American Apocalypse Wastelands (27 page)

I would have kicked her in the kidney but I knew I would have fallen over. Instead I just told her to shut up. Diesel arrived about a minute later with Old Guy. He set him down gently.

Old Guy looked at me. “Damn, Gardener, you need to get that dog's head off your leg.”

“Well, I guess it's unanimous,” I said. “How are you doing?”

“I'm okay.” He was awfully pale for being okay. Diesel looked up from where he was working on Old Guy's leg. “One to the leg, one to the hand.”

Old Guy held up his hand, which was bandaged and bloody. “Can you believe it? They shot off my finger!”

I would have had a witty comeback, but this wasn't a movie and I hurt too much.

But the woman found some words: “At least he didn't cut your dog's head off!”

“Shut up.”

What was taking Ninja so long? Old Guy grunted in pain as Diesel put pressure on his leg to stop the bleeding. I fished inside my pocket and tossed him my med kit. “Here. I'll use Ninja's when he gets back.”

A couple of minutes later Ninja was back. He dropped two ARs and one vest next to me. “Sorry, it's getting too hot to get to anything else.”

The house had partially collapsed, and the fire in the barn must have found some ammo because it was exploding. It was time to go.

“Turn her around so she can look at us.”

Ninja got her to turn around. She wasn't bad looking. Blonde hair with black roots. Brown eyes. A little pudgy, early twenties. A nice rack.

“So, you arresting me? Don't you got to read me my rights?” More than a hint of a sneer in her voice.

“Sure,” I replied. “Tell me, first, though. When was the last time you had some really good Chips Ahoy cookies?”

She looked at me like I was nuts. “A couple days ago. Why?”

“Because.” Then I shot her between those brown eyes.

“Alright. Let's go home, guys.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“Can you believe this shit?” Max said, looking at papers in front of him. He had been going through the “requisition options” that Casey's Big Daddy had sent to help us make our wish list.

“You mean it doesn't get any better than this?” I asked him. “I did like the part that you read about the free flags. I feel there is a real need for American flags and traffic cones these days. The free BDUs sound okay. Maybe they'll include boots.”

“What do you make of the fine print, Max? Whoever wrote this had a twisted mind.”

“Not quite what I expected, Night. I knew there would be hooks, but I thought we could nibble off more meat than this before we hit metal.”

“Slide it over here.” I scanned a few sections. Sure enough, all the goodies were booby-trapped. “So let me see if I got this right.” I began reading aloud:

“Level One weapons. Okay, they will give us M-16s, four magazines per weapon, one hundred rounds for
training purposes, and five hundred for reserve. That's
per year
, and we need to be certified as qualified to use them. Oh, and we must demonstrate that we have secure storage facilities. Also under Level One, we can get Colt .45s, 9-millimeter Berettas, and shotguns under the same restrictions. We can be issued Type II body armor, although vests issued must match the certifying officer's audited number of authorized users.”

“Yeah, keep reading,” Max told me.

“Level Two. Ah, now we get into the goodies. Oh, no wonder, we are also at the end of the standard package. Night-vision goggles. First-generation rifle scopes. Better vests. Helmets. But here's the hook: All personnel will have to pass a background check and urinalysis test. All law enforcement or certified auxiliary personnel receiving said equipment will then be required to pass a three-week training course. Sites are available throughout the United States. Housing and food cost per participant must be paid for by the sponsoring agency.”

I stopped. “Do I even need to read the Level Three requirements?”

“No,” Max replied. “They want an on-site advisory team when they issue Level Three gear.”

“What the hell is their problem?” Night snarled. “Damn. You should have shot the little asshole and buried him in the woods.”

“Hey! We are still going to come out ahead on this,” Max told her.

“Yeah, plus I plan to shoot his scrawny little ass the next time I run across him,” I added.

She nodded, but I could tell she was still pissed.

“Look on the bright side, Night. Under ‘Miscellaneous' we have a selection of pamphlets with titles like
Know the Dangers of Fireworks
and
The Dangers of Drunk Driving
.”

“Check the vehicles section,” Max said.

“The realistic level?”

“Yep.”

“Crown Vics with a hundred thousand miles, some repair needed. Suburbans. High mileage again is my guess, though it doesn't say. So what are they trying to tell us, Max?”

He laughed. “They want to keep us on a short leash. If they can't do that, then they want to be damn sure they can win any encounter with us.”

“So what was up with the ‘blank check' bullshit?”

“If the history of this country has not taught you that bureaucrats lie every time their lips move, then nothing will. G, we can and will ask. But I say nothing above Level One if it has strings attached.”

I looked at Night, who nodded her agreement, adding, “I want to ask for a LaserJet with paper—a lot of paper and toner.”

“There's always more than one way to do this. What we need is a crooked supply sergeant. Most of all, we need hard money.”

Night agreed with Max. A pensive look came across her face. She added, “With hard money, my old clan would be willing to help.”

“Order a lot of flags. We can fly them from the tollbooths,” I suggested.

We all grinned at each other.

We came up with some more additions to the list. We were going to ask for two thousand battle dress uniforms,
boots, long underwear, and gloves. Night said, “We can always drop it down if they balk at the numbers. I want to ask for coats also. A clan always takes care of its members, no matter how little they actually contribute.”

I looked at her and grinned.

“What?” she replied.

“You are just so freaking smart,” I told her.

“You two done with your moment?”

“Yeah, Max.”

“Good. Okay, we'll take what the government is giving. We don't have much choice.”

“Yeah.”

 

I was killing time before I was scheduled to go look over the people I was supposed to lead now. I had mixed feelings about the idea. I'd never seen myself as a leader. Hell, I don't even like people all that much. Plus, I didn't have a clue about the military stuff I figured you needed to know. Diesel or Hawk would have been a better choice. Shit, I didn't even know how to march and I didn't really want to know.

