Tread Fearless: Survival & Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 4) (14 page)

Mark nodded and said without turning, “That was a good idea, protecting those stores.”

“Yeah, securing them is really paying off, but Cabela’s more than most. The equipment you see around here . . . most of it came from Cabela’s. And the guns and such for the deputies, same thing,” replied Ed. “Oh, and let’s not forget the water tower. We secured that as well.”

Mark wondered what the interruption to the water supply meant to the town’s survivors, but he realized he didn’t really care. He was more curious about how the sheriff justified the acquisition of the stores. Not that he would have done it any differently, still, Mark wondered how much Green’s security effort influenced the wellbeing of the general population in the area. Who benefited from his law and order?

To allow key stores to fall into the hands of looters was not in the best interest of any community interested in survival, especially one that bordered a city the size of Austin. But if the resources within those stores was denied to the needy, then the looting aspect only changed
by a few degree. Even well-armed and deputized men could be considered looters if they took control of food and supplies that didn’t actually belong to them.

Mark rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses and said, “It must have been a nightmare around here . . . with everyone looking for food and water.”

“It was at first,” replied Ed. “There’s close to a million folks living in Austin. The city itself was . . . well, pretty much a bloodbath. That’s why Sheriff Green moved his operations center up here.”

“What happened to the city police force?”

“Don’t know for sure, but I was told they were completely overrun. The chief was killed in his car as he tried to evacuate the headquarters. It’s one of the buildings still burning,” replied Ed, as he turned to face the city once again. He pointed again and said, “See that heavy column of smoke there, the one in the middle? That’s the capitol building. It’s been burning since the beginning.”

Mark nodded, but said nothing. He continued to survey the surrounding landscape, taking in all the details he could in preparation for his departure and continued movement north. There was nothing about working for Green that appealed to him at the moment. He would hear the man out, assess the situation and determine how best to proceed with his planned rejection, but he had no desire to become a part of some modern day fiefdom.

Until then, Mark knew he needed to play along, to appear grateful, supportive and interested. But there was something off-putting about Green’s operations; something about his actions and timing that bothered him. Mark felt that either Green was very shrewd, or very lucky. He couldn’t put his finger on which one ruled, but there was something unusual about the sheriff’s timing and actions that seemed wrong to Mark.

After a momentary pause, Ed pointed toward the shopping center once again and asked, “Do you see that building over there . . . to the left of the stores?”

“Behind the cinema?” asked Mark.

“Yes,” replied Ed.

“It looks like a school?” added Mark.

Ed nodded and said, “It is. That’s Aikens High. Some government folks are over there now . . . setting it up to be some kind of refugee or relief center for Austin.”

“Really?” asked Mark. He regretted not having his field glasses with him to get a better look. “How long have they been working over there?”

“About three days.”

“So they’re not taking people . . . I mean refugees, yet?” asked Mark.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been briefed on it yet. But I’m sure Sheriff Green can answer that question for you when you guys talk. All I know is that the pressure to prevent lawlessness, and feed so many people in the area, is taking a toll on him . . . and it’s depleting all the resources. I think he reached out to the FEMA folks just after the attack at the gas station.”

“What happened at the gas station?”

“You see that Shell station down there . . . near the entrance of the neighborhood?”

“I do,” replied Mark, as he followed Ed’s pointed finger yet again.

“Well, about three days ago a group of armed men attacked the gas station and killed four guards and three civilians. It was a real Hollywood shootout, only much bloodier. I didn’t realize how bloody gunfights can be. You’re a soldier . . . you know what I’m talking about don’t you?” asked Ed.

“That I do,” replied Mark. “Was the gas station still pumping?”

“Only for law enforcement and emergency vehicles. The owner closed it down and put guards on it from the start. We were operating it by generator when the attack happened.”

“You were saying,” prompted Mark.

“The attack came from several eye witness reports. I only saw the mess at the end . . . but it started with a single pickup. Eight men, five of them hiding in the back under a tarp, jumped up and started shooting
as soon as the truck pulled up. After the opposition was eliminated, ten more vehicles pulled in and they started fueling up.”

“How’d they manage that from the pumps?”

“They threatened the manager at gun point inside the store . . . and then they shot him as they left,” replied Ed, with a faintly distant and eerie sound to his voice.

Mark cleared his throat and Ed immediately returned to the present. “Anyway, it’s like I said, right after the attack ten more vehicles pulled in. They were loaded with women and children. While they refueled the women cleaned out everything in the store . . . they took everything . . . loaded it up in their cars and headed south.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” replied Mark. “Things were bad in my neighborhood, too.”

Ed stared at Mark for a moment and said, “I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I never thought people could act that way. It really upset the sheriff . . . but the folks in Onion Creek were fit to be tied. The station manager lived in the neighborhood, and everyone liked him.”

“You guys weren’t up here when it happened?”

“No, but we were in the process of making the move. If something like that happened today, things would have turned out different,” replied Ed.

Mark acknowledged Ed’s comment with a sign and asked, “How far is his reach today?”

“The sheriff’s?” After Mark’s nod, Ed replied with, “Um, north to our side of the bridge over the Colorado River . . . east to TX-45 just past the airport . . . south to about Kyle, and then west to Mopac. I don’t know if those landmarks mean anything to you, but that’s the general range of our armed patrols. As for real control, well, we can handle about two square miles from this camp, but when we go farther than that things begin to get dangerous even for our patrols. As for the scouts, well, they can go anywhere we need. They’re really good at blending in. That’s how we get most of our intelligence,” finished Ed.

“If you guys don’t control the city, then who does?”

