guard would help, to be honest, but heavy lifting is always appreciated.”
“There's no reason they can't do that,” Adcock agreed at once. “Be a good workout for them if nothing else. Anything else?”
“Just to help us defend the place if we're attacked,” Clay shook his head.
“That's what they'd be here for, really,” Adcock stated. “Like I said, we need outfits like yours. We can't continue to try and keep any peace anywhere if we can't feed our people. Our supplies are already running low, and ideally, we need to keep as many MREs as we can for road and trail use. There won't be any more of them that I know of.”
“I'd say it will be smoked meats, parched corn and dehydrated fruits and veggies before long,” Clay agreed. “It's not bad, but it's not great, either. Still, it beats eating shoe leather.” He paused for a minute, thinking.
“Next year, we'll try to plant a much larger garden area,” he said finally. “I think we'll have the seeds for it, though I can't swear to it. We can plow a large field or two and then plant by hand. You'll have to post some men here to help plant, and then again as the plants start to produce. We just don't have the manpower to do that along with everything else. But if we can plant a hundred acres of garden for you guys, then that should help feed your group and more besides. We'll start having calves come to slaughter weight by then, too. And, hopefully, our pigs will have produced at least one litter all the way around. If we can get all of that going, then we can probably be very beneficial to your outfit.”
“That's exactly what I'm talking about,” Adcock nodded eagerly. “I expect this winter to be difficult. Last winter was hard, but we were a bit loose in our discipline, in my opinion. The only thing that saved us was a food warehouse where we managed to retrieve several truckloads of canned goods. If not for that, then I doubt we'd make it this winter, even with what little help we're getting from places like yours. As it is, winter will just about clean us out, I'm afraid. So, whatever we can do to lighten that burden will be of great help.”
“Well, there's the deal,” Clay told him. “We need help with building, we need help with security, though not as badly as we have in the past, and we'll need help when planting and harvesting season come around again, assuming we plant for you guys. In return, we will plant for you, we can provide at least some meals for the people you base here, and we'll teach them to ride and care for their horses. All of that is contingent on good behavior from the men and women you assign here, however,” he added the caveat.
“My father and everyone else were adamant about that. There is a group of young women here who were severely traumatize by a group of assholes posing as soldiers. Having a young man in uniform approach one of them, even politely, in the way young soldiers are known to do, could start a very bad set of issues. We can't afford those kinds of issues. Not when the women are probably at least as well trained as some of your men, and are now heavily armed. We've trained all of them, and the other women here on the farm, to the point that they could easily pass basic, and probably the AIT for Eleven Bravo.”
“I can see where that would be an issue,” Adcock nodded. “This place could play a major role for us in the next year or two, and well into the future, Clay. It's important to me that we have a good working relationship from the start. To be candid, I expect that we will become a version of state police, for lack of a better term. We have a great many people who were trained as Military Police as well as Civil Affairs, and it's something we're trained for, at least in part. We also have a few civilian police officers in the ranks. This region will likely be mine, barring my getting promoted and moved somewhere else, which honestly is unlikely.”
“Your farm, with the deal you just offered me, could end up being the cornerstone of our supply situation. That makes you, and your entire operation, people and all, very important. Important enough to make a permanent post here to help with security and other work. I can rotate my men through here in one-month intervals, allowing them a partial stand down and rest period, even as they stand guard and pick potatoes, so to speak,” he smiled. “Not to mention learning to be horsemen. And women,” he added. “Having a full rifle squad here at all times would perhaps go a long way toward easing your manpower problems.”
“So long as we can depend on them to behave, absolutely,” Clay agreed. “I have to stress the behavior part, though, because it was the one thing that absolutely everyone agreed on. They aren't scared, exactly, but they are concerned.”
“I can understand that,” Adcock nodded. “What if I put Sergeant Gleason here?” he asked after a few seconds of consideration. “You know him, at least a little. Do you think you can trust him enough?”
“I would be very surprised and disappointed if we couldn't,” Clay replied. “He seems very squared away.”
“He is,” Adcock confirmed. “And as I said before, he has the respect of every man in the outfit. He would be a good choice due to his horsemanship, as well. He seemed very comfortable on horseback when we went to Lewiston.”
“He did at that,” Clay agreed. “I think we've got an accord, here, Captain,” he stood, offering his hand. Adcock grasped it firmly.
“I'm glad to hear that. I don't know when we'll begin posting the winter positions, but unless something breaks with this development in Alabama, I suspect we'll do it by Halloween. Bear in mind that's a guess, but I think by the end of October we'll either be fighting this so called Army of God, or we'll be preparing for winter camp.”
