Charlie's Requiem: Democide (24 page)

“That’s the truth!” Newsome said back. Two men jumped up onto the dock and began to load the remaining supplies into the back of the dump truck’s enclosed bed.

Newsome turned back to Ed and Kramer.

“Hey, doc,” he said. “I’ll leave some feed and a salt block for your daughter’s horses. She still has them, right?”

“I’d appreciate it!” Kramer said. “And since you know where I live, if you run across any problems I can help you with, just stop on by.”

“Thanks, but unless we need trauma care, I should be able to handle most anything else. We have antibiotics and pain killers.”

“How did you get those?” Kramer asked.

“The vet!” Newsome answered. “Other than dosage, they’re the same for them as us.”

“Well, I’ll be there if you need me.” Kramer finished. “And thanks for the feed. Caroline will appreciate it. We owe you!”

“That’s the idea, doc!” He replied with a smirk.

Ed and Kramer left the supply store and went across the street to the herb shop. Most everything there was already processed leaves and seeds, and were not adequate for planting. But the supply of medicinal herbs would be welcome if and when their pharmaceuticals ran out. They pulled the pickup truck up to the store and emptied the shelves. Taking several reference books with the load of supplies, Kramer smiled at the thought of all the nights of reading that were ahead of him. He had always wanted to learn about these medicinal plants. With more and more of his patients taking alternative medications, it had been on his list of things to do for a while. Now, it was even more critical that he learn about them.

“What’s the second key for?” Ed asked.

“Let’s find out!” Kramer replied.

Searching the store, they found nothing that would accept the key. Giving up, they exited the front door and pulled back to the Seed store. As they exited the truck, they looked across the street at the herb shop and saw a second small door, which was separate from the main entrance.

“Hey,” Ed said. “Let’s try that one.”

They left their truck by the Newsome’s place and walked across and down the side street.

Sure enough, the second key opened the small door and they entered the dark, cool room. The storage room was lined with heirloom seeds. Herbs, spices and basic food seed were catalogued and stacked on metal frame shelving units.

“Holy mother of God!” Ed said out loud.

“Jackpot!” Kramer added. They found a couple of large plastic bins in the main store and returned to the storage room. Packing the thousands and thousands of seeds into the bins, they realized they had far more than they could ever use.

Hearing the dump truck starting up, Kramer jogged down to Main Street and saw Cunningham and his men jump in the back bed. The back swing gate had been removed, and four men sat on the back ledge, their legs hanging over the street and rifles at ready.

Kramer flagged them down before they could leave, letting them know about their haul.

“I think we’re alright,” Newsome said, sitting in the middle of the of the truck cab’s bench seat. “But we know where you are if we need more.”

“Don’t spread the word unless you are sure the people you send are trustworthy.”

“Hey, I know all about OpSec,” Cunningham added from the passenger seat. “We’ll come ourselves if needed. No one else should know about either of our groups. Got that, doc?”

OpSec referred to Operational Security, a military term that basically meant how to keep a secret.

“Copy that!” Kramer replied, earning a thumbs-up from the large ex-military operator.

“Let’s move!” Cunningham called out, and the dumper slowly built up speed as it turned left and moved south down Main Street. Within a minute, they had disappeared.

Kramer and Grafton returned to the store, finding feed and a salt block sitting by the front entrance. After loading it into the back bed, they surveyed the space left and determined that they could fit at least ten batteries in the back.

“Let’s go,” Ed said. “It’s going to be dark in a few hours.”

The old pickup fired back up and they quickly turned around and followed the dump truck south.

“Where are we going?” Kramer asked.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Ed replied. “But we need to hit highway 50 and turn right. It’s about a quarter of a mile west from there.”

Kramer was silent. If Grafton made this decision, he would live with it. They hadn’t seen any significant threat other than Cunningham’s crew, and Ed knew the risks.

Ed did a couple of quick turns to get them closer to their destination before hitting that major thoroughfare.

Finally, they could see the large 6-lane road up ahead, the new residential construction they were passing giving way to a looted Aldi and an equally decimated Harbor Freight Store next to it.

Grafton brought the truck to a stop, turning into the back of the abandoned shopping plaza.

