Текст книги "Liberators"

Автор книги: James Wesley Rawles

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“As a precaution, we’re moving two hundred meters into the woods. Please join us there, Aaron. Again, we mean you no harm. We’re simply looking for information.”

“Very well, it may take me a while, but I’ll get there, friend,” Aaron said—he seemed as if he was wheezing as he spoke. Joshua assisted Aaron in making the trip off the pavement through the snowy wood line to the place that Megan had found, a spot covered in dry pine needles. Megan had set up the poncho as the location for their meeting.

“Aaron, this is my fiancée, Megan.”

“Pleased . . . to meet you . . . ma’am.” Aaron was taking long breaths as he spoke.

Megan was immediately disarmed by Aaron’s apparently poor health, and she returned the pleasantries. “Aaron, we’ll go first and let you catch your breath.”

Joshua held his shotgun across his lap with one hand and held Megan’s hand with the other as he spoke. “We’re from the D.C. area and have made it this far, by God’s grace. We were traveling by vehicle and making better progress, but we’re on foot now and have chosen to over-winter here in the state forest on our way to Danville.” Aaron nodded politely to show that he was following along, and Joshua continued cautiously, considering OPSEC. “We haven’t gotten any news since we crossed the Kentucky state line and went into hiding. Our hope is that the awful chaos that we saw on our way here will have subsided by springtime.”

“That’s . . . a bit optimistic.” Aaron chuckled between gasps for air.

Megan interjected, “Perhaps it is, but God has shown His providence so far. We have escaped danger, kept warm and dry, and up until now undiscovered as far as we can tell. However, we have many questions for you.”

“My condition is worsening rapidly, which is why I came out here to die.” Joshua and Megan sat up straighter upon hearing Aaron’s admission. “I’m originally from Louisville.” (He pronounced it “Lou’h-vull.”) After taking an audible breath, he continued. “I went to Baylor and later was ordained a Baptist minister, after which I became a chaplain in the navy. One day I was setting my notes on the pulpit to conduct an evening service at Mayport, and I didn’t have control over my own speech. Everything in my left peripheral vision and my right eye was blacked out, I lost my balance, and hit my head on the deck. I came to later when one of my parishioners, a corpsman, was standing over me. A few MRIs later and the docs told me that I had an inoperable diffuse grade-three brain tumor—an astrocytoma—and that I had cancer spreading into my lungs as well. My lead doctor advised me to get my affairs in order and only gave me eight or nine months to live. That was six months ago. You probably saw my sign that I was holding just now?”

Joshua and Megan politely nodded.

Aaron continued. “I came out here to die. I still have about nine months’ worth of food, fuel, and both antiseizure and pain meds in my camp, which is very well hidden. I have a cousin who is with the Cleveland Federal Reserve Bank. Last Fourth of July, at a family reunion, I told him that I was terminal. He said, ‘I have more bad news for you. So is the U.S. economy.’ He said that there would be a financial crisis no later than November, and that it would probably take down the stock market, the dollar, and probably the power grids, and that I needed to find myself a bolt-hole. I remembered this park, and I cashed out my IRA. Now I sit out on the road with that sign to talk with anyone who wants to talk about God. I share with them about Jesus.”

“Pardon the interruption, but have you seen other people on these roads?” Megan asked.

“Yes, they’re usually moving along on foot. That’s how I’ve managed to stay informed about the state of things, by asking for any news of the wider world as people pass through. I see very few cars, though. I had just enough gas in my truck to make it here, so it’s parked until the fuel starts flowing again, or the Second Coming happens, I suppose—but I don’t expect to live to see either.”

Aaron coughed into a handkerchief that had blood spots on it, and then he continued, “If you haven’t been in civilization since the Crunch, then you probably don’t know how bad it is out there. No gas, no electricity to speak of, wanton violence—I fear for anyone who is in a city. When the power went out and the trucks couldn’t roll anymore, that is when things got really bad!”

“Would you care for some filtered water, Aaron?” Megan could see that he was having trouble swallowing. Aaron’s hands shook badly as he took the canteen and poured water into his mouth, without touching the spout with his mouth, out of respect.

“Thank you,” he said.

