SurviRal (34 page)

Chapter Twenty Five

Clint took a few seconds to worship his arrow before sliding it across the bow and fitting the notch on the string. This particular arrow was special. He chiseled the head himself out of a quartzite rock.

The doe who liked to visit the oat field in the predawn hours was close by. Clint could feel her presence. This was the fourth time he followed it off his property and waited for her to turn upwind in the tree line. But today he had an edge—his brother. Jake came with him this morning, and was currently downwind of her. That really ought to do the trick.

Clint waited with elevated anticipation. He had every expectation of seeing the doe appear between the trees. Surely this occasion was meant to be, with the community barbeque happening later. Venison steaks and potatoes a la the Stonebreakers, to go with corn on the cob and watermelon grown by the Sherwoods. Now that would be a fitting way to celebrate the Fourth of July.

It was, admittedly, a bittersweet holiday this year. America hadn’t been herself lately. This wasn’t like the Fourth in 2002, when Americans set aside political partisanship and banded together as a country in the face of an evil foreign threat. The enemy this time was an unthinking microorganism—which somehow gained the ability to pierce the spirit much deeper than a human foe ever could. Having no purpose in life other than its own propagation, the virus succeeded in spreading a contaminant more destructive than any physical malady: despair. That was the real enemy.

But even the despair spawned by the devastating loss of life, widespread panic, and corresponding breakdown of society, failed to completely quell the American spirit. Clint realized this last night while watching the national news broadcast. For the first time in a long while he liked what he saw.

On the eve of America’s patriot-defining holiday, positive rallies had been organized across the country, at venues intentionally distanced from the food-drop locations. The people interviewed by the reporters at these gatherings were a stark contrast to the oddball-activist types—like the Solution Crusaders in Colorado—that Clint was tired of seeing. No, these new assemblers seemed to be ordinary folks who were sick of the cowering and uncertainty. Many of them hadn’t had a decent meal in days. Yet there they were, making their presence known in a public stance championing American fortitude. It was refreshing to see.

The recent encouraging developments were no doubt at least partially responsible for the new grass roots movement. One drug company announced an advanced-stage working vaccine for the ferret flu, but warned it would be months before enough of it could be produced for mass distribution. At least there was tangible hope now. The CDC asked the country to hang in there a while longer with the current travel restrictions and business shutdowns.

The stock market liked the news. So did the dollar. Both had tanked so completely, however, that any small upswings at this juncture were difficult to get overly-excited about. But it was something heartening to latch on to.

The new President’s asset confiscation program, officially called the
Emergency Estate Tax Measure
, did seem to be having a positive effect on the dollar. Another factor was pending legislation being rushed through both houses which would alter the current helicopter food-drop program. The President, being an outspoken liberal, was against it. But she would be forced to cooperate with the now Republican-dominated houses of legislature on this issue. The basic idea was that the food would be sold instead of given away at the drop locations. It would be priced appreciably inexpensive at first, and then gradually increased at regular intervals. This meant money would actually buy food again, and that would force the dollar to gain back value. Banks were expected to resume normal operations by the end of summer, if all went well, and were contractually obliged to accept the U.S. dollar in payment for all outstanding debt at the original terms. That would help, too—assuming the virus was defeated and society returned to a reasonable level of normalness.

Violent crime had reached an all-time high, and authorities were simply unequipped to handle it. The Secretary of Defense—now also the Vice President—publicly endorsed the proper legal forming of temporary local neighborhood militia groups as a result. He was ambiguous as to what extent he blessed the judicial autonomy of these still-somewhat-informal organizations. Clint figured that was intentional. It was conceivable that in their zeal, renegade law enforcers could become guilty of the same types of crimes they sought justice for. But, for now, there was still a greater threat to contend with.

Clint wondered if the potential end of the crisis being in sight would spur the home invasion raiders into a period of increased activity, so they could get their last hurrahs in.

Something moved in Clint’s field of vision, shaking him from his thoughts. The picture before him changed in a subtle way. It took his eyes a moment to identify the source of the transformation in the early morning light. Then he saw it. The doe’s head had appeared over a small willow bush. It looked directly at him for an extended moment. Clint remained frozen in place. The deer then put its head down to graze.