“Let’s hope for the latter,” said Clay. “Even while we prepare for the former.”
“Well said.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Listen to me, good people! You must heed the warnings that have been given to us! We have been stricken by God's anger, a righteous anger that we deserved! He has punished us for our wickedness, and taken the things that enabled our sinful behaviors! So many have perished already, and still more will die in the days to come! We must prove ourselves worthy! If we are not found to be worthy, then our reward-,”
“Here's a reward for ya,” Talent's speech was interrupted as a large fist crashed into the side of his head, felling him with one blow. Stunned, he rolled from his side on to his back and looked up. A burly man in flannel with a mop of unkept blonde hair was looking down at him, face red with anger.
“I've heard enough of your shit,” the man growled. “You come in here, spreadin' that poison, tryin' to tell me that my wife and daughter died because of what? Because God hates
us? I don't know what bible you think you're reading, pal, but it ain't the right one.” The man seemed to calm a bit, his anger apparently out of his system.
“I see you up here yelling that crap again, and I'll make sure it's the last time,” the man said flatly. As if to bolster that statement, he raised the front of the stained tee shirt to show a revolver stuffed in his waist band.
“You think I'm playin', you go right ahead and try me.”
Talent didn't speak, still stunned by both the powerful blow to the side of his head, and the impact of his head on the sidewalk below him. His attacker stalked away, leaving Talent to try and get to his feet on his own. Using a blue mail box that no longer served any purpose, Talent pulled himself up, straightening his robes as he did so. For the first time in many months, anger swelled within him. He told himself it was a righteous anger, one that he deserved to have. Anger at his treatment when all he was doing was spreading the message that everyone needed to hear.
As he tried to get his bearings, wondering if he had suffered a concussion, he could see the man who had attacked him speaking with a lawman. One that Talent had suffered dealings with in the past. Turning, he moved as quickly as he could, ducking into an alleyway and out of sight. Anger still boiling, he made his way down the alley to the next street, turning to walk down that street before crossing through another alley to a small backstreet that was well off the main roads of the town.
As he stalked toward his tent, his anger continued to bubble like lava. He had labored here for weeks, and had nothing to show for it but bruises and injuries. He had difficulty breathing from the damage to his ribs, and now he was suffering double vision from that vicious blow to the head. His arm was still swollen, indicating he most likely had an infection from a chipped or cracked bone in his arm from still another beating at the hands of these ungrateful wretches.
By the time he reached his rabbit warren campsite, he was beyond furious. Angry in a way he could not remember being since he left his old life behind in service to the Uttermost.
He had tried to be kind. He had been forgiving, not holding the attacks on his person against the town, or even the individuals who had assaulted him. He had been patient, working in peace and with kindness to try and show these heathen the error of their ways. And how had he been repaid?
With violence. Well, if it was violence they wanted, he would be glad to oblige them. There were ways of dealing with recalcitrant heathens and he had such a way at his very fingertips.
It was the work of mere minutes to assemble his small computer and transmitter. His solar charger had ensured that the battery was charged, and all was in readiness.
“Anybody see where he went?” a voice carried to his small tent. He had to hurry. This might well be his only chance to send his message.
“What is that over there?” another voice called. “That spot of yellow, there? In the brush?”
He had been spotted. It was only a matter of time before these heathen took him. But he would not be taken so easily, and certainly not by them. And not before he had sealed their doom with his own hand.
He typed his own information into the program, and then added a simple, one-word message that would be relayed to the Uttermost as a priority. Then, yes then this ungrateful town of degenerates would learn their place.
He paused with his finger over the send button, a last-minute twinge of conscience making him hesitate.
“Should have already shot his ass!” A new voice, much closer.
His momentary bout of hesitation gone now, he hit send. Waiting ten seconds, he would hit it a second, and then a third time, ensuring his message would be received. The code with his identity warned the Uttermost and his team that this would likely be his, Talent's, last message. That he was being persecuted, likely unto death. He would meet that death knowing he had served well.
His job finished, he quickly took a large rock he had brought for the purpose and smashed his radio, his computer, and the charger. They would get nothing of use from him. In his haste, Talent never noticed that he had not set the transmitter to a new frequency, but instead was using the same frequency as his last message. While it would reach his intended audience, it was a mistake he had been taught not to make. His urgency had made him careless in his final moments as a worldly servant.
Reaching into his bag, Talent took a small knife from within. He had used it numerous times to butcher and skin game as he traveled. This time, he would use it a different way.