Max was sitting across from me, going through paperwork, when he looked up and asked, “Have you given any thought to how you are going to review your team?”

“Not really. I figured I would walk over to the park in front of the town hall, and Diesel would have them there. Then I would say my hellos and tell them to be back there the next day at 0600 to start their training.”

Max and Diesel looked at each other and shook their heads. “No good, G. You're an officer. You have to make an entrance. Diesel and Ninja will turn them out. Diesel will present them. There may even be a small crowd.”

“A small crowd? What the hell?”

“G, think about it. This is a big deal for these people. They will have invited their parents, boyfriends, girlfriends, friends, and pets to this. Damn, what else is happening in town?”

Night added, “That's something else we have to think about. Entertainment.”

“One event at a time, please,” I told her. “Then what, Max?”

“You've watched the movies. You do a troop review.”

I was starting to get the picture. “I show up. They are presented. I walk the line, ask them their names, maybe a question, and then go to the next one. Wait! Then I make a speech, don't I?”

“Yep.”

I glared at Max. “Thanks.”

He laughed. “You want to do this, well, it comes with a lot of obligations.”

I looked at Night. “Want to watch
Patton
with me tonight?”

She rolled her eyes.

“That's what I thought.”

 

The next morning we met at the station. Diesel and Ninja were already over at the town hall.

Night handed me ten city crest patches. “You give each person one of these after you inspect them.”

Max added, “Giving them a Raven is up to you. When you do hand them out, I suggest you use the same criteria for everyone.”

“Yeah, I got a few ideas for that.”

“Max, what are you going to do for the militia?”

“I don't know yet. Probably a city and an American flag patch.”

“You okay?” Night asked me when we were alone for a minute. She knew the speech was making me very edgy.

“Sure.” I told her. The reality was I had no idea what I was going to say. I had played the game, but this was a little different.

The three of us left a few minutes after that. It was only a few blocks away, but Night drove us over. My leg had been bandaged. The damage was bad, but nowhere near my prior experiences with pointy objects becoming embedded in my body. After she parked, Night kissed me and wished me luck. That caught me by surprise.

“Where are you going?”

“This is a you and Max show. I'm going to join the crowd.”

We got out of the car. There really was a crowd. I watched Night walk away. That was more enjoyable than watching the crowd watch us.

Max was carrying a small leather case. He set it on top of the car, carefully opened it, and with both hands took a medal suspended from a blue ribbon and hung it around his neck. At first I thought,
Why is he wearing a Euro award?
Then I recognized it. I had forgotten about it, and this was the first time I had seen one in person.

When Max noticed me watching him, he said, “No, it's not the original. Word got around about me leaving the medal at McBride's grave site. Next thing I know I'm being handed a box one day. Apparently, the commandant thought it was the right thing to do.”

I nodded.

Max looked at me. “You ready?”

“I am always ready. Let's do this.”

Diesel had wanted to give me a thumbnail report on each of the people in the squad. I told him, “Maybe later.” I wanted to form my own impressions first. They were lined up in front of the park bandstand.

The bandstand had seen limited use, mostly as a prop for the Fourth of July celebration that the town had once run to suck in tourists and their money. The council was already standing on it. Someone had found red, white, and blue bunting and woven it around the bandstand railing. The flagpole had the flag of the United States run up.

There were at least eighty people watching from behind a rope barrier, maybe more. Folding chairs had been set up around the bandstand to seat the block managers. Some of the militia strolled around with weapons, supposedly for crowd control. The reality was they were enjoying the chance to show off. If they weren't related to the graduates, they probably knew someone who was. The recruits were in formation—two rows of five. A dog ran up to one of them and stood there wagging its tail until a kid ran out and grabbed it by its collar.

We were noticed as we approached. One of the block managers trotted over. He was a little short of breath but managed a formal “Good morning.”

“Morning, Mr. Jacobs.”

“Y'all want to hold up right there. We got some music to play as you walk up.” He looked around for someone. I didn't see the person he was looking for in the crowd but he did. He waved, and from two black PA speakers came the Star-Spangled Banner.

Max was not facing the flag, nor were Jacobs and I. At the sound of the first notes, Max stiffened, did some
kind of footwork that spun him around to the flag, and saluted. I didn't even try to match his maneuver. Jacobs and I faced the flag, and I did my best to look like I had spent my life snapping off salutes. The recruits had even saluted in unison. In the back of my head, I hoped Homeland Security had a drone in the area taking this all in.

When the music ended, Max continued toward the recruits. I kept a beat behind him so I could mimic his moves. He walked—
marched
might actually be better—but that doesn't quite describe it. His entire bearing had changed, yet his movement was neither stiff nor robotic.

I was surprised at how I felt. I was proud to be with him. Proud to be associated with these people. It was pride shot through with a fierce sense of belonging, of righteousness.

Max stopped at a line only he could see. As the officer in charge, Ninja was the sixth man in the front row. He was standing stock-still, straight as an arrow, looking into the distance. Diesel was in front of the recruits and staring straight ahead at us.

He shouted, “Atten-
shun
!” and they went from what I later learned was parade rest to standing tall and rigid. He then shouted, “Recruit Squad A is ready for your inspection, sir!” and saluted. We returned the salute. At this rate I was going to get pretty good at this saluting stuff.

Max strode off and began with the first man in the first rank. He stopped briefly, looked him up and down, nodded, and stepped over to the next. A lot of my life has been spent pretending I know what I am doing, and this was just another instance of it. I read the first recruit's name, which had been written on his pocket in block letters with a black Sharpie. Then I looked him up and down.