“We turn here, and I want to sneak a peek down the road to make sure no one is around.”

Grafton exited the truck, his AR-15 slung over his shoulder with a retention sling. He hugged the side of the looted grocery store and disappeared to the right. Kramer sat in the truck, spinning the chamber of his snub-nosed revolver. A minute later, Ed quickly returned and jumped into the driver’s seat.

“All clear!” He stated.

Ed pulled behind the plaza, slowly making his way around the loading docks and rear entrances. He eventually pulled down the far side of the giant shopping center.

“Just cut about a quarter of our exposure on Highway 50,” he said, explaining why he had circled around back of the stores.

He quickly pulled onto the major thoroughfare and rushed down the street. Passing several businesses and the entrance to yet another housing subdivision, he yanked the truck right into the large parking lot of an excavator company. At the back of the property stood a nearly 300-foot-high tower, separate from the rest of the business and surrounded by a chain-link fence.

“Buddy of mine owns the auto body shop next door,” Ed stated. “I noticed the tower a few years ago and asked him about it. Seems that the guy who owns the excavation company gets almost two thousand bucks a month to let the big antenna sit on his property.”

Kramer whistled. “Not bad,” he said.

Anyway, no one’s here and you can see that outbuilding inside the chain-link fence. That must be where the backup batteries are stored.

They drove to the back of the property and up to a hinged gate, secured by a clasped lock.

Ed backed the truck up to the gate and jumped out. One look at the Masterlock confirmed that his bolt cutters would do the trick.

After clipping the lock, they swung the gate open and backed up next to the metal outbuilding.

Grafton looked over the door, and saw that it was solid metal and had a key lock securing it.

“Help me with the torch,” He said.

Rolling the acetylene torch and its tanks to the door, Grafton put on his face shield, and snapping his flint spark torch igniter, he lit the flame, adjusting the gas levels to give him just the right mixture of oxygen and fuel.

Once he was satisfied with the flame, he made quick work of the lock. Kicking open the door, they were met with a series of huge batteries, all standing in a row.

“My God,” Kramer said. “These are huge. We’ll never be able to pick up one of these.”

“Well, those will!” He said, pointing to what looked like a walk-behind forklift.

“That Zorin should do the trick!”

Sure enough, the powered portable stacker’s forks fit under the palate that held a single large battery. Maneuvering the palate to the bed of the truck, Grafton lifted the large battery and centered it over the rear axle.

“Jump in and make room,” Ed said.

Kramer moved the supplies so that the battery was centered over the rear-wheel axle, reducing the stress on the truck’s frame. Each battery had to weigh close to a thousand pounds. Watching the truck sink as the Grafton eased the battery down, he became concerned.

“Will the truck handle more than one?” Kramer asked.

“I found some paperwork in there,” he replied and pulled out the folded sheet of paper. Grafton found the technical specifications for the batteries and nodded as he read.

“Says here they are “forklift” batteries. Each one is a thousand pounds, and the truck is rated for 3100. We should be fine since the feedbags and other stuff is less than 500. With you and me, we are near the limit, but this baby’s in good shape. I reinforced the suspension a while back, so it should take it.”

“Says here,” he continued, “that each one of these batteries is rated for over 800 amp/hours. Two of these should give you the storage of at least 16 regular lead-acid batteries. Huh, what a great idea!”

“How are we going to get these out when we get home?” Kramer asked.

“Easy,” he replied. “I’ll use the winch in the garage to lift them out and swing them onto one of the rolling carts I use for my engines. Then we can pull them to your house and install them.”

After using the portable lift’s forks to slide the first battery to the left side of the truck’s bed, Ed returned to the building and retrieved the second one.

As he lowered the last battery onto the back of the pickup’s strained suspension, there was a distinct sound of a shotgun shell being racked into its chamber!

Both Grafton and Kramer froze, both knowing full well what that metallic “click-clack” meant.

“Oh crap!” Grafton said.

“Both of you, hands in the air and turn around slowly!” They heard.

Both obeyed, slowly rotating to their left, coming face to face with three armed men.

The man with the shotgun was dressed in all black tactical gear. He had an AR-15 slung over his shoulder and a black, tactical shotgun was tucked into his right shoulder, pointing directly at them.

