American Apocalypse Wastelands (37 page)

We talked some more about how she was feeling. She had vetoed Freya going into Old Guy's room. It was to be the baby's room. Damn
, did that sound strange to me
. It was tough even to connect the two. Me. Baby.

Night was not showing yet. Well, I thought her breasts were a tad bigger. That was good. I could live with that
forever if need be. I decided it would probably be a good idea not to mention that.

Freya was ready and waiting on the porch the next morning when I got up. Night was busy throwing up in the bathroom and told me to go on without her.

I was driving an old Chevy truck that had shown up at the station one day. It was an automatic. Max had once told me he refused to own a truck with an automatic, so he gave this one to me. It had probably belonged to someone who had not survived the insulin shortage. I didn't ask, and no one told me.

“You ready to go to work, kid?” Freya nodded and followed me out to the truck. The keys were in the ignition and the doors were unlocked. I wasn't worried about someone stealing it, and I did like knowing it was ready to go.

Gas was becoming difficult to come by. I was going to have to find out if there were any golf courses nearby—or a golf cart dealership, if there was such a thing. I had been on a golf course only once in my life and that was to go deer hunting. I didn't think I could go back to riding a bicycle; that just seemed so undignified now.

Horses might be cool. I had never ridden one, but it couldn't be that hard. I was daydreaming, picturing myself on a tall black stallion, the sun setting behind me. I looked pretty damn cool.

The daydream ended abruptly when I heard Freya say, “Helikoptern.”

“Excuse me. Did you just say
helicopter
?”

“Yes. They come.” She must have seen something cross my face that disturbed her. “It is good. They go to where you found me.”

I rolled down the window. I didn't hear anything.

“Other big plane”—she cocked her head—“a BUFF.” She frowned. “It drops death eggs . . . no, bombs.” She smiled. “Yes. Bunker busters. Bad.” She laughed. “No, good. Very good.”

I thought, as I had before:
That is not a kid's laugh.

I heard them now. I stopped the truck and got out to watch. Two flights of three. They were moving low and fast.
Damn, I hate helicopters
. Thank God, they were not headed to my town.

Watching them fly over was a reminder that the Feds may be diminished, but they were far from toothless.

Freya had gotten out of the truck, too. She was watching them disappear into the distance. Her hair was braided and held together in the back with a silver brooch made to look like an oak leaf.

“So, Freya, you speak English?”

“Yes, of course. I am learning.”

“I see. And where are you from?”

“Vanaheim.”

I had my suspicions about the kid. Normally I would have found her reticence irritating but I understood it. It fit with what I was beginning to believe. She had been abused, run off, and then almost raped. She would not give up herself, or any information about herself, until she felt I could be trusted. I also guessed she had watched
The Lord of the Rings
one too many times.

“Is that a town? A country? What, exactly?”

“You do not know this name?”

“Ah, no.”

More to herself than to me, she said softly, “So much has been lost.”

“Yeah, well, you got that right. Come on. Get in the truck. I'll buy you a pancake breakfast.”

“Are pancakes good?”

“You'll see. I think they are almost as good as cookies.”

Freya liked the diner. She told me as we entered, “This is a nice inn. It smells good.”

“That's the pancakes, kid.”

Shelli was working the tables. That meant Max was already at the station. I noticed lately that Shelli's hair was getting a deeper shade of red. She must have been feeling more confident about her safety. The Feds hated Burners, and red hair was one of the ways Burners identified themselves in the early days.

She had her back to us when I grabbed a booth away from the door. Freya sat across from me. Getting to meet Shelli and taste her pancakes would be a double treat for the kid.

Shelli hadn't been to the farmhouse in a while. Max usually walked her home, ate with her, did whatever, and came back to the house, where he had a room upstairs. Sometimes, lately, he didn't come back. He told me Shelli felt safer when he stayed the night.

