SurviRal (10 page)

Jake kept his eyes on the two soldiers with the rifles, but they had no visible reaction when he confessed he was holding a weapon. None of them did. These guys were cool customers. Jake wondered if they’d seen any action.

“Does your squad here have a name?” Jake asked.

The black one smiled for the first time. “You may refer to us as Tilley’s patrol.”

“Tilley, huh? I take it that’s the name of your commanding officer?”

The only response was a slight nod from one of them. Jake found that strange. Then he noticed the southern boy’s scar.

“What happened to your arm? Get into a scuffle with an uncooperative partner?”

The reservist lifted his arm. “No, got this in Afghanistan. Fighting to keep the terrorists out of your backyard, so you can hoard more grain.”

Jake chuckled. “Hold on a second, Tilley’s patrol. I’m going to put my gun away, and then I’ll open up again.”

Nods.

Jake closed the front door. As he put the pistol back in the drawer, he realized how disappointed he was that it hadn’t been Clint and Jenny knocking. Army reserves, sheesh. He was now fairly confident this group was who they said they were. Still not happy about them being here, and especially concerned about being identified as a target of their mission. Neither did Jake like the idea of facing them unarmed. But the southern boy had pegged him. There was always the shotgun.

When he reopened the door, he didn’t immediately see the two soldiers on the lawn. Everyone else was in the same place. Then he saw them. They had moved behind structure and were now holding their rifles. Just holding them. Smart boys.

“Oats,” Jake said.

“What’s that, sir?”

“Oats. Not wheat. The grain field is oats.”

The black reservist raised a tablet computer he was holding. “Oats are great. We’re interested in oats. Do you have any rolled?”

“Of course.”

“What quantity are you willing to sell?”

“How about ten bushels?”

“How about fifty?” the southern boy responded.

“What makes you think I have that kind of volume stored?”

The black reservist answered. “According to our satellite photo records, you’ve had that half-acre field producing for at least the last five years.”

“And we know a survivalist like you isn’t prone to selling his supply,” the southern boy added.

Jake reacted angrily. “I’m a little perturbed that you have all this information on me. Invasion of privacy. Thought we had laws against that. Think I’ll cancel the deal.”

“Please don’t, Mr. Stonebreaker.”

“How the hell do you know my name?”

The two of them blankly stared back. It made Jake feel stupid.

“Not proper to enter a business relationship with strangers who know all about you,” Jake said. “Especially those who come with threats.”

“I’m Sergeant Robinson,” the black reservist said.

“And I’m Corporal Dalton. Please don’t get angry, Mr. Stonebreaker. We’re only doing our jobs. And we haven’t threatened you. Nor would we. That would be against our code of conduct. But so you are aware of the facts, Executive Order 13603 gives the U.S. military the legal right to do what we’re doing.”

“To do what? Confiscate private property from your citizens? You better come prepared for a firefight if that’s your plan. What the hell is this executive order thirteen-something?”

“The
National Defense Resources Preparedness
executive order,” Sergeant Robinson said, “signed by the President in 2012.”

“I’ve heard of that damned thing,” Jake said. “People were up in arms about it all over the internet. It only pertains to cases of national defense.”

“What do you think this is?” Corporal Dalton replied. “Our country is in the fight of its life. Sometimes the enemy is small, like a germ. But we’re not here to debate politics. We just wanted you to be aware that the executive order has been invoked and is being applied as the current President desires. Right now our Commander in Chief wants to feed the country, seeing as the restaurants and grocery stores have all closed. You can help. That’s why we’re here. And since a state of national emergency has been declared, I advise you to voluntarily cooperate and get on our good list. You’ll be fairly compensated.”

Jake took a long exhale. He looked back and forth among the reservists, who were all remaining calm. The really scary part was they seemed used to this already—all of it.

“Twenty-five bushels. That’s it. All I’m willing to spare.”

“Thank you,” Sergeant Robinson said. He appeared satisfied, and began tapping on his tablet.

“The last price posted for rolled oats was a shade over $28,” he said. “Quite a jump from the $4 per bushel it was going for a month ago, wouldn’t you say? But why don’t we call it an even thirty. So that’s $750 for twenty-five full bushels. Agreed?”

