Homefront: The Voice of Freedom (11 page)

“That’s what I thought, too,” Walker said.

“There’s a rumor they’ve landed in Hawaii.”

“Really?”

The man shrugged. “It’s just people talking.”

Walker ate in silence for a few minutes. When the meager meal was finished, he asked, “Where are you folks going?”

“We’re gonna try and make it to Phoenix. Nancy has family there.” He indicated his wife.

“By the way, I’m Ben Walker.” He held out his hand. The man shook it and introduced themselves as the Pattersons. Walker glanced at the two Hispanic customers at the other table. They had finished their meals and were now smoking cigarettes, refusing to make eye contact with him or the other Caucasians. It wasn’t surprising. Race relations had deteriorated in the LA area over the last couple of decades due to anti-Immigration laws and hostile sentiment. Walker didn’t think it made much difference now. What was happening in America was going to seriously affect Mexico and Canada—not to mention the rest of the world. It was more important than ever for people to try and get along.

As Walker rose to clean up and throw away the trash, the sound of motorcycles attracted everyone’s attention. From the feeder road, coming from the east.

“Uh oh,” Mr. Patterson said.

Sure enough, it was a gang of seven rough-looking
guys on Harleys. They were heavily tattooed, big and overweight, and carried automatic weapons.

Holy shit
.

Everyone at the tamale stand froze.

The one leading the pack held up his arm to signal a turnoff. The seven bikes slowed and stopped in front of the tamale stand.

“What did I tell you?” Patterson whispered.

“Shhh,” Walker said.

The men were dirty and greasy—probably hadn’t bathed since before the EMP. Their rank odor permeated the area, even outdoors. The leader was missing an eye and didn’t wear a patch.

“What have we here?” he bellowed. “Tamales! Boys, we’re having lunch on me!” The men cheered and got off their bikes.

Walker glanced at the Mexican couple that ran the stand. They smiled nervously at the gang members.

One-Eye approached the stand while the others assumed positions. Two men watched the road in both directions. One guy with a badly pock-marked face stayed with the leader. The other three kept watch on the customers at the picnic tables.

“How many tamales you got in there, amigo?” the leader asked.

The proprietor opened the cart and counted. He answered in Spanish.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Can you speak
English
like an
American
?”

The Mexican couldn’t.

Walker answered for him. “He said there were twenty-three left.”

One-Eye slowly turned toward Walker and gave him a long, hard stare. Walker thought it best to look away and sit quietly.

“
Thank
you, buddy. I guess you’re one of them
immigrant-lovers, seein’ as how you know their language and everything.” He turned back to the couple. “We’ll take all the tamales and all your sodas. We’re mighty hungry.” The men murmured in agreement.

The owners grabbed plates and started piling on the food.

“Uh, we want those
to go,
” the leader said.

The Mexican understood that. He nodded quickly and pulled out brown paper bags while his wife wrapped the tamales. In a couple of minutes, the leader distributed the food to his men. Then the proprietor made the mistake of telling the biker how much it cost.

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

The Mexican grabbed a little notepad and pencil and scribbled “$310,” tore off the slip, and handed it to One-Eye, smiling broadly.

Walker winced as the other customers at the tables shared worried glances. The tension was palpable.

The leader turned to his gang and said, “Boys, we owe the man three hundred and ten dollars. Anyone got their credit card handy?”

The men grunted.

One-Eye turned back to the Mexicans, crumpled the “bill” in his fist, and dropped it. That was a cue for Pock-Face to draw his semi-automatic and point it at the Mexican couple. The woman shrieked and they immediately raised their hands. The owner shook his head and spoke in Spanish, pleading with the biker not to rob them.

“Hand over what cash you have,” One-Eye commanded. “At ten dollars a pop, I suspect you’ve made quite a killing.”

The little Patterson boy started to cry. His mother did her best to shield his eyes and keep him quiet.

The vendor continued to babble in Spanish. One-Eye turned to the fattest of the men watching the customers and jerked his head. The minion moved to the couple behind the stand and said, “Out of the way.” He pushed the couple to the side and dug into the box where they kept the cash.