He waited until he heard footsteps crashing through the underbrush before he acted.
“I am the Worthy Ezekiel Talent, servant of the Uttermost! In his name have I come to you in an effort to save you from your wretchedness, but you have spurned that warning! You have persecuted me at every turn, causing me pain and suffering which I have forgiven you for, and yet still you would harm me for nothing more than telling you that which you refuse to accept.”
“Very well! If you will not hear, then you shall see! For flaming fire and brimstone will rain down upon you and all your kind who have refused to know and acknowledge the Uttermost, taking vengeance in my stead and wiping you from this reborn garden that God has made for His people! The Worthy! Only the Worthy will inherit this new world!”
As the flat of his tent was jerked open, Talent waited until the heathen was looking inside before plunging the knife in his hand directly into his own throat, tearing his jugular open beyond repair.
“Holy shit!” Van Bronson jerked back as the sight of the weird little man ripping his own throat out. He started to call for help but then stopped. There was no helping this idiot. He already had the glassy eyed stare that Bronson had seen far too many times in the past. Whoever this moron was, he was dead.
-
“Hey!” Millie shouted, making Leon jump. He lost his grip on the clipboard in his hands and it clattered to the floor, papers flying in every direction.
“What?” he demanded, picking the papers up from the floor. “And was that completely needful?”
“I got it!” Millie shouted again. “He used it again! Same frequency and everything, and I got it!”
“No kidding?” Leon asked, his clipboard forgotten.
“No kidding,” she promised, taking a thumb drive from the recorder and handing it to him.
“Let’s see what we get.”
-
“This is it?” Clay asked, looking at the message.
“Word for word,” Leon nodded, yawning. He had worked on the burst with his deciphering program for several hours before managing to break it. Fortunately, whoever it was, they had used an older commercial system. One that his program was able to crack.
“This isn't much,” Clay said, shaking the message paper as if he might somehow get more out of it.
“This is his ident code,” Tandi Maseo noted, pointing to the top line. “The next line is the recipient. Looks like there is some ancillary coding as well, but there's no way to figure that out. Probably a word-for-word cipher. We'd need their code book to know what this means. The message is fairly self-explanatory.”
“How do you figure?” Clay asked him. “It's just one word!”
“Yeah,” Tandi snorted. “Brimstone. You take a zealot like this, one who has been attacked at least twice, and catch him sending a message like this one? What do you think Brimstone means, hm?”
The phone rang just then and JJ answered.
“Operations, this is JJ.” Pause. “As a matter of fact, he's right here. Hold on.” He held the phone up to Clay. “It's Mitch. He's on The Roof.” Clay took the phone, still holding the message in his other hand.
“What's up?”
“Vehicle coming,” Mitchell informed him. “I'm fairly certain it's Adcock, but I'm not positive. I am pretty positive it's a Hummer.”
“Roger that.” He handed the receiver back to JJ, who returned it to the cradle.
“Hummer coming,” Clay told Tandi. “Might be Adcock. Here, Deuce,” he handed th
e message back to Leon. “Hang on to this, please.”
Walking out onto the pad, Clay and Tandi waited for the vehicle to arrive. As it pulled into the drive, they could see it was definitely Adcock. He got out of the vehicle almost before it stopped moving.
“They found that zealot,” he said without preamble. No one would call him a preacher. It felt too much like apostasy.
“Great!” Clay enthused.
“Not so great,” Adcock was already shaking his head. “Stupid bastard killed himself as Bronson opened his tent. Jabbed a knife in his throat and ripped it open.”
“Damn,” Tandi muttered. “That's some hard-core shit, right there.”
“Ain't it, though,” Adcock agreed. “They want us to come have a look. He had a laptop and transmitter with him. You want to go?”
“Before we do anything like that, you should see something,” Clay motioned for the door. Frowning, Adcock followed him inside and into the radio room. Clay took the message back from Leon and showed it to Adcock in silence.
“Brimstone?” his frown deepened. He looked up. “You think it was him?”
“We don't know, but we do think it likely,” Clay shrugged. “Leon, you think if we had his gear we could tell if he sent this?”
“Maybe,” Leon mused. “Millie or Uncle Robert might be the better people to ask about that, but just off hand, I'd say even probably. There are a lot of variables, but if we can get the transmitter's ID, or the computer he was using, we might can match it to the burst itself. That is just a guess, though.”
“We can do it,” Tandi interjected. “He's right. If we can lift the machine's ID, then we can match it to the message. But, like Leon said, that's assuming we can get the ID information from his terminal.”
