American Apocalypse Wastelands (28 page)

“Johnson, welcome aboard.” I stuck out my hand and we shook hands. I handed him his city patch and told him, “Wear this with pride.” I repeated this without variation for every recruit.

I had ten recruits. Two were black males—unusual since the town was only 4 percent black—two were white females, one of which I was sure was lesbian, and the rest were white males. The oldest was perhaps twenty-two, at most. One of the youngest had a huge zit on his chin.

We finished and walked back to where we had started. Well, I walked; Max and Diesel turned the corners like they were squared off. The two of them took a step back, and I was left hanging out there in front. I addressed the recruits:

 

“These are unsettled times. They are not of our making. Yet we have no choice but to persevere through them. All of us are called to do different things with our lives. You have made your choice today—a choice that has been made by every generation in history. You have chosen to protect and serve the people of your community against those who would destroy it. I and the people of this town commend you on your choice. Welcome aboard!”

 

Diesel shouted, “Squad dismissed!” They yelled and threw their hats in the air and ran off to meet whoever was awaiting them. I just stood there. I felt Max step up to my side and whisper, “Not bad,” before he turned and went in search of Shelli.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The next morning Ninja and I were up early, getting ready for the first phase of training. I went fully geared up, as did he. We were meeting the squad in the park and planning to run two miles to an empty house Diesel and Max had selected as our training property. I wasn't sure if I was I ready for a two-mile run yet. That stupid dog had dug in deep with his teeth.

I said I was going to run anyway. I felt like I had to. Ninja disagreed, saying that I already had established my cred. Night put her two cents in, telling me I was a macho fool.

None of what they had to say dissuaded me. I knew I wouldn't believe or trust someone with my life until I had seen him perform when the shit hit the fan. The recruits may have heard stories about me, but I wanted them to see with their own eyes that I was hardcore. It would do no good to have me pull up in a car at the end of their run.

Diesel had them form up in two columns. When he saw me arrive all geared up he just shook his head. I gave the order and we took off running. It wasn't bad at first.
The end of the second mile was hell. I gritted my teeth and concentrated on putting one boot in front of the other until we reached the house. I wasn't winded and neither were they.

From the look of them we could have gone for miles. That was an exhilarating idea. Just running and running like an unstoppable machine. Of course, they would have left me behind by the end of the fourth mile.

We spent the next week working on basic training: how to come up on an occupied house or trailer while on patrol. How to knock on the door and talk to the people. What to ask them. How to do an inventory of what people had, and how to do it without being obvious. How to read a paper map—none of them knew how. How to get out of a truck or car and approach another vehicle.

We also burned through precious ammo at the range. We still did not have a standard battle rifle for all of us. There weren't enough M-14s to go around, so we issued shotguns to some of them. Low-scorers at the range with the M-14s got to carry the shotguns.

 

Toward the end of the first week we took a training break to help unload a semi sent by Homeland Security. This was our “Community Policing and Freedom Assistance” package—and, hopefully, the extras we had ordered. A two-person security team in a black Suburban accompanied the truck. Our certifying officer was Eddie. He didn't look happy about it.

He got out of the SUV, and we did the small talk thing with him while the driver parked the semi in front of the station. We were going to unload it directly into our building and use the empty holding cell as an armory for now.

A drunk and disorderly local who was supposed to go home that morning occupied the other cell. He had asked if he could stay for lunch and Max told him, “Okay, but you'll have to trim the bushes at the town hall.” He was fine with that for about an hour and then he drifted back to watch the unloading. So did a handful of other locals.

Eddie gave Night the manifest and went over to Shelli's to get something to eat. He took the security team with him. The driver unlocked the doors and disappeared back into his cab. Night was speed-reading the manifest while we waited.

She looked up after flipping through the pages. “We got the standard package. Nothing extra.”

I shook my head and avoided looking at anyone as I threw open the doors.

The trailer was packed. It smelled like BDUs and grease. All I could see were uniforms, baled and stacked to the ceiling of the trailer. There was about two feet of space between the end of the load and the door. I climbed up into the space; so did Max, to my surprise. I reached up and pulled on one end of a bale as he pulled on the other, and we let the weight and gravity tumble it to the ground.

“The town is going to look like an army base from 1987 once all this gets handed out,” Max said as we sent down another bale. Night already had some of the squad breaking up the bales and sorting them inside. Unloading the two bales had exposed what looked to be a wall of wooden crates.

Max turned to me and grinned. “I think we got a bonus.”

“What are they?”

“Well, the manifest said we got ten M-16s. This is a lot more than ten. Don't pop the lid on this. Let's just put it in the cell.”

The first crate was heavy, but Max and I got it down and moved it to where the squad could pull it off the truck. I told them to take it directly to the cell. I also told one of them to get Night and have her come out to the truck. While they did that, Max and I pulled down another crate so we could see what was behind it. It turned out to be another wall of crates.

Max read the stencils. “It's ammo, and not just any ammo. They're fifty-caliber belts.”

Night vaulted up into the trailer. Sometimes I forgot how athletic she really was. “What's up, guys?”

“Guns and ammo, Night. Guns and ammo.”

“We don't want to advertise? Is that why we're not opening them?”

“Yep,” Max and I answered at the same time.

The trailer proved to be a cornucopia of stuff. The squad got the job of distribution. The block managers accompanied them as they went around passing out the goodies. Night wanted the townspeople to associate goodies with Max, the block managers, and the rest of us. It was good PR, hearts-and-minds stuff.