Joshua spoke to give Aaron a chance to catch his breath. “Please, tell us about the political situation out there. Do we still have law and order?”

“No. At least not just law, and if you’re planning on staying in Kentucky, then know that you are now at ground zero. If you thought that D.C. was where power emanated from, then please allow me to amend your worldview. Last month a man named Maynard Hutchings by hook and by crook seized power at Fort Knox. Invoking the ‘golden rule,’ he then had his cronies pronounce him president pro tem, and he contacted the UN headquarters in Belgium.” Joshua and Megan were shocked and sat there with their mouths open as Aaron continued, “Don’t be alarmed if you see an increase in military troops running around here.”

Joshua added, “We did see the Kentucky National Guard at the state line—that seemed odd.”

Aaron looked equally shocked that they had been so insulated. “I’m not worried about good ol’ boys from Kentucky. They’re not going to loot and pillage their neighbors at gunpoint. No, for that you have to import troops.”

“Wait a minute!” Megan was thoroughly agitated at this point, “You mean to tell me that we have foreign troops on U.S. soil?”

“Foreign troops at the behest of the new provisional government here, some of them in American uniforms—wearing the UN patch, of course.” Aaron paused for effect. “You are in the middle of a civil war now, post–coup d’état. Fort Knox is the new capitol, and Kentucky is in the process of being ‘pacified.’ If you want to move west on foot, then I suggest getting smart on guerrilla tactics and covert movement. It’s none of my business, but how many of you are there in your group?”

“Not enough to be a sizable assault force,” Megan answered vaguely.

“I see,” said Aaron.

Joshua knew that Megan was in a completely different mind-set at the moment, but he offered his next question. “Aaron, might I assume that you are still an ordained minister?” Aaron nodded.

Megan looked at Joshua as though he had just spoken Japanese as he continued, “Tomorrow is Christmas. Do you have plans?”

“My schedule seems to be open all day, shipmate,” Aaron said.

“Chaplain, would you please marry us right here, tomorrow, say, at noon?” Joshua said as Megan—who was still enraged by the political situation—swung to the other end of the spectrum and tackled Joshua with a hug.

“I would be honored,” Aaron said.

“Thank you! We need to get back to our group now, but we’ll see you here tomorrow.”

“Indeed, friend. Indeed.”

Joshua and Megan shook hands with the chaplain, gathered up their poncho, and took a circular route back to their campsite with only a short pause for a tactically appropriate follow-up kiss.

25

PROMISES

It is painfully difficult to decide whether to abandon some of one’s core values when they seem to be becoming incompatible with survival. At what point do we as individuals prefer to die than to compromise and live?

–Jared Diamond, Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed

Olympia State Forest, Kentucky—Late December, the First Year

On Christmas Day, with Megan’s sons and Malorie as witnesses, Joshua and Megan were married. Joshua made solemn vows to protect and provide for Megan, which under the circumstances had great significance. After the chaplain gave his blessing and invocation, he said: “I’d like to give you a wedding gift, but it comes with a price.”

“What’s that?”

“My gift will be the food, fuel, and cook gear that I have at my camp. In exchange I’d ask that you bury me. You see, back when I still had the strength, I dug my own grave.”

He took a ragged breath, and then continued. “I want you to check on me, once every three days. One of these days, either I won’t be in my usual spot, or you will see me dead here. The doctors tell me that the brain tumor will probably get me before the lung cancer, since the latter is growing more slowly. They said that one day I’ll have a grand mal seizure and then I’ll go to be with the Lord. It will be that simple. Let me show you my camp.”

He led them up a narrow trail into thick brush. The well-beaten trail led 150 yards to a steep, barren rock face, with a rivulet of water coming down a cleft. A rope was hanging down the rock, and they could see muddy scuff marks left by boots, leading up the first few feet of the rock.

Joshua was incredulous. “You climb up that?”

“No, this is where I get my water, and where I’ve left a false trail. I climbed up and rigged that hundred-foot guide rope back in late July—when I had the strength to do so. These days, I couldn’t make it twenty feet up that slope.”

