SurviRal (23 page)

Pause.

“I don’t care how you handle it, Mark. You’re the one I’m reporting this to, and this is the only call I’m making. If you can’t tear your guys away from your precious melon fields, call whoever you need to. But someone needs to respond before the vultures do. There’s firearms on the ground with them. That’s right, the guns are still there.”

Pause.

“Well, let me see. There’s a pistol on the corner with one of the bad guys. That’s where the three former commune members are, too. Right next to two motorcycles. You can’t miss it. No, off-road. Across the highway, about a hundred yards to the south, you’ll find two more bad guys on a rocky knoll, with two more pistols. No. How the hell do I know if they’re savages? The last one is another two hundred yards due south, lying face down in the grass near the crest of a hill with an arrow in his back. There’s a good hunting rifle next to that one.”

Pause.

“Yes, you’ll find my prints on the arrow shaft. Only because I was checking to see if he was still alive. Nowhere else. Certainly not on the firearms. No. No, I’m not going back there. Too dangerous. Come by my mother-in-law’s if you need a damn statement. Oh, very funny. Why don’t
you
be part of the solution and do your freaking job. All right. Goodbye.”

Wade sat there staring through the small steering wheel for a minute.

“Thanks,” Harold said.

Wade looked up. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” He got out of the cart. “I need to pick a few weeds for the missus. Told her I’d bring something home to eat. Was hoping for protein, but...” Wade looked in the rear seat. “Jenny, would you care to help?”

Jenny, who had been sitting there with her arms crossed and occasionally shivering, looked up at the congressman and wiped tears from her eyes.

“Help you pick weeds?”

“Yes. I’ll show you how.”

She slowly nodded, climbed out of the cart, and accompanied Wade into the field. Clint decided to follow. Harold stayed behind with all the backpacks.

“Here,” Wade said pointing to a certain pointy-leaf plant. “This is what I need. They should be all over this field, since it rained a few days ago.” He bent down and plucked one up. “See?”

“Looks like a dandelion,” Jenny said with more life in her voice.

“It’s called prickly lettuce. Grows wild around here. They get much bigger than dandelions. Some are bushy with a lot of leaves, like that one over there. I just need to get a few handfuls. Mrs. Bennett makes salads from them, after washing all the little spines off the leaves. They’re bitter greens, but good to eat. Not bad at all with oil and homemade vinegar.”

Jenny actually smiled and began scanning the ground. A short while later, her hands were full and the spring had returned to her step. This congressman really was her own personal angel. Clint picked a few of the special weeds himself.

“Congressman Bennett,” Harold said when they were back on the road, “can I ask why you told the Sheriff’s deputy you didn’t know if the bad guys were savages?”

“Because they absolutely were,” Jenny interjected.

 Wade chuckled. “He was referring to a specific gang who’s been making the news lately. A particularly evil one. The public is starting to associate them with all small massacres. Not known for highway holdups, though. They seem to be more focused on home invasion robberies. Several of the raided homes had the word
savages
spray-painted on the wall. At one location, a kid who escaped heard the robbers call themselves that. Whether it’s all from the same gang or different ones jumping on the bandwagon, the authorities aren’t sure.”

“That’s horrible,” Jenny said.

Clint grabbed Jenny’s hand and kissed it. She smiled warmly at him, and Clint knew she was okay again. Well, as okay as one could hope for under the circumstances.

“It certainly is terrible,” Wade said. “You’d hope this kind of thing could never happen in Colorado. I mean, I know we’re not the most crime-free state in the country. That’s probably because we attract a lot of oddballs. But this burgeoning criminal opportunism is ugly. I’m surprised by it. Shows you how many bad apples dwell among us, quietly blending in, waiting for someone to throw the light switch off so they can go ape. Like these melon saboteurs.”

“Melon saboteurs?” Harold and Jenny said at the same time.

“Yeah. They found sewage-filled water balloons thrown into the fields at two of the bigger farms. Can you imagine such a thing? Here we are in a food shortage, and some wackos are trying to poison the crops.”

“Wow,” Clint said. “That makes me wonder about the true source of the 2011listeria outbreak.”

 “There’s a thought.” Wade shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know our state is full of idiots who were apparently chomping at the bit to have a lunacy party, and the pandemic provided the perfect occasion for it. So now you can’t get a cop in this town. All the sheriffs, local police, and guardsmen for miles around are using their taxpayer-funded professional training to guard fruit—and it’s like pulling teeth to get them away from the fields to investigate a multiple homicide!”

“The world’s gone crazy,” Jenny said in a sad voice.

“Indeed.” Wade pulled into the driveway of a nice Victorian-looking cottage on the outskirts of town, right next to his black Suburban.

“We’re here. I know you folks still have a ways to go, so I advise you to be careful. Looks like you know how to defend yourselves, anyway. Nothing as useless as an unpracticed weapon. Before you ask me, Harold, I don’t have your other firearms. Wish I could give them back to you, but I left them with my neighbor in Springs.”

“Shoot,” Harold said. “Thanks anyway. I’ll get them back from you some other time.”

Wade nodded. “Keep being smart—like you have been—and I’m sure you’ll be all right. But if you do get caught unprepared by a robber, don’t take them on. Just let them rob you. Better to come away unharmed. Material possessions can be replaced.”

“Right,” Harold said glancing at Jenny in the back seat. “That’s what we’ll do. If we get caught unprepared by one.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Glad the cord was in the battery compartment,” Wade said. “I’d offer you all a beer, but my supply is awfully short.”

“You’ve done enough for us already,” Harold said, “and I appreciate your honesty. Especially coming from a politician.”