The Mexican’s voice turned threatening as his wife attempted to stop him. She beseeched her husband to move back but he shrugged her off. Cursing at the bikers in Spanish, the man drew a revolver from underneath his loose jacket, pointed it at the fat man, and fired before anyone could react.

The fat man screamed as the round drilled through his shoulder blade, perforated his massive chest, and exited his breast with such speed and force that it also hit Pock-Face. Blood spurted over the tamale stand and money. Pock-Face flinched and reflexively fired his pistol into the air.

The Mexican swerved the revolver at One-Eye, but by then the rest of the gang had their weapons out.

Walker shouted, “Get down!” as he leapt for the ground. The Pattersons and the Hispanic customers followed suit just as a hail of bullets caught the tamale stand vendors, both man and wife. The barrage was deafening. Walker kept low, covering his ears and shutting his eyes in terror. It seemed as if the gunfire lasted for minutes.

Finally, there was silence, save for the moaning of the one man who was wounded. The fat man was flat on the ground, dead. The Mexican couple lay in a rapidly spreading pool of blood, their bodies dotted with holes from head to toe.

Walker remained where he was. His ears rang.

“The rest of you, get up!” the leader shouted.

Walker felt a boot kick him in the side. He looked
up to see the remaining bikers pointing their weapons at the customers.

Oh God, this is it. I’m going to die
.

“Stand up!”

They all did as they were told. The Patterson woman held her son against her leg and hip as he sobbed. Walker, Patterson, and the two Hispanics raised their hands.

One-Eye surveyed the small group and focused on the two Hispanics.

“Looks like we missed a couple of illegal immigrants, boys,” he said. Without warning, he raised his pistol and shot both men in their heads—
one, two
. The Patterson woman screamed again. Her husband grabbed hold of his wife and son and hugged them close. Walker was too shocked to move.

Pock-Face now didn’t seem bothered by what was apparently a minor wound in the arm or shoulder. One Eye ordered, “Search ’em.” With bloody hands, Pock-Face went through the dead Hispanics’ pockets. He took what money was there and gave it to One-Eye.

The head biker then turned to the Pattersons and Walker.

“Empty your pockets, folks.”

They had no choice but to comply. Walker placed his wallet on the picnic table. He took a gamble by not handing over the Spitfire key, though. Hopefully the bikers wouldn’t notice it.

Patterson also handed over his cash. He gently prodded his wife to place her purse on the table.

“Empty the purse, lady.”

Patterson did it for her. It contained a few makeup supplies, a small photo album, and a billfold. One-Eye took all the wallets and removed the money. He knew the credit cards were useless. The man then turned to
the Pattersons and focused on the woman. He reached out and touched her cheek. She trembled in fear.

“You’re kinda pretty, lady,” he said. “Why don’t you ditch this guy and come with us. I guarantee we’ll have a lot more fun.”

Patterson wisely didn’t say a word. His wife wouldn’t look at the biker.

“No? Suit yourself.” One-Eye then turned to the fat man’s motorcycle. “Guess we don’t need this anymore.” He aimed his pistol at it and shot both tires flat and blew a hole in the gas tank. He then turned to the Pattersons and Walker and said, “Oh, could you have used that? I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

The other men laughed. They didn’t seem to care about their fallen comrade.

One Eye glared at his victims. “You know we outta shoot all of you. Shouldn’t leave any witnesses, you understand. But seein’ how there’s no law and order anymore, I doubt anyone’s gonna come after us. So you have yourselves a nice day.”

With that, he jerked his head at his men. They all boarded their Harleys with bags of tamales in hand, kick-started the bikes noisily, and rode away.

The Patterson boy wailed. Walker realized he’d been holding his breath and finally exhaled. They all sat, too shaken to respond.

An eternity passed.

The silence finally got to Walker, so he stood, nodded at Patterson and said, “Good luck to you.” Not waiting for a reply, he walked east toward the gas station where he’d left his bike. The Pattersons remained where they were.

