American Apocalypse Wastelands (15 page)

She laughed; a shaky sounding laugh, but a laugh. “No, I'm sure he'll be back. I'll get it then. Thanks.”

Max looked around slowly, addressing no one and everyone. “We are using the equipment because we need to. We will not keep it. I asked if there were any local authorities because I wanted them to know of our equipment use, and that we plan to return it. I apologize for disturbing your meal. Thank you.”

He sat down. I wanted to applaud but decided not to.
The diner slowly returned to normal. The buzz of conversation resumed. Heck, we had probably given everyone within a couple miles something new to talk about for the next week. We sat there. I was enjoying my coffee. Max was working on eye contact with Shelli when the old guy came up to our table.

“Excuse me. I just wanted to say thank you for putting Gil in his place.”

“Not a problem. Care to join us?”

He did, which meant I had to move over to give him room.

“Gil wasn't always an asshole,” he continued. “He just hasn't adjusted well to not having any money.” As an aside he added, “A lot of us haven't.”

Max nodded. “Yep. It's been rough.”

This was what Max was good at. Talking to people. He could project a strong, nonjudgmental, and caring attitude at the flick of a switch. People ate it up, especially the scared and lost ones.

Old Guy paused. Even I knew he had something he wanted to say. You could tell he was trying to control both the flow of his words and the naked need behind what he had to say. He almost did, too.

“Well, I am a pretty good operator. I learned in the Seabees way back when. And, well, I could use some work and . . .” He stopped. His hands were on top of the table. They looked old, brown, ropey, and scarred. No wedding ring either.

“Seabees, huh?” Max said pensively. “You know anything about building berms?”

The Old Guy grinned. “Some. Did a year in Kuwait in '05 with KBR. We did some of that. Pushing sand is a lot different than pushing clay. It don't stay put. That was some good money that year.”

“Okay, I tell you what. Find Tommy and tell him I said to start you up. We will see how you work out today, and then we can dicker about how expensive you are going to be. Sound like a winner?”

He stood up. “Yes, sir! You are going to be surprised! I'm damn good. Thank you!” He reached over the table, shook Max's hand, nodded at me, and left.

Shelli walked up to the table “Well, you guys are good at one thing, that's for sure. You sure can empty out a diner.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next week or so passed fairly quickly. The Old Guy was as good as he said he was. Between him and Tommy, the main part of the berm that ran in front of the farmhouse and the dogleg in the approach road were done in a week. They started working on the side berm. Old Guy said he knew where he could get some gravel. Making the dogleg had required creating a short stretch of dirt road, and we needed to lay gravel on it.

I was helping out where I could. I built the watch platforms and walkways on the interior side of the berm. I used wood salvaged from different places to frame the platforms, most of it from an old barn down the road. I found out pretty quickly that the muscles I'd developed while walking here weren't the same ones used to run a shovel. I was sore for days.

It was a good time despite the heat and labor. We would break for lunch, made for us by Night. We ate it sitting on the porch and washed it down with sun tea. Tommy and the Old Guy would talk about heavy equipment and lie about fish they had caught at the pond over
by Route 235. Night would talk about her day. I would sit and listen to her and to my body talking to me.

I was drinking a gallon of water a day working out there in the sun. Tommy and Old Guy weren't far behind me.

The kids would come out in the late afternoon to play on the hills or just watch Tommy run the equipment. Woof would investigate and sniff-check everything ahead of them. By the second day Old Guy had started staying over to have dinner with us.

Max was around, but never for long. He would spend a few hours working with us and then head into town. I asked him what he was up to and his reply was “Politicking.” He was also making phone calls. The day after we finished the main berm, he pulled us off the side berm so we could provide security for a deal.

 

A couple days earlier he had explained to us after dinner that he was going to have to sell a significant part of the trade goods, especially the medicine, to raise enough gold to buy the stuff we needed. We needed ammo. You could never have enough ammo. Plus, we needed some other hardware and food.