The three of them stood with Wade next to the golf cart, now plugged in to the wall charging. Here in his mother-in-law’s garage they spent a much needed debriefing period, helping each other get over the incidents of the day. Wade was good with the jokes, and had them laughing more often than not. Two hours passed before any of them realized it. When Clint saw the time, he became concerned.

“We better get going,” Clint said. “We still have a ten-mile journey ahead of us, on foot now, and it’s already mid-afternoon.”

“I’m not going back that same way,” Jenny said.

“No, of course not, honey.”

“Have you made contact with your brother in La Junta?” Wade asked.

Clint shook his head. “No. Both his lines only ring and ring. Has me more than a little concerned—especially now that I know about the home invasion robberies.”

“Is his place far from town?”

“No. Only a couple miles.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much then,” Wade said. “Most of the home raids have taken place way off the beaten, at isolated homesteads. And if it makes you feel any better, a lot of army reserve patrols have been hanging out around La Junta.”

“That does some, in fact. Thanks.”

“I’d drive you, but the way my gauge reads, it’s going to be a close call getting back to my house in Springs.”

“We understand,” Clint said. “Thanks for everything.”

“Yes,” Jenny chimed in, “You’re a Godsend, Congressman Bennett. For real.”

Wade smiled at Jenny, and then appeared to have his attention drawn by something in the back corner of the garage. He walked over to a shelf, picked up a thin strip of something, and bent down behind the golf cart. When he stood back up there was only a crumpled bit of paper in his hands, which he tossed at an open trash can. He missed.

“There,” Wade said.

Jenny stepped over to see whatever it was he was doing.

“Save the whales?” she asked. “That hardly seems like you, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Look again,” Wade said. “Closer this time.”

“Oh,” Jenny groaned. “Save the Ales.”

Clint came to the rear of the cart and laughed. He knew that bumper sticker. His favorite craft beer store had it on the cash register. He stopped laughing when he noticed Wade had stuck it over the Rocky Ford Country Club logo. At that moment, he realized Wade was giving them the golf cart.

“Remember what I told you about police presence,” Wade said winding up the cord. “They’re all parked, watching melons grow. Go by way of the farms and you’ll be safer.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Clint said. “We can take Highway 50 to Swink and then drive southeast through the fields. That should get us within a mile or two of Jake’s.”

Wade stowed the cord back under the seat and handed Clint his business card.

“You’ve got an 80% charge now, more than enough to get to La Junta. I don’t think the authorities will give you any trouble—but if they do, tell them this is my cart and I loaned it to you. Have them call me. I’ll take care of it.”

Clint, Jenny, and Harold spent the next five minutes thanking the congressman in every conceivable verbal manner. Jenny used the word “angel” at least three times, which always garnered a smile. It was obvious Wade liked her. Normally that would bother Clint, but, as the congressman said, these were desperate times and you needed to use whatever resources you had at your disposal. As a final parting gift Wade presented them with a local Rocky Ford newspaper that had today’s date.

Then they were off. Clint drove. Jenny sat up front with him. Harold and the backpacks took up the rear seat. Harold’s fully assembled rifle rode with him. Jenny kept the vinyl bag with the 9-millimeter next to her up front.

The route Clint chose was a good one. The cart did about 25 miles per hour fully loaded like this, which was fast enough to keep pedestrians from bothering them on the highway. Once they were off it, driving south through the agricultural plots, the frequent sightings of police and military vehicles parked along the roads made things fairly pleasant. Harold wasn’t concerned about being hassled for the visible firearm. The three of them hardly looked like crooks, and the gun laws were a lot more tolerant in this part of Colorado than they were around Denver. Of course, that also meant it was easier for the bad guys to be carrying them.

Once past the farms, the landscape became more desolate. These were the northwestern outskirts of La Junta. Jake’s house was close. Clint noticed Jenny had the small vinyl bag unzipped with her hand inside now. Three motorcycles passed them at one point, riding by in single file. One of them nodded at Clint and gave him a thumb’s up as he passed. He probably saw Harold’s rifle.

They arrived at Jake’s a half hour after parting ways with Wade. Jake’s truck wasn’t out front. Clint didn’t know whether that was good or bad. It could be that Jake moved it into the garage—although the reorganizing project to make room for it in there would have been substantial.

Clint parked on the street. He checked his phone. No bars at all. That might be the reason he hadn’t been able to reach Jake by cell phone.

Harold broke down his rifle and stowed it. The three of them grabbed their packs and began negotiating the obstacle course leading to Jake’s front door. Something didn’t feel right to Clint. He had them all stop at the Volkswagen engine. Clint called Jake’s name out. No response. He tried again, louder this time. Still nothing.

“You two stay here,” Clint said. “And, um, be ready to run or defend yourselves. Just in case.”

“Honey!” Jenny said.

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

Clint smiled, kissed her, called out Jake’s name again, and walked up on the porch. He knocked, softly at first, then louder while continuing to shout for his brother.

“Nothing?” Jenny asked as Clint returned. Clint shook his head and motioned towards the side of the house.

“We’ll have to try to get in the back way. Knowing Jake, that might be difficult.”

It wasn’t difficult. The gate to the faded-red wooden fence wasn’t locked.

“That’s not right,” Clint said. “Something might be wrong. He’d never leave the gate open like this. Unless maybe he’s planted booby traps along the side yard. We better watch our step.”

They carefully made their way to the open backyard.

“Damn!” Clint said. “He’s not here. What could have happened?”

“How do you know?” Harold asked.

Clint pointed in a swooping motion all around the yard. “Everything’s gone. The oat field, the vegetable garden, it’s all been uprooted.” He walked around the yard shaking his head in disbelief. “The chicken coop is empty. Even the berries and spring figs have all been cleaned off. And the plum tree—someone’s picked a bunch of immature plums off it. They’re no good until they ripen, at least a month from now. Who would harvest immature plums?”