He lifted his foot up and left a fresh mud streak on the rock. Then he turned back to his trail and led them down ten yards before turning sharply to the right, through a narrow gap in the brush. They noticed that he stepped carefully from rock to rock, so they did likewise. The tiny and circuitous trail, barely distinguishable, and with brush often scraping their clothes, led eighty feet back to a small clearing that had been hacked out of the brush, on a level spot. There, they saw two olive-green tents—a pup tent to sleep in and a larger one that was stacked full of food and gear containers. Beyond them was the hole that he had dug for his grave, which was five feet deep. He also showed them a small propane cookstove, and he had Joshua lift up a brown plastic tarp to reveal eleven propane tanks of the size typically used for home barbecues.

The chaplain said, “Six of these tanks are still full. I’ve tried to use the fuel very sparingly. When I jump off this mortal coil, everything here in my camp is for you folks. All you need to do is plant me over there. Let’s pray about this.”

•   •   •

Eighteen days later, Joshua took his regular check through his scope, just as he had done faithfully every day since getting married, regardless of the weather. This time Reverend Wetherspoon was not sitting in his usual spot.

Joshua very cautiously approached the chaplain’s camp. Picking his way first around the meadow and then through the brush quietly took nearly an hour. He wanted to be sure that he wasn’t walking into an ambush set by someone who had done harm to Wetherspoon. When the tents came into view, he found what he had expected: The chaplain was in his sleeping bag, clutching a Bible, at permanent peace.

Megan and Joshua buried him that afternoon, and said prayers for everyone that the chaplain had contacted in all of his years of ministry, praying that any of them who had not yet come to Christ would do so. They did not believe in prayers for the dead since they recognized that people could only be saved by faith in Christ, and that this transformation could take place only while someone was still alive. Of course they had assurance of Wetherspoon’s own salvation.

They decided to leave the tents in place and to leave half of the food and fuel in situ. This would be their backup camp in case their cave was ever discovered by malefactors.

•   •   •

By harvesting three more deer—which were rapidly becoming less populous and more skittish—and by using the supplies left to them by the chaplain, they were providentially carried through the coldest months of winter. Wetherspoon had stocked up heavily on rice, beans, and oatmeal in five-gallon plastic buckets, as well as cans of stew, soup, chili, and various fruits and vegetables.

In the last week of February, they were down to the last two twenty-pound propane tanks, ten pounds of rice, and the last dozen cans of food. It would be the dark of the moon in three days. The nights were cold and clear, as a high-pressure system seemed to be building. The days were getting noticeably longer, and there was no more risk of snow. It was time to go.

26

REFUGE

All you need for happiness is a good gun, a good horse, and a good wife.

–Daniel Boone

Olympia State Forest, Kentucky—Late February, the Second Year

Joshua and Megan’s little party loaded their deer carts even more heavily for the second leg of their journey. They now had the tents and some cooking utensils that had belonged to the chaplain. They would have liked to have brought the propane stove and the remaining cylinder of propane, but they were too heavy and bulky. They left those by the side of the road, in the hope that some wayfarer could use them.

They traveled only at night. With Jean and Leo in tow, they averaged four to six miles per night. It took them eighteen nights to reach Bradfordsville. They wanted to avoid the population centers of Lexington and Richmond, so they threaded their way on a more easterly route past the smaller towns of Mount Sterling, Clay City, Irvine, Winston, Speedwell, Berea, Cartersville, Lancaster, Stanford, and Chilton. The towns that had roadblocks either sent them on roundabout detours or escorted them through town, with stern warnings about coming back for handouts. At the roadblock north of Berea, Joshua resorted to a bribe of five silver dimes, to “pay for an escort.” There was not yet any sign of the provisional government that they’d heard Reverend Wetherspoon mention, but there was some talk of “the Fort Knox officials” at two of the roadblocks.

The roads were devoid of nighttime traffic, and they heard only a few cars and trucks go by, from their daytime bivouacs. They camped in brushy and heavily wooded areas. For security, their camps were exclusively “cold”—with no campfires. This was miserable, but they preferred living with soggy wool to being ambushed by looters who might be attracted to the smoke or the smell of cooking fires. Megan, Malorie, and Joshua slept in shifts each day, so that there would always be a sentry on duty. After a few days, little Leo and Jean became stalwart hikers, with progressively fewer complaints. Megan was very proud of them, and often praised them for their toughness. They arrived at the east end of Bradfordsville just after dawn.