When Shelli came to take my order, she said, “Hi, Gardener!” Then she turned and got a look at Freya for the first time. “Holy Goddess,” she whispered.

Freya smiled at her and nodded her head.

Shelli looked at me. “Max wasn't kidding. The bunnies thing. Oh, my God.”

“Get a grip, Shelli. We're hungry, and I'm running late. Pancakes: a short stack for the Shorty here and double for me, please.”

“Ah, yeah. Sure.” Shelli walked away and collided with a chair. You should never walk forward while trying to look backward. It can hurt. I shook my head and wondered what the hell that was all about.

We sat there waiting. Freya didn't talk and I didn't mind.

When Shelli brought the pancakes, I noticed Freya's plate had a tiny cat made out foil next to her pancakes. “Hey, nice touch for the kid, Shelli.”

She ignored me. She was watching the kid, who picked up the trinket, held it to the light, and set it by her plate. Freya looked at Shelli and said,
“Min välsignelsen.”

Shelli smiled as if she had just won the diner lottery. “Thank you, Freya,” she whispered and backed away.

Jesus
, I thought,
the kid must remind her of someone.

Freya liked her pancakes. She ate them all. Just before we left she asked me, “Cookies are even better?”

“Yep. But it's hard to find good cookies these days.”

“We must find.”

“I'm with you on that one, kid. You know, Shelli had no clue what you said.”

“I know. It does not matter.”

 

I took Freya over to the station. Max and Gunny were there. I introduced her to Gunny, who said, “Hey, kid,” and went back to tearing down an M-16. Max looked at me with a WTF?

I shrugged. “It's ‘Take your goddess to work day.' What can I say?”

“Well, read the log and tell me what you think.”

I had been remiss in doing this for the past few days. I scanned the pages.

One drunk—I recognized the name. A domestic dispute. Next to it was written “Dealt with” and a smiley face, in Hawk's handwriting. Someone had gotten his ass kicked.

Unknown vehicle. Toll paid but acting suspiciously. Called in by Block Manager Flag—no details other than it was white.

Toll payment argument. Suspicious noises. Flagged down by Block Manager Gibbons. Were some kids getting drunk in an empty house? Note: Day shift, take a look. Not the first time they had been in there.

Suspicious car. White. Virginia license plate partially obscured. Followed but not stopped. Why? Flagged down for bitch session by a local.

Then the white car again. Followed and stopped. Two men, armed, polite, with a bullshit story, but no reason to hold.

The final entry was a drunk-and-disorderly at the diner. I had heard about that one. Max had broken the guy's arm.

“We're being scouted?”

“Yep. Looks that way. Do me a favor—”

I held up my hand, “I know. Don't T-bone them.”

“Yeah. Call the station and have them ring the bell twice. I want you to have backup, and I want them out of the car alive. We need to chat with them.” He grinned.

“Yeah, I got it.”

We went over the projects that were going on. Max wanted a fast react squad.

“I want you to come with me. We're going to run through scenarios with the squad in the park, such as how to respond in force to a situation involving multiple
hostiles in town. I think we'll also do a tollbooth, a food bank, and a market square situation.”

“Market square?”

“Yeah, last night the town council decided to run a flea and farmers market in the park every Saturday. We'll provide security and charge a table fee. No toll during it if you are participating. It will give everyone something to do.”

“Sure. I get overtime?”

“Yep. I only want the best on duty for this. They get rewarded, and the odds of a problem getting out of hand diminish. Oh, Night called in. She's on her way. She'll be at the food bank and wants to meet you at the diner for lunch.”

Night was working on canning groups. Each church usually had a ladies group of some sort. In that group you found at least one person who knew how to can. Each church also had some kind of food preparation area. The Catholic and First Baptist churches had full kitchens with freezers; they were now being used as root cellars. The old ladies loved it, and they loved Night. She was exotic. They were doing something useful, and they got to hang out and gossip. There wasn't a heck of lot happening in town for them to do otherwise.