“Nobody . . . at least nobody official. Gangs mostly I think. It’s what Sheriff Green calls, a free-fire zone. That’s why we stop our patrols at the edge of Ladybird Johnson Lake.” Mark was unfamiliar with the reference, and must have shown it because Ed added, “That’s what the locals call the Colorado River through the city. The dam turned it into what they like to call a lake.”

Mark nodded and asked, “Is he alone? Is Sheriff Green the only one providing security in the area?”

“It seems that way for the time being. We made radio contact with a military unit up north, near Georgetown, but we weren’t able to link up with them.”

“An active duty unit?” asked Mark.

“I believe so,” replied Ed, “But you should hear the rest from the sheriff and his staff.”

“He’s got a staff?” asked Mark.

“Sure does. He’s even using a military format. He’s got an S1 for personnel management, an S2 for intelligence, and an S3 for . . .”

“I get the picture,” interrupted Mark.

“That’s right, I forgot you’re military. It took a while for most of us to get comfortable with the sheriff’s military stuff, but it makes sense to me now that we are organized,” replied Ed with a pause and smile. “You ready to go meet him?”

“No time like the present,” answered Mark. “And thanks for showing me around. I really appreciate it.”

“Ah, don’t mention it. How bout . . . thanks for not killing me back at the checkpoint,” teased Ed.

Mark grunted and said, “Only if I thought you were a danger to me.”

Ed saw that Mark was serious, and he was momentarily shocked into silence. The reaction was noticed by Mark, so he praised Ed’s actions by saying, “You did a good job controlling those guys back there. You’re a natural leader.”

It was Ed’s turn to grunt and say, “Well, please don’t tell Green. I’m comfortable with my current level of responsibility. I don’t want a promotion,” and then he began to walk away.

Mark followed and offered, “You mean
Sheriff
Green, right?”

Ed laughed and said, “Yeah, that’s what I meant. You learn quickly. You must have been a good soldier.”

“So I was told,” replied Mark. “So I was told.”

When they entered the church through the large doors under the portico, the two men were immediately greeted by the guard stationed behind a desk in the middle of the vestibule. After a quick ID check for Ed, and a record of Mark entering the command center as a guest, the two were permitted to continue unescorted into the church.

The church’s interior looked like most other churches Mark had entered during his lifetime. Complete with dark red carpet and hanging religious banners and tapestries, it presented a feeling of reverence despite its recent change in purpose. On the few bare spots around the walls hung hand-written signs, rosters, and schedules. None of them related to the church and its functions.

Offices to the right of the hall seemed to be serving as living quarters, for the windows were dark and covered with newspaper. To the left stood three sets of double-doors. Ed went to the center most set and pulled one open. Mark followed him in, and was surprised at what he saw. Every pew had been lifted and moved to the outer edge of the chapel. In their place were countless plywood partitions on stands that came up to Mark’s eye level. The partitions were arranged into work spaces and cubicle-like offices.

The chapel’s interior was well lit from the light streaming in through the windows, but also from the suspended florescent light fixtures. And it was noisy, too. A common occurrence when many small groups of people compete to be heard over their verbal competitors. Despite its vastness, the chapel was hot and stuffy. Mark guessed that either the air conditioners didn’t rate the use of the available solar power, or it wasn’t enough to push them. Either way, he wondered why they didn’t at least prop the doors open.

The smell of old coffee, stale food, and unwashed bodies was another familiar aspect of op-center life for Mark. After living and working in many third-world countries, and with deployed American units even, close and busy concentrations of smelly men and women didn’t bother him.

And the longer the mission, the smellier the foxhole, or at least what ran for a foxhole in today’s army. For Mark, a foxhole had been a commercial van, a shipping container, a Humvee, or more to the point, a ditch in a field somewhere while he monitored enemy activity. Either way, the smell seemed to bother Ed much more than it bothered Mark, for he sneezed twice as soon as they entered the chapel.

“This place smells,” said Ed to the first man he passed in the chapel.

“I don’t smell anything,” replied the man, and he walked past without breaking stride.

Mark followed closely, and once again he ignored the curious glances of people as they peeked at him from over the top, or around the sides, of their partitions. The interior of the chapel was arranged with the S2 and S4 work areas in the back, and the S1 and S3 to the front. A wide walkway ran the length of the chapel down its center.

Other than the designated staff signs, a few maps, diagrams, and other documents, the only thing that adorned the partitions were a few dozen, metal folding chairs. They sat interspersed along the center partition walls as if waiting for someone to sit on them. Mark doubted they served as a waiting area, but then again, he just got there and didn’t really know what else the command center was being used for.

Ed walked directly to the partitioned cubicle marked S2. Mark realized he was either heading there for a debriefing, or to get a security badge. He didn’t really care, because he had no feeling of fear or apprehension. As far as he was concerned, stepping into the command center was like stepping into the army, and he was comfortable in the army.

Before passing through the opening of the S2 cubicle, Mark paused to look down the length of the chapel. At the end, on the raised platform
where a choir might sing, and the pastor address his flock from the podium, stood a large, and obviously well-built black man. He was writing quickly on a twelve-foot, roller-mounted, dry-erase board. Mark couldn’t see what the man was writing with his blue marker, but it looked to be the makings of some kind of mission or operation.

He was about to ask if that was Sheriff Green, when Ed grabbed his shirt sleeve and gently pulled him into the S2’s cubicle. When the woman sitting behind the laptop computer looked up, Mark gasped with surprise and began to cough. He involuntarily inhaled saliva into his lungs, and turned away to clear his throat so he could breathe, and even hopefully speak again.