SurviRal (24 page)

“Looks like someone was digging here,” Harold said.

Clint looked where he was kicking, at a patch of freshly turned ground. Suddenly Clint felt his heart racing. Sweat beads instantly formed on his forehead. He stumbled to the fig tree and sat down under it.

Jenny came to his side and knelt down. She grabbed his hand. “It’s okay, honey. Relax and breathe.”

“You’re having a panic attack
now
?” Harold asked.

Clint didn’t respond, but he noticed Jenny shoot Harold a quick look of scorn.

“Sorry,” Harold said. “I didn’t mean to… I just thought…”

“You just thought what?” Clint managed to say in an angry voice.

“Clint, we were in two gunfights today. One was against a gang of hardened criminals. You handled yourself impressively. I guess I assumed you’ve gotten over these things.”

Harold’s words actually helped Clint pull out of it. He couldn’t help the panic attack, but thinking about what Harold said made him laugh. He was right. This was comically stupid. And the laughter brought Clint back.

While he was still sitting, Clint happened to glance at the rock in the berry bushes across the yard. That’s the one that wasn’t really a rock. He got up, walked over to it, picked it up, and shook it. It jangled. He opened the latch on the bottom and pulled out a key ring.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see what the garage looks like.”

Jenny and Harold followed him to the small door that led into the garage from the backyard. Clint fiddled with the keys and finally opened it. The first light switch didn’t work. He tried the second one. Lights came on.

“See?” Clint said. “This isn’t right, either. Most of the stuff is gone.”

“What stuff?” Harold asked.

Clint looked around at the slab floor as he stepped his way through. “Canned food, ammunition, fishing tackle, seeds, batteries, light bulbs, medical supplies, extra clothes, stuff like that.” He removed the two-by-four that was wedged in the old garage door arm and opened the garage. Sunlight came in.

“There’s still quite a bit of junk in here,” Harold said kicking at some boxes.

Clint shook his head. “Nowhere near as much as there was, believe me. This place has been cleaned out. At least we can make room for the golf cart now. Help me clear a spot.”

Twenty minutes later the garage door was closed again, this time with the golf cart inside and plugged into the wall. Clint, Jenny, and Harold rummaged through the house.

“The place is a disaster,” Harold said. “I guess you’re right. It’s obviously been ransacked.”

“No.” A glimmer of hope returned as Clint surveyed the living room. “This is normal.”

“Oh.”

Jenny came back out the hallway. “The beds in both rooms are perfectly made and appear to have fresh linen. Like a hotel maid was there. Nowhere else, obviously. Let’s open some windows and air this place out.”

Clint chuckled. “That’s one thing Jake does is make his bed properly. Something they drilled into his mind when he was in the forest service. The beds are the beckoning sanctuaries in his house. The rest looks like a forest fire.”

They went through the kitchen. The cupboards were bare. The refrigerator had a bowl of rotten berries—probably spoiled from the power outages. But there were a few good figs in there, plus an open box of wheat crackers. Jake loved his crackers. They were half-stale, but still okay to eat with the figs. That ended up being their supper, eaten over the sink. The water still ran.

After Jenny tidied up the living room some, they all sat down.

“How many chickens did he keep?” Jenny asked as she opened the Rocky Ford paper Wade gave them.

“Only two or three. He was planning on getting a rooster so he could raise more on his own. Don’t know if he got around to that.”

“So what do you suppose happened?” Harold said. “You think he bugged out?”

“Bugged out?” Clint glared at Harold. “To where? This was his stronghold.”

“To the cabin, maybe? Could something have happened here that made him feel he needed to escape?”

“Maybe he’s right, honey,” Jenny said.

“I can’t see it. The reason he and I fought so much was he didn’t think I had the cabin prepared enough. He wanted me to make it more like this place, with survival supplies hoarded and more produce in the ground. Guess I should have listened to him.”