I think one of the reasons we had such a low crime rate was that we had given almost everyone in town a goal and a role. The goal was survival, and the work to make it happen involved everyone.

“Okay. Tell her noon, Gunny.” He nodded. I knew he had been listening to every word.

Max added, “We haven't had any traffic from the direction of Bruxton all day. Someone said it sounded like
thunder over there. We should send somebody to take a look if we don't get any traffic by tomorrow.”

“I don't think there's any point, Max. Freya told me the Feds were dropping death eggs, and we saw helicopters overhead, moving fast in that direction.”

“Death eggs?”

“Yeah, probably hard-boiled.”

“Damn, G. At least they didn't drop one on us. Yet.”

I shrugged. Like we had any control over what the Feds did or did not do. “That about it, Max?”

“Yeah. Let's gear up and go play SWAT.”

“Hey, kid. Want to watch us play SWAT?”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

 

We walked over to the park, Freya in tow. Max and I talked about how we wanted to do this. There were usually a few old men sitting on the park benches. They liked to watch the squad train and yell the occasional comment at us. In many ways it reminded me of high school.

We decided to do the market scenario first.

“I think that if we have any old guys watching, we should use them,” I told Max. “They'd get a kick out of it, and the squad would be more careful with them.”

I had noticed once that when the squad was geared up and matched against each other, they had a tendency to get rougher more quickly. When I mentioned it to Max, he had called it the “pads syndrome.” I must have looked totally blank at that, because he shook his head.

“You know, scrimmage?” Still blank. “Let me guess,” Max said, “You didn't play football in high school.”

“Nope. Let me guess. You did.”

“Yeah. Quarterback.”

“Wow. What a surprise. I never would have guessed.”

What I didn't tell him is that I had wanted to play. But it was a little tough, seeing as I went to seven different high schools in four years and had to work every night for the last three of them.

“Pads syndrome,” Max went on, “is, well, when guys put on the pads and helmets and they begin hitting for real, even if you tell them to go easy. Hang some flags on them, and it's something else entirely. Then it's just a game.”

“Okay. Makes sense.”

Diesel had the squad members all standing in ranks waiting for us. Both Max and he put a lot of stock in formalities, something I never did. A handful were wearing their Raven patch. It was awarded like a medal. Kick some ass. Show initiative. Get in with the Raven Clan.

Ninja was with them. He looked pretty good. He said his arm was still stiff, but he didn't show it. I knew from personal experience, though, that he had to still be feeling it.

Freya ran past us and stood there, staring at everyone. As we walked past her, she said, and there was no mistaking the delight in her voice, “You have warriors!”

We practiced different scenarios for the market: the drunk who makes a scene, the rowdy group of locals, the rowdy group of outsiders. That took most of the morning. We put off the other scenarios until tomorrow. Even keeping the squad this long was difficult. Their labor was needed elsewhere. Half of them would be splitting logs and stacking wood after lunch.

Freya had watched everything from the sidelines, sitting cross-legged in the grass quietly. So quiet I almost forgot about her. She came up to Max and me after everyone
had been dismissed and we had told Diesel and Ninja to meet us at the diner.

“Those are warriors? That was not warrior training,” she said. “You have a woman warrior. This is good.”

Max looked at me, “So she can talk?”

“Yes, I can talk. I am learning. Your word order different is strange.”

“She like pancakes,” I told Max.

“Yes. Pancakes I like.” Then suddenly she froze. “Badness comes quickly.” She cocked her head, slightly. “Very quickly.”

“Where, Freya?” Max and I never discounted people's intuition. Hell, we lived and killed by ours.

“They move too fast. The gate place.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Max and I looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Tollbooth.” Then we heard gunshots from the north end of town.

I told Freya, “Quick, get inside the town hall.” I realized she did not understand what I meant. “In there!” I yelled, pointing at it. Then I took off to catch up with Max, who was already moving toward the sound of the gunshots.