Night was handling our logistics. She had made up a list of non-weapon-related items. She called it her “shopping list.”We spent valuable time in bed discussing how many pairs of underwear and socks we might need. Nothing was too trivial for the shopping list or for discussion. I felt like screaming, “Damn! I don't care about an adequate supply of toothbrushes! I just want to get naked!”

The night before the deal, Max told us, “These people that we're dealing with are somewhat iffy as far as what I
know about them. They are outside-the-Zone types and have been vouched for. The person who connected us up is known to me, but I heard a bit of hesitation in his voice that I didn't like.”

We didn't hide the discussion from Old Guy, nor did we ask him if he wanted a piece of it. It was up to him.

He volunteered. “Hell, I can help you out. You're going to need another body that can point a gun. Plus, it beats pushing dirt in the summertime.”

Max asked him what he had in the way of weapons. He had a bolt-action 30.06 and the .45 he wore on his belt. A lot of older guys and a fair number of the vets preferred the .45 to the 9-millimeter. I had asked Max about it once and he had told me, “If I pull the trigger on someone, that means I want him to die.” He didn't offer any more and I knew him just well enough by then to let it slide.

“I got maybe forty rounds for the rifle. I do a bit of deer hunting now and then. Used to be I would carry it in the cab of whatever I was running. You would be out there doing site work and scare up deer all the time.”

Max asked him to bring it the next day. Before the light went bad and we broke for dinner, Max had him run ten rounds through his rifle. He was right. He was a deer shooter—competent at a hundred yards, but he wasn't going to be a sniper.

We did a walk-through that night on how we were going to handle the deal. Old Guy would get the Barrett and a seat at the second-story window looking down on the yard. Tommy would have been a better choice, but you work with what you have. Instead, Tommy would be on the porch with a shotgun. Night and her shotgun
would take the other side but at an angle; we didn't want to shoot our own people. Max would do the talking and wear his usual weapon. I would hang back a bit and watch from the top of the berm. I was going to tote a shotgun also. The kids and Woof would head to Donna's house for the day.

Max told us not to be surprised if they came in government vehicles or if we saw a uniform or two. They may have been based outside the Zone, but the weapons they were trading were government bought. Local law enforcement that worked the Zone, or the area just outside of it, got a lot of free ordnance courtesy of Homeland Security. Apparently they weren't averse to selling some of their older stock. They had also begun hiring out as mercenaries to guard conveys and for personal security. Their IDs came in handy in case of a surprise checkpoint.

This swap was to be pharmaceuticals for weapons.

I asked Max, “What happened to the part where we trade for gold?”

“Gold is in real demand now. No one wants to give up any. They want it but they won't spend it.”

“Why?”

“Because it's a supply and demand thing. Weapons are not a big deal to get now if you have the right trade goods. Decent pharmaceuticals are harder to find than weapons. Gold is the hardest to get because everyone thinks it's going to be worth a lot more, and soon at that.”

“What do you think, Max?”

“I think they're right. The only problem is it draws a lot of attention. Soon it will be Fed-level attention. We don't need that.”

“Why's that?” I was genuinely puzzled.

He didn't say anything. Night answered for him, “Because the Feds are running on paper with nothing behind it. They have been running on bullshit and yesterday's habits for the past few years. We accept it because we can't conceive of not accepting it. The rest of the world doesn't have that problem. We believe in it because to not believe in it is too freaking scary. It's all make-believe and has been for awhile.”

“Oh, okay.” I didn't really give a damn about the dollar. Money didn't make me happy. Night did.

 

We sat on the porch the next day waiting for them. Tommy had the binoculars and was upstairs watching the road. An hour after they were due to arrive he yelled down, “They're coming!” He came leaping down the stairs, and Old Guy passed him, going up to his post.