Jake smiled again. At least their trading practices were fair, once you capitulated to the shakedown. But he knew his smile would be short-lived.

“There’s just one more issue,” Jake said.

“What’s that, sir?”

“I’m not interested in U.S. dollars. Worthless paper, as far as I’m concerned. I’m sure your device there will tell you the last known price of gold and silver. Bars or coins, either way. Must be pure if they’re coins. So bars will probably be easiest for you.”

The sergeant and corporal looked at each other for an extended moment. Corporal Dalton crossed his arms and tilted his head.

“We’ll …have to come back, then,” Sergeant Robinson eventually said, “to complete the transaction.”

“I thought you would. I’ll be here.” Jake looked at Corporal Dalton. “But you know that, right?”

The corporal smiled, made one of his hands into a gun shape, pointed it at Jake, and winked.

* * *

“The sign said turn right for Fox Run Regional Park,” Clint said.

Jenny objected. “Look at all the cars turning. It’s going to be too crowded.”

Harold scratched his beard. “You’re right, Jenny. Let’s keep going, down to the other one. Less people going straight. If I remember right, it’s bigger, anyway.”

“Can’t believe we’re being forced to camp in a park with a bunch of detoured motorists.” Clint turned the radio down, which had become all static. “Reminds me of Burning Man or something.”

Harold laughed. “Or a Grateful Dead concert. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Those were the days, huh?”

“That was a little before our time.” Clint glanced at Jenny. She smiled politely, but Clint could tell she was nervous.

They drove a ways farther and came to Shoup Road. Beyond it they could see flashing lights on Highway 83. Some cars were pulled over on the shoulder there, waiting. But the majority of them turned left on Shoup. Harold followed them.

This was the Black Forest area. Pine trees lined the roadside, with occasional trailhead openings. The line of cars turned left again in another mile or so.

“This is Black Forest Park,” Clint said. “I’ve been here before. Bet everyone’s going to the field by the tennis courts. There’s the tennis courts now. Yep, they’re all turning in here.”

A parking lot separated the tennis courts from a large green square field. The parking lot was full. Cars were pulling up on the field. Harold did likewise.

“There’s some room on this side by the trees.” Clint pointed to their left.

Harold nodded. “Looks good. Close to the road.”

“Are their public restrooms here?” Jenny asked.

“Yes,” Clint said. “Right at the end of the parking lot. I’ll walk you over there after we get settled.”

Harold parked and they got out of the car. A truck was on their right with no one in it. Harold left space on their left to stake out a camping area next to the trees. A couple next to them had done the same thing. They looked to be in their thirties, and had a small fold-out picnic table set up next to a blanket spread on the ground. The brown Volvo wagon on the other side of them must be theirs. The man said hi to Harold. Harold waved back and nodded as he surveyed the scene. Clint relaxed some. At least the people around them seemed normal. Maybe this would be like camping after all.

“Give me your tent and I’ll pitch it for you,” Harold said, “while you two go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Clint loosed the rolled-up pup tent from his backpack in the rear seat and handed it to Harold. “Thanks. Come on, Jen.”

Jenny stood looking around for a minute before grabbing her purse and following. They made their way through the maze of cars, beach chairs, and blankets on the ground. Most of the other “campers” appeared to be mere commuters caught by the roadblock, as there were only a few other tents set up. The rest of these folks would all be sleeping in their cars tonight; not a very comfortable prospect. That made Clint concerned about being a possible target for theft. But, they did have Harold and his arsenal.

Clint heard people talking around them as they walked. The field had become a melting pot of different types who had just met. The conversations were lively. Some offered a polite greeting to Clint and Jenny as they passed. The main topic Clint kept overhearing was speculation about why the roads were shut down. The theories included a bad pile-up with multiple fatalities, an exploded tanker truck, a criminal motorcycle gang having a standoff with the cops, and a bio-terrorist attack on the Air Force Academy. Some sounded certain of their theory. It reminded Clint of Jake and made him smile—until he remembered he hadn’t been able to reach him for more than a week.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Jenny asked.

“Oh. Just worried about Jake.”

She squeezed his hand. “I’m sure he’s fine. Can you think of anyone more prepared for all this?”