   The Spitfire pushed onward, southeast on I-10 toward Palm Springs. Still stunned by what had happened at the tamale stand, Walker had to stop and
vomit. Perhaps it was because of whatever was in the tamales. Could have been dog meat for all he knew. On second thought, he figured he’d have been sicker if that was the case. This was nerves.

After resting a minute, he moved on. The highway remained covered with deserted automobiles, although every now and then Walker noticed one contained a body or two. Most likely the corpses had been there since the blast.

The sun was low in the sky when he reached Palm Springs. He stopped and emptied what was left of his last gas can into the Spitfire’s tank. Now he was out, which was worrisome. Every gas station he’d passed was shut down. He hadn’t seen any black market dispensaries in abandoned stations that entrepreneurs had set up before the blast. Hopefully he’d catch a break and find something the following day.

As it was getting dark and he was dead tired, Walker had to consider where he would sleep that night. The trek had been much more difficult than he’d imagined. With the stress of navigating the tricky vehicle-littered roads, the sudden release of adrenaline at the tamale stand, getting sick, and not having enough food, Walker felt shaken. He had to call it a day.

He got off the highway and rode into Palm Springs. The resort hotels would be closed, of course, but Walker wanted to find a place off the beaten path—it would be safer. He passed the usual assortment of homeless people standing around burning barrels. Some waved, most didn’t. The town itself was dead, which he hadn’t expected. Where was everyone?

At one point he passed an ancient graffiti-covered billboard that advertised the
DEW DROP MOTEL
. It was three miles down a side road. Walker wondered if it still existed. Even if it was closed, maybe there was a vacancy. He almost laughed at the thought.

He turned and followed the street to an eerie, dilapidated business zone. But sure enough, the Dew Drop Motel still stood. It looked as if no one had stayed there since before the Millennium.

It was perfect.

He drove around to the back and stopped. Walker got off the bike, picked a ground floor room, and kicked at the door. It took three tries, but the lock finally broke. He rolled the bike into the room and shut the door. He dug into the backpack for the matchbox. He lit one and examined his accommodations. A mattress and box springs—no sheets. Tattered drapes covered the window. That was good. The musty, moldy smell he’d have to live with. He checked the bathroom. Surprisingly, the toilet bowl had water in it, even though it was brown.

What? No towels? No television? What kind of a place
is
this?

“I want my money back, god damnit,” he muttered aloud, and laughed half-heartedly.

He spent the next five minutes shoving the dresser against the broken door so no one could surprise him. Once he felt safe, Walker took off his clothes, unrolled the sleeping bag on top of the mattress, and climbed inside.

He was asleep in minutes.

JANUARY 24, 2025

It started with two gunshots and shouting.

Salmusa heard the commotion outside and checked the time on a battery-powered clock. It was close to eleven-thirty. Dressed in his pajamas, he got up and cautiously looked out the safe house’s upstairs bedroom window. Two horses carrying policemen stood next to each other in the street. Studying the officers’ body language, Salmusa determined they were looking for someone.

For some reason, thieves had run rampant in Van Nuys. Salmusa thought more affluent areas of the city would have been targets; perhaps they were, but he never expected this middle-class community in the San Fernando Valley to have so much crime. The house across the street was broken into a few days ago while occupants were inside. The intruders killed the family before ransacking the place. Police on horses arrived just in time to shoot the bandits as they exited with the loot. Salmusa watched the whole thing from his window. It was better than what used to be on American television.

Apparently the criminals were becoming bolder, but they had yet to try and break into the safe house.

Now, however, Salmusa wondered for whom the
police outside were looking. Apparently hoodlums were hiding somewhere in the neighborhood.

One officer turned his horse to the east and cast a bright handheld flashlight up the street, scanning the houses. The other cop did the same thing to the west. Then they both rode off in their respective directions for closer inspection. At that same moment, as the policemen left the front of the house, Salmusa’s keen eyes caught three silhouettes dart across his front yard.

So! They were using the safe house as cover.

Salmusa moved away from the window, grabbed his Daewoo pistol, and went out the bedroom to the top of the stairs. He listened carefully—and heard muted whispers outside the front door down below. One of them tried the doorknob.