“Why?” Jenny asked. “He did all that, and now he’s not even here. Maybe he had too much stuff, and became a target for robbers. That might be why he had to leave.”

“I don’t understand why he hasn’t called me. Or answered his phone. I knew something was wrong. I just knew it.”

“At least his house is secure,” Harold said, “and a comfortable place for us to sleep. And away from all the city unrest, which is why we left Denver in the first place. What’s happening in that newspaper, Jenny?”

“More confirmation of my earlier statement that the world’s gone crazy.” She turned the page. “People are doing nutty things to try and stay healthy. Cases of overdosing on zinc and magnesium are becoming common. Several people have died from it. Hmm. It says here that one guy in New Jersey even tested positive for the ferret flu virus, but he had no symptoms yet. Died from magnesium poisoning. To add insult to injury, the CDC won’t release control of the body to the family.”

“Magnesium poisoning sounds like a better way to go,” Harold said.

Jenny continued reading. “Hey, here’s a local article about those savages, the home raiding gang Congressman Bennett told us about. It says they call themselves
Zane’s Savages
. Their suspected leader is an ex-con by the name of Zane Savage. Isn’t that perfect. Heinous murderers giving themselves cute names to be known by.”

“Zane,” Clint said. “Wasn’t that the name of the guy who traded us the beer in the park the first night?”

“Yep.” Harold nodded. “He was a real troublemaker, too. Probably not the same guy. That would be a big coincidence.”

“I don’t know,” Jenny said from behind the paper. “How many bad guys named Zane have you met? These people are categorically monstrous, though. They invade homes, kill the residents—including children—and bury them in shallow graves in their own yard. Then they brag about it! Leaving behind notes saying things like ‘the savages were here.’ I mean, they’re actually proud of themselves. Pure evil.”

No one said anything after that. Jenny continued reading to herself. Clint noticed Harold give him a rather grave look of concern. Clint decided to get up and take another slow tour of the house.

“Find anything?” Harold asked when Clint sat back down.

“There was no note or anything. Not from Jake, and not from …anyone else.”

Jenny put the paper down. “Oh, honey. I’m sure the savages weren’t here.”

“What happened to everything, then? And where’s Jake?” Clint involuntarily dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, God. God, please no. Jake. Jake.”

Jenny came to his side. “Honey, we don’t know. Jake might be all right. Maybe he went to the cabin.”

Clint looked up and felt a tear on his cheek. He quickly wiped it away.

“Shallow graves in the yard,” was all he could say, choking the words.

Jenny glanced towards the backyard. “I’m sure that’s not what that is back there.”

It took some convincing, but fifteen minutes later Clint stood above the freshly turned patch of ground in the backyard with a shovel. He knew Jenny and Harold were right. He needed to know. Knowing was better than not knowing. After staring at the ground and fervently praying thoughts he didn’t really believe were heard, he put the shovel in the ground.

The dirt wasn’t packed hard and came up easily. Each scoop that didn’t strike anything was cause for eternal gratitude. Clint knew he was trying Jenny and Harold’s patience with his long pauses between digs. When he was finally two feet down, he began finding hope. If this was a grave, it wasn’t too shallow. Maybe it wasn’t one after all.

But the next scoop struck something, only two and a half feet down.

Chapter Eighteen

“You boys done turned into nothing more than common thieves,” the old man snorted. “What happened to that oath you took to serve your country and protect its citizens?”

“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Sergeant Robinson replied, “and I don’t appreciate you calling us thieves. We transferred $170,000 to your bank account. That’s quite a bounty for a few barrels of beets and cherries. The highest rate we’ve paid so far. Plus you have more cherries coming.”

“A few barrels? You cleaned out my whole farm! And paid me in a worthless currency! That’s the reason the rate’s so high—it ain’t worth nothing! Come melon harvest the entire wad won’t likely buy me more than a few cantaloupes! If I can find anyone that will take it at all, that is. And when my next batch of cherries is ripe I expect you’ll be back to steal those, too!”