Clint laughed. “No.” But somewhere in the back of his mind, Clint feared that Jake’s preparedness might, ironically, be a factor which endangered him. Then again, his place wasn’t near city streets, and wasn’t all that visible even when you got close to it. And he was a good shot. Jenny was right. He’d be fine. He had to be.

When they came back from the bathroom, Harold was talking to someone new. Clint recognized a six-pack of Fat Tire beer in the stranger’s hand. Looks like Harold was making friends already. A beer really sounded good right now. But as they drew close, Clint could tell from Harold’s tone that the conversation wasn’t friendly.

“I told you, I don’t have any of that stuff. And I prefer light beer, anyway. Sorry.”

“Come on, man,” the stranger replied. “I see your vehicle there. It’s loaded to the gills. Don’t be a hoarder. We’re a community here tonight. Crack loose and be part of it.”

Clint stepped next to Harold. “Everything all right?”

The stranger glared at Clint, obviously annoyed at being interrupted. His combed short black hair was an interesting contrast to his untrimmed goatee. He was pretty buff, too. Looked like he could have been one of those tow truck drivers earlier.

“You’re together?” the stranger asked, glancing between Harold, Clint and Jenny.

“That’s right. My name’s Clint.”

“Well Clint, I’m only looking for a sociable trade. But your partner here is being rude and confrontational. Hey!”

The stranger looked at Harold’s wagon, where Jenny was now standing next to the open back seat door. He took two steps towards it. Harold and Clint instantly stepped along with him. Clint found his hand involuntarily rising up in front of the stranger to protect his wife. The man stopped and looked down at Clint’s hand, then scowled at him.

“Easy there, buddy.” He raised his voice to Jenny.

“Is that hand sanitizer?”

Jenny stopped what she was doing and looked up.

“Yes. Would you like a dab?”

“Do you have any more? To trade.” The stranger lifted the six-pack up.

At that moment, the man from the portable picnic table next to their spot walked over. He was short and stout, but spoke in a confident manner.

“Howdy, neighbors. My name’s Barry.”

Barry’s intrusion had the effect of diffusing the situation. The stranger looked around at all of them repeatedly, seeming to realize he was now outnumbered.

“I’m Clint. This is Harold.”

“Nice to meet you.” Barry shook hands with both of them, then extended his arm to the stranger.

“Zane,” the stranger said. He kept his free hand at his side.

“Sure would love one of those Fat Tire’s,” Barry said. “Are those for sale, or trade, by chance?”

“Trade. I’m interested in that.” Zane pointed at Jenny.

Jenny walked over and held out a small plastic container of sanitizer.

“No,” Zane said. “The big one I saw you with.”

Jenny looked at Clint.

“No,” Clint said. “Not the big one.”

“Interested in any vitamins?” Barry asked.

“Huh?” Zane turned to Barry. “Vitamins? What kind?”

“I’ll throw in a bottle of chewable Vitamin C tablets, 500 milligram.”

“How big a bottle?”

“Small bottle.”

Zane stood absolutely still for a minute. He gradually nodded. “Hand sanitizer and vitamin C. Excellent trade goods. All right, it’s a deal.”

He handed Clint the beer. Jenny gave him the small sanitizer and Barry retrieved the vitamins from his car. Zane left, thank God.

“I have a cooler with ice,” Barry said, “if you want to chill those.” Clint readily agreed.

“Wait—this too,” Jenny said. She opened the hatch of the Subaru and produced the bottle of white wine with the foreign label that Roy had given them.

“Ooh, wine,” the blonde woman in Barry’s camp said.

Barry extended his hand towards her. “This is my wife, Shay.”

“Jenny. Pleased to meet you.”

The libations went into the ice chest. Clint helped Harold finish pitching the tents while Jenny chatted with Barry and Shay. More cars rolled in and staked out claims. By the time the late afternoon shadows covered the field, it was packed full. Newly arriving motorists had to turn around and seek other venues for spending the night.

Several groups of people started campfires. Some were contained in portable metal fire pits, but at least two were built right on the field, ruining large patches of grass. Clint was pretty sure that was highly illegal. The lack of law enforcement was disturbing.