Clint had taken these types of shots before, shooting through brush to bag a deer. Just never with a bow and arrow. It was a good position for him. She wouldn’t see the movement of him drawing the bow.

For some reason, Clint thought about fireworks as he carefully pulled the string back and took aim. When he and Jake were kids, they used to love the Cincinnati fireworks shows after gorging themselves on hotdogs and homemade apple pie.

He let the arrow go. The gratification he experienced from hearing the “thunk” of it burying itself home was only exceeded by the subsequent thunk of his quarry hitting the ground.

“Was it a clean kill shot?” Jake asked when they met in the open field thirty minutes later. Clint knew the smile he was wearing probably exceeded the width of the field-dressed deer carcass on his shoulders.

“Almost. Take my bow, will you? I finished her off within a matter of seconds. Feel a little bad about it, but I’ve had messier kills with the rifle. At least with this method we’re forced to be close.”

Jake took the bow from Clint’s hand. “Great job, brother. I was optimistic after I turned her. Didn’t think I spooked her, either. Gave her a wide berth and let my scent do the work.”

“I needed you,” Clint said. “This was a team victory. What a holiday we’ll have now, huh? Think they’ll be any fireworks tonight?”

Jake laughed. “I was wondering the same thing, remembering the Fourths when we were kids. I’m sure they’ll be some front-yard fireworks from neighbors and folks in town. Now, if we only had some apple pie...”

The two of them trudged their way back across their own property line. Jake straddled the fence first and shouldered the load from there. Clint couldn’t wait to see the look on Harold and Jenny’s faces.

A dust cloud came into view at the same time their garden did. Too big for horses or bicycles. Cars were approaching on the road.

“That’s from more than one vehicle,” Jake said. His tone was one of concern. The two of them increased their pace.

“Oh, no!” Jake said when they reached the backyard. He dropped the doe on the picnic table. “Stay here, Clint. Let me handle this.” He jogged to the front of the house.

Clint couldn’t see the cars yet, but Jake must have gotten a clear glimpse. Clint stayed put as instructed, momentarily confused. Why was Jake so alarmed? If this was trouble, why didn’t he run inside to warn Harold and Jenny?

Then he saw them: army jeeps. Two, slowly coming up the driveway. Clint ignored Jake’s request and ran out front to meet them. Harold came out the front door as well. The three of them took a noble stance twenty yards in front of the porch, blocking the end of the driveway.

“You should have stayed back there,” Jake grumbled. He turned to Harold and frowned. “Handling these guys is my department.”

The Jeeps stopped and parked. Three soldiers emerged from each one. Three carried assault rifles. They looked familiar to Clint for some reason.

The three without rifles stepped forward. The soldier in front was black and held a tablet computer.

“Mr. Stonebreaker, I presume?”

“Yes,” Clint and Jake said in unison.

The soldier looked at Jake, tilted his head, and smiled coyly.

“Well, well, Jake. Here we are again. Decided to move in with family?”

“You have no business here, Robinson,” Jake said. “And I was forced to leave La Junta after your illicit pilfering of my property. Which, by the way, I’m not forgetting.”

“Neither are we. In any case, you are almost correct. We have no business with
you
here today. Perhaps your brother is a more reasonable and cooperative citizen. Let’s hope he acquired at a whit of wisdom after hearing your story.”

The soldier turned to Clint. “Clint Stonebreaker?”

“That’s correct.”

“Now wait a minute, Sergeant Robinson.” Jake tried to step in front of his brother.

Sergeant Robinson quickly backed up three steps. “Will you please step aside with me, Clint? Corporal Dalton, please restrain Jake. You’ve had some practice at that.”

The one he called Corporal Dalton came forward and reached towards Jake with a badly scarred arm. Jake took a combative stance in response.

“Wait,” Clint said, wrapping his arm backwards around the front of Jake, pushing him back slightly. “I’m happy to cooperate with whatever you need, Sergeant. My brother will, too. No need for any physical restraint. Jake, stay here.”