Bradfordsville, Kentucky—March, the Second Year

The roadblock was a lot like the others that they had seen in Kentucky. A large hand-painted sign on a vertical four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood proclaimed:

ID Check

Local

Traffic

Only!

Three men armed with rifles were standing at a sandbagged position next to a Case bulldozer and two large trailers that had been carefully positioned to slow traffic down to a serpentine crawl.

In front of the roadblock, they could see looping muddy tire tracks in the pavement, evidence that dozens of vehicles had been turned away. As they neared the roadblock, two of the sentries crouched down behind the sandbags, and the other stepped behind the bulldozer. One of them shouted, “Advance slowly and keep your hands where we can see them.”

There were now the muzzles of three battle rifles pointed at Joshua’s party. As he approached, Joshua mentally checked them off: an M4gery (or perhaps a real M4), an M1A, and a scarce HK Model 770.

Joshua said, “We are here at the invitation of Deputy Sheriff Dustin Hodges. He is an old friend of mine.”

The roadblock sentries glanced at one another and one gave a nod, but the man who first hailed them pulled out a public service band radio from a belt pouch and said, “I’ll have to check on that. Your name, sir?”

“Joshua Kim.”

While they waited, Joshua and Megan sized up the roadblock. It was positioned on Highway 337, which was also known as Gravel Switch Road. The highway paralleled the North Rolling Fork River, which was now brown and churning, from recent rains. The roadblock was positioned to command the highway, the bridge, and the end of Wheeler Road to the north. The river was a natural barrier to the north, and the roadblockers had a clear view up a long straight stretch of the highway ahead of them—a great kill zone. There were also open fields to their right and across the river to their left, so there was little chance of their position being flanked.

Dustin arrived fifteen minutes later on horseback, wearing his sheriff’s department SWAT BDUs. He was riding an unusually tall gray Appaloosa mare with a black nylon endurance riding saddle, and a leather scabbard holding a scoped bolt-action rifle.

As the mare’s hooves clattered up to the roadblock on the asphalt pavement, Dustin exclaimed, “Hi, Joshua! If anyone was going to make it here, it would be you.”

Dustin dismounted and gave Joshua a hug. Dustin said, “Sorry that I didn’t bring my pickup, but we’re still quite short on gas. One of you must be Megan.” Introductions lasted the full twenty-minute walk to Dustin’s house, as the horse was led by her reins. Dustin was pleased to hear that Joshua was married, and delighted to meet Megan, Malorie, and the boys. As they pushed the deer carts down the main street, Dustin explained that Bradfordsville was a simple farm town with just three hundred residents. It had been founded in 1777 by the Kentucky Longhunters as they established forts on the Rolling Fork River.

Dustin lived in a small house on an oversize lot at the west end of town. Even before they reached his house, Dustin mentioned that a young widow had just arrived in town and opened up a store selling vegetable seeds. “Her name is Sheila Randall. A very gutsy gal, if you ask me, to open up a store in the middle of all this chaos.” From the tone of his voice, Malorie and Megan both immediately recognized that Dustin might have Sheila in mind for marriage.

Dustin’s 1940s-vintage house was only eight hundred square feet, so clearly there was not enough room for Joshua’s five-member party to “camp in” comfortably for more than a couple of nights, and “camping out” in the yard was precluded because the property’s large backyard had recently been converted into a one-third-acre horse corral. The corral was surrounded by three strands of yellow “hot wire” nylon fabric tape. Oddly, this fence was electrified by a Parmak solar fence charger that sat inside Dustin’s south-facing living room window. (The fence charger, he said, was now precious and almost irreplaceable, so he couldn’t risk leaving it outside and having it stolen.) The constant “tick-tick-tick” sound of the charger took some time to get used to. And the presence of the charger and the electric fence required a lot of time to explain to Jean and Leo, with repeated “look, but don’t touch” warnings. Naturally, the boys were fascinated by both the fence charger and the horse.