“Easy, old-timer.” Sergeant Robinson glanced at Corporal Dalton and rolled his eyes. Dalton only grinned back. Dalton enjoyed his job a little too much. But it was better to work with someone that liked his job than someone that didn’t.

Robinson turned back to the old coot on the porch. “Use the money to pay off your loans. Banks still have to accept it in honoring their original contracts.”

“I don’t have any loans, you corrupted Beetle Baily! Paid off my last mortgage eight years ago. Thought I could live out the rest of my days unencumbered. What a mistake that was. Should have behaved like the rest of the screwball country, staying up to my eyeballs in debt, only to have the cockamamie government forgive it all at the first sign of another dang financial crisis. Oh, what a world this has become.”

“You’re feeding your country, sir. At the time of its greatest need.”

“What this country needs are more producers, Sergeant Pepper-stealer. Not more takers. I’ve heard about your little ‘patrol,’ and I know what you’re going to do with my produce. You and your buddies back at the barracks will have your fill of it, taking the ripe stuff for yourselves, no doubt. Then you’ll drop the rest of it out of your dang whirlybirds to a field full of zombie consumers, all drooling with their arms wide open, who’ll beat each other up trying to get to the parachutes first, wolf it all down, swipe as much as they can from each other, then look back to the sky with their arms up and mouths open again, like a giant nest of baby birds, doing nothing in the meantime but waiting for you to drop them another crate. That’s who you’re feeding. My country, phooey! Why the hell am I gonna bust my aging ass growing food for a bunch of useless, brain-dead leeches? You think this will motivate us small farmers to grow any more crops? So you can feed zombies, and give me useless digits on a computer screen in exchange, at a bank I can’t even walk into anymore, and on a computer I can’t even turn on half the time? You’re practically guaranteeing they’ll be no more production crops from fellows like me. Don’t you know that, sonny?”

Sergeant Robinson had to smile. He was used to this kind of rebuking by now, but this guy had a certain undeniable charm.

“The President is taking steps to bring the hyperinflation under control, Mr. Reuter, and return public confidence to the dollar. When that happens, and prices return to normal, small farmers like you—who are complaining now—may suddenly find themselves rich from selling their crops at the peak of the pandemic.”

“I don’t share your optimism, Mr. G.I. Stole—”

“Sergeant Robinson.”

“My own country robbing me. This same President who you say is gonna save the currency is the same one who invoked this crazy marshal law, hijacking farms so you can feed a mass of unproductive voters—”

“Not marshal law, Mr. Reuter. The National Defense Resources Prepare—”

“I don’t care what fancy name you put on it. When the military starts indiscriminately confiscating valuable goods from its citizens, that’s blatant marshal law. You boys would make Joseph Stalin proud!” Mr. Reuter stormed inside his house and slammed the door.

“He was an entertaining one, eh?” Dalton said when Robinson turned around.

Sergeant Robinson waved at the last of the 5-ton trucks, now fully loaded, covered, and secured. The driver waved back, started the engine, and drove off to join the rest of the procession.

“Yeah. I liked him. That about does it for this area, though. Think we’ve acquired everything harvestable that’s not already under a government contract, in any quantity worth our while.”

“Yep.” Dalton nodded. “We’ve basically cleaned out the 50 corridor. Won’t be good picking again for at least a month. We should move south now and work the 160. They want us to get meat from that canyon hunting ranch, anyway. While we’re down there we can hit the homesteaders in the Springfield area.”

* * *

“Sounds like metal on metal,” Harold said. There was a turn of emotion in his voice. He was suddenly sounding eager.

“Yes. Yes, I think it is!” Clint dug faster. The shovel kept hitting a metal box of some kind.

Ten more scoops of dirt uncovered an old blue trunk. No body, thank God. Clint recognized the trunk and fell to his knees. It was the one their mother kept Christmas decorations in when he and Jake were young. Jake found it in the rafters of their father’s house, after his death in 2001, and kept it.