A DHS patch was visible on his left arm as he scanned the barrel of the shotgun back and forth between the two of them. A smirk on his face, he backed up a step or two, giving them a look at the two men that accompanied him.

Grafton almost fell over with relief when he saw that they wore postal uniforms. But his stomach rose back into his throat after seeing them with drawn Glock semi-automatic handguns. The two postmen walked over to the old truck and peeked in the loaded rear cargo area.

“Well,” the first postal worker said. “Not only do we have a thief, but it looks like we found ourselves a hoarder too.”

“Two crimes at once!” The other man said with disdain. “That’s not good for you two. Not good at all.”

“Back up away from the vehicle,” The DHS agent said. “Now down on your knees, hands interlocked behind your head and DO NOT MOVE!”

With the two postal workers covering them with their handguns, the agent began to zip-tie Grafton’s hands behind his back.

“You have it wrong,” Grafton started. “I know the owner of this place. He won’t mind me using some of these batteries.”

“I’m sure,” the agent replied. “Looks like he gave you the keys and everything.”

Ed cringed when he glanced at the mangled metal door. He knew there was no dodging this crime as he hung his head in shame.
I should have known
, he thought to himself.

After Kramer had been zip-tied as well, they were searched. But neither carried a wallet or I.D. with the state of the world being what it was. One of the postal workers looked inside the now-open outbuilding.

“Wow!” he called out. “Jackpot! You should see the stuff in here!”

The other postman followed his partner, the whistling from inside letting the DHS agent that had remained with Kramer and Grafton, that they had found something of value.

“We got some big-time batteries. Never seen anything like them!” The first postal worker said to the DHS goon. “We have a huge score here!”

“Not calling this one in, I assume!” the agent replied.

“Not in a million years,” The postman replied. “This goes to the stash. This’ll be worth its weight in gold.”

“What do you mean by that? What stash?” Kramer said questioning their statement.

These three weren’t acting like any authoritative agency he had ever worked with or come across. Their demeanor had changed dramatically when the plastic handcuffs had been placed, and now they were eying the pickup truck with the same lust that a drunk would look at their first morning drink.

“Will the truck fit in the warehouse?” The agent asked the others.

The three men began a short discussion, the thrust of their plans revolving around the truck, feed and all the batteries and storing them in an illicit warehouse to barter with later. It suddenly hit both men, that these three were looting and storing their treasures, and not upholding the law.

“What about these boys,” the DHS agent said.

“We can’t let them go,” the shorter postal worker said with a sadistic smile.

“Can I do it?” the taller of the two replied.

“Think you can do it this time? You wimped out last time!” his postal partner chided.

“SHUT UP!” the tall man yelled. “I’ll do it!” And then, after an awkward moment where the other two just looked at the tall man with smiles, he shouted.

“I SAID I CAN DO IT!”

The three criminals made Kramer and Grafton get up off their knees; and taking them out of the enclosure, they were led to a patch of scrub oaks that lined the back of the property.

Ed’s knees gave out as they were walking to the copse of trees, forcing the laughing DHS agent to pick him up under his arms and push him forward, while the other two taunted the poor old man for his loss of nerve.

Kramer knew how this was going to end. Each step he took brought years of recollections and scores of treasured memories to his conscious mind. The trip to their final destination took just a few moments, but seemed like months as time compressed in the doctor’s mind. When they reached the edge of the trees, Kramer had made peace with himself and with God. It was with a calm, but heavy heart that he turned to face the three executioners.

“Turn back around!” The shaking, tall postman said. “Turn around, I said, and down on your knees!”

Grafton practically fell to his knees, tears welling in his eyes. He cringed and waited for the final crack of the postman’s pistol that would send the gun’s projectile shrieking through the air and into his head.

Kramer, on the other hand, refused to turn away. Instead, he dropped to his knees and faced the three men. His eyes glared back with a certainty that only a true believer in the afterlife could bring. The corner of his lips was raised in a slight grin, announcing the faith he had in his final destination. He had the look of a man who knew his destiny and was unafraid to make the journey.

“I said,” the shaking postman said again, “TURN AROUND!”