We still hadn't popped open the bonus crates in the cell. One of the things we noticed right away, though, was that some of them were stenciled in Spanish. The best explanation we came up with was that Big Daddy had managed to divert a minor drop to some South or Central American warlord. The quality was up to Third World warlord standards, but not good enough for drug lords or actual state-sponsored troops. We were as grateful for
them as the warlord would have been, and for the same reason: Beggars can't be choosers.

We sat in the station talking about the load. We had cut the squad loose and Max sent Ninja to fetch Eddie. It turned out Eddie was smashed. Shelli had started serving drinks to her clientele along with food, and Eddie must have been drinking the “fortified” wine. He weaved in the door, not quite staggering. “So you got it all unloaded?”

Night answered him, “Yes.”

“That's good. Real good. I need Mr. Max to sign these papers.” He opened his briefcase. I looked over his shoulder. Other than the paperwork, the only thing in there was an envelope with my name on it.

Max handed the papers to Night to look over and asked Eddie, “What am I signing?”

“That you received the standard Community Policing and Freedom Assistance package and all is well. Also, you are stating that you have trained on these weapons and have a secure storage area.” He paused, “What the hell is in the wine here? Oh, never mind.” He swayed in place for a minute. “Oh, and that you will not use them against any lawful agent of the U.S. government and that you swear to be good. Or something like that.”

Max looked at Night, who nodded that it was as he said. Max picked up a pen while Eddie stood there swaying and blinking.

He focused on Night. “Hey, you're cute.”

She was watching Max sign his name; she didn't bother to look up when she said, “Fuck off, Fed boy.”

Eddie, to his credit, laughed. “Yep, that's me.”

Max looked up at me from the paperwork for a second. I smiled, and he went back to the papers. When he
was done he gave them to Eddie, who tossed them in the briefcase.

“Well, toodle-oo, people.” He turned to leave, bumped into a desk, backed up, stopped, and turned to me. “Oh, my God! I forgot something.”

He set the briefcase down on the desktop, opened it, and handed me the letter with my name on it. “Here. I can't believe I almost forgot that. I got to go. I don't feel good.”

Max shot the security team a look and they closed on Eddie. Each one grabbed an arm and they hustled him out the door.

Diesel said, “I pity those guys. You know he is going to barf before they get back. That is going to be one nasty-smelling Suburban.”

I laughed. I had yet to inhale the smell of a squad car that someone had puked cheap wine in. Max had, more than once. He didn't laugh.

Once they were gone I opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It had one line of text, which I read out loud: “Go to Bruxton, West Virginia, and take a look around.”

“Well, that's interesting,” I said. “Anyone know where Bruxton is?”

To everyone's, amazement Diesel did. “It's about forty-five miles from here.”

“You know what's there?”

He shrugged. “I've been through there before, I think. Not much probably.”

Night was not to be deterred by my letter. She was still focused on the truckload and the crates. She pulled out her notebook and told us to start opening crates. She was dying to know what we had.

That was the last time we opened crates from the Fed with all of us present. If one of them had been booby-trapped, it would have been the end of our experiment in collective survival.

 

Diesel and Ninja went to work on the crates with pry bars, starting with the ones stacked in the bullpen area. We had run out of space quickly in the cell. Max wanted to keep the other cell open for police business.

The first two crates were each half-full of green metal boxes. We all recognized them: ammo boxes, a surplus store mainstay. Max opened one, and we gathered around to stare inside. I don't know about anyone else, but I always thought of new ammo as jewels, each one a beautiful golden work of art.

“M-16 ammo. I hope they remembered magazines.”

“Damn, Max. It's the Fed. You know they have to screw up something,” Diesel replied.

The next four crates were the same. But the crate after that was filled with M-16 magazines. It looked as if they had been tossed in by the handfuls. Max and Diesel rummaged through them. They would pick one up, look at it, and toss it back in.

“Tommy is going to need to go through these one by one.”

Diesel agreed. “Yeah. A lot of these have seen some use.” He looked at Max, “Maybe we even used one of these.”

“Yeah.” Neither one seemed too thrilled at the thought.

The next four crates were M-16s. Each one had been wrapped in a green trash bag and laid in the box.

“Not bad,” was Max's only comment. Watching him and Diesel unwrap and examine them, it would have
been obvious to even the densest bureaucrat that these two knew M-16s.

The word
knew
doesn't convey the depth of familiarity that they displayed. It was like watching professional musicians pick up the instrument to which they had dedicated their lives. Without even hearing them play a note, you knew they were going to be artists.

I was getting bored. I was trying not to. Max and Diesel were in their element. Night was in hers; she loved acquiring and keeping track of stuff. Ninja watched Max and Diesel work and was dying to get his hands on the hardware. Meanwhile he soaked it all in. He was the apprentice in a field they had already mastered.

“You know, Gardener. You should help Tommy strip and clean these. You're going to need to be able to do it. If not for you, then for someone in your squad.”

“Yeah. Sounds good, Max.” I got a look from everyone. I guess the tone of my reply spoke volumes about how I felt. I knew he was right. I was to going to have to know every weapon we stocked.

The next two crates I recognized. They were the heavy ones. Inside we found they were filled with loose ammo, damn near to the top.

Max picked up one of the rounds, looked at it, and then tossed it back into the crate. “Interesting.”

It was what came out of the next crate that caught my attention. The top was popped, and as soon as the first item was unwrapped and set on top of a crate, I fell in love. It was ugly. The metal was darker, deeper, more real looking than anything else I had seen so far. It had dark solid wood where it needed it. It looked like a tank compared to the M-16s.

“That's mine!” were the first words out of my mouth.

Diesel was staring at it. “
Damn
, is that what I think it is?”

“Yep. The corps still had them around when I first came in.”

“You guys were always a couple decades behind everyone else in weapons procurement.”