Dustin said that he had bought the horse, tack, fences, posts, and fence charger just as the Crunch was setting in. He explained, “I knew my life savings was about to melt away into oblivion, so I sank it all in the horse. She, along with all of her horsey accessories, cost me thirty-eight thousand dollars in cash, thirty ounces of silver in one-ounce silver rounds, and six hundred rounds of nine-milly. In retrospect, I’d say I got a good deal. And, since part of the deal was in the form of tangibles, I knew that the seller wouldn’t get caught holding a bag of cash that would soon buy exactly squat. Oh, and the bonus is that I bought her already bred, so I should have a foal out of her in July.”

With no other destination in mind—at least for the foreseeable future—Joshua asked about finding a house to rent. Dustin mentioned that there was a vacant house just two doors down. The elderly man who had lived there had died in January, from a diabetic coma for lack of insulin. The nearby vacant house was just one of three in town where there were no relatives living nearby, and currently there was no way to contact them. The town council had “emergency deputized” a local retired soils scientist to rent out the vacant houses and put the collected rents (denominated in pre-1965 silver coinage) in a special escrow box in the city hall’s vault, once a month, under the oversight of the city treasurer, acting as a “Guardian for the Property and Best Interest of Missing Heirs.”

While the courts would surely have great trouble sorting all of this out later, it provided badly needed space for “relatives from the big city” (Joshua and his little group were not the only recent arrivals), and would keep every garden plot in town fully utilized. They soon learned that there were also already plans to rip up many of the lawns in town and turn them into vegetable gardens in the coming weeks. For now, most of the residents of Bradfordsville were living on feed corn, venison, and alfalfa sprouts.

The eighteen-hundred-square-foot house on West Central Avenue was perfect for their needs, since it had a large, well-developed garden plot, three bedrooms, and a working fireplace insert that could burn either wood or coal. The house’s oil-fired heater still had two-thirds of a full tank, which would get them through to spring, when they would have to get busy cutting and hauling firewood. Utilities were not an issue. The water was gravity-fed city water (currently at no charge), and neither the electricity nor the phone was working. The rent was set at two dollars per month in pre-1965 silver coin.

They moved their scant possessions into the house two days later. They were pleased to see that the owner had loved books, so there was plenty for them to read—except that Jean and Leo would have to plunge into books that were quite advanced for their age. The house was fully furnished, right down to linens and tableware. They all considered the availability of the house an act of divine providence.

Joshua was soon hired as a deputized roadblock guard, for twenty-five cents per day in silver coin. Malorie and Megan split a forty-hour job, doing records writing and filing for the Sheriff’s Department’s new substation in Bradfordsville’s overbuilt storm shelter and community services building. The pay for their shared job was $1.50 per week.

Megan and Malorie met Sheila Randall in her sparsely stocked two-story general store, which had SEED LADY painted on the front windows. Her store seemed to be the only business that had been able to fully adapt to the rapidly changing marketplace. Instead of cobbling together multipliers for prices in the now almost completely destroyed U.S. dollar, she priced all of her merchandise directly in pre-1965 silver coin. The only mathematical calculation came into play when someone wanted to pay in one-ounce (or fractional) .999 fine silver trade coins or bars, or in gold.

Sheila had exotic good looks and wavy black hair, which she attributed to her Creole ancestry. Although she could pass for white, her son was much darker skinned and much more obviously African-American. Megan asked Dustin if this would prove difficult for her, as a young widow in a rural southern small town, but her store had been an immediate success. With the economy in tatters, people desperately wanted to trade. And her starting inventory—countless thousands of seeds in small paper packets—was quite sought after. She had the right business mind-set, in the right place (a secure small town), at the right time. And she had her son standing by with a shotgun to back her up.

Megan and Malorie both became good friends of Sheila, in part because they all spoke French. They spent many hours chatting in French and relished comparing the peculiar differences between Canadian French and Louisiana Creole French.

•   •   •

It wasn’t long before Dustin was reassigned as a homicide and missing persons investigator. This proved to be a frustrating and largely fruitless job. With the power grid and Internet down, he had no access to databases such as NCIC, driver’s licenses, and motor vehicle registration. Being thrown back to nineteenth-century technology made it very difficult for Dustin to make headway, and he had a mountain of open case files.