“Clint, no.”

“It’ll be all right,” Clint said to Jake. “Trust me.” He then separated himself from Jake and Harold by five yards. Jake wasn’t happy, but he stayed put. Sergeant Robinson looked back and forth between them several times and seemed satisfied.

“Looks like you have a thriving acreage, Mr. Stonebreaker. As your brother has no doubt told you, your country is seeking help from small farmers in providing food sources to its citizen during the current state of emergency. I’d like to ask you some questions about your production here.”

“We’ve got nothing here, Robinson!” Jake shouted. “No excess! There’s four of us living in this house, and we’re only providing for ourselves!”

 Sergeant Robinson neither turned to Jake’s voice nor acknowledged him in any way.

“I’m happy to show you boys around the property if you like,” Clint said, “and am perfectly willing to do whatever my country deems proper to help.”

“Excellent.” Sergeant Robinson turned behind him and waved for his men to follow. “We’d like a tour of the backyard.”

“Clint,” Jake said, “for the love of God, no. Don’t do it.”

Clint decided to also ignore Jake for now. He led the entire procession behind the house. Sergeant Robinson made some notes on his tablet as they passed the berry vines.

“Nice doe,” he said when they reached the backyard. “Get her this morning?”

“Yep. With a homemade bow and arrow.”

The sergeant lowered his tablet. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The bow’s on the table.”

All six soldiers walked to the table to check out the makeshift archery equipment. Two that carried guns expressed what seemed genuine admiration for the manner in which the deer was taken.

Sergeant Robinson, however, got right back to business.

“These are oats?” he asked waving at the field.

“Yes.”

“Not a very large crop.”

“No,” Clint said. “ Maybe a quarter acre.”

“How are the green beans doing?”

“Great. Ready for first pickings in a week or so.”

“What’s in the greenhouse?”

“Tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, and herbs. Take a look inside if you like.”

“Thanks, we will. What’s all this in the ground here?”

“Carrots, onions, cucumbers, beets. That row behind you is potatoes.”

“And on the trees?”

“Those two are persimmons. We’ll have plenty ripe in the fall if you care to come back then—assuming the ‘current state of emergency’ is still declared. Looks like it might not be, according to the news. These other two are chestnuts. Those won’t bear fruit for another five years. Pretty sure the state of emergency will be over by then, one way or another.”

“Anything inside the house?” Sergeant Robinson asked without missing a beat.

“You mean, like indoor produce growing?”

“Yes—that or any significant quantities of food stored.”

“Nothing stored,” Clint said. “Just a few cans of food left over from Jake’s. We do have mushrooms growing in a cupboard, along with a couple more buckets of potatoes.”

“How big is the mushroom crop?”

“Two cookie sheet’s worth. What’s that, three or four pounds, maybe?”

“Thank you. You’re all skilled hunters at this residence?”

“Just Jake and me.”

“Do you have any excess meat stored?”

“No. Not practical. We give it to our neighbors. It’s mostly small game. This is our first deer.”

Sergeant Robinson dropped the tablet to his side and looked around. “Your brother wasn’t lying this time. You don’t appear to have much excess, other than the berries. Hardly worth our effort.”

“You’re welcome to all the berries you like,” Clint said.

Sergeant Robinson looked at Corporal Dalton.

“More berries?” Corporal Dalton groaned.

The sergeant turned back to Clint. “Well, we could take some potatoes. But the load would be rather small. And since we kind of owe your brother a break…” he looked at Jake. Clint hoped Jake would have the good sense to say something gracious.

Instead, Jenny said something—loudly, from the upstairs loft window.

“Clint! Guys! The security system’s going crazy! You better come up here and take a look at the screen—could be trouble at the Stuart’s again! Motorcyclists at his barn!”

Just as she finished speaking, the Stuart’s air horn signal sounded.

“Dammit!” Clint said. “On the Fourth of July. Don’t these crooks ever take a holiday? Sergeant, can you help us? That’s the alarm from our neighbor to the west. He had problems with armed bikers rolling up on him before.”