I went up the ramp I had built on the inside of the berm, moving to where I could look down on the cars after they cleared the dogleg. They had to slow to a crawl to navigate it. I realized while watching them approach that we should have a log or something we could drop across the entrance. Just because they slowed down didn't mean they came to stop. The dogleg bought time, but it wouldn't be enough time if we were attacked, especially at night.

Max walked out and stood in the middle of the yard about twenty feet back from the berm entrance, waiting for them. They arrived in two black Chevy Suburbans, the three-quarter-ton model—the SUV of choice for nine out of nine Homeland Security-equipped agencies. The blue lights on the dashboard confirmed it.

The lead vehicle stopped about a foot short of Max. He didn't flinch. In fact, he looked bored.

They had the windows down and guys sitting in the sideways Secret Service-style seats looking out. The rear doors opened on each side of the lead vehicle. From the left-side passenger door a white male stepped out wearing a blue T-shirt with POLICE printed in white on the back. His handgun rode high on his hip.

Two seconds later, another male stepped out from the opposite side. He was wearing a white dress shirt and black dress pants. He had his weapon in a black leather FBI-style holster. While the other guy had on tan boots, this guy wore dress shoes—wing tips would be my guess. He had to be management.

The passenger doors opened on the other vehicle, but nobody exited. The two who had just gotten out didn't bother to shut their doors.

“Hey, Max! Everything cool?” Wing Tips called out.

Max walked around to meet him. “Yep, so far, Sheriff.”

Police T-shirt had circled around and was now standing behind Max. I was not thrilled about that. Max did not even seem to notice.

The sheriff held up his hands. “It's cool, Max. How do you want to do this?”

“Why don't you unload what you brought and we will see what we can do.”

He nodded. “Sounds good. My people are going to get out of the vehicles and start unloading. I want to do this quickly. We have approximately one hour and ten minutes before the next drones pass. I want to be five miles east of here by then. Where do you want it?”

“Stack it by the stairs going up to the porch. That would be fine.”

“Alright, people! Let's unload.” He walked over and stood next to Max. “After this, maybe we can be more civilized the next time. You know, you could invite me up on the porch, and we could drink something cold and talk shit for a while.”

“Yep. Right now let's talk about what you got coming off the truck.”

The sheriff sighed. “Okay, man. This hardcore thing is going to make you old before your time.” He nodded toward the first crate two guys were bringing out. “You can keep the crates. We made them special for this at no extra charge.”

Max just stared at him.

“Okay, moving on.” He looked at the taller of the two guys at the crate. “Pop the top, and let's do show-and-tell.”

The guy walked back to the SUV and returned with a short pry bar. I really dislike the sound of wood and nails being separated.

“What I got for you, Max, is old. Everything is old. It's functional to the best of my knowledge, but what you are getting is armory clearance stuff. The Feds won't support it, so we might as well dispose of it. What you got there is the M-14. I have no clue why we had them. Probably bought or given to the department by the government in the late 1960s, just in case the Russians came. They were supposed to be destroyed back during the Clinton administration but someone overlooked them.”

Max had already pulled one from the crate and was looking at it. He nodded. “Not a bad weapon. Better than the M-16 in some ways.”

“Well, you got ten of them. I can probably do ten more. We aren't the only department to have them buried in the back. The National Guard destroyed all of theirs a while back. I couldn't get you a lot of what you asked for. No night scopes. No M-60s. Actually, anything manufactured later than 1970 or that can generate serious firepower is not going to happen. At least not from me. I got Fed accountability problems and I got my own people to look after. So, you want to see the rest?”

Max said, “Sure.”

“Good. I thought you would.”

What he had were five pump riot shotguns, two flak jackets, and ammo for the shotguns and the M-14s. For handguns, he had six Colt .357 revolvers and six cases of .357 ammo.

“The Colts are the only things I got for you made later than the seventies. I think they are left over from when the department switched to the Beretta in the early eighties. Or was it the Glock? Hell, I don't remember. That was five sheriffs ago at least.”