Lines in Shadow: Walking in the Rain Page 4

  “Yeah, I guess those are nice to have. I used to have friends and family. Now, I’ve got this box. That’s it. And I can only hide out in here for so long.”

  Scott wanted to ask if her old friend Candace had come by to see her, but he was unsure of what to do if the answer was no. Had the two women parted on good terms, as Katrina intimated, or was she another sorority skank his nephew’s wife jettisoned when she entered the world of grownups? Not sure what to do, Scott punted and left the issue alone. Not his problem, and he didn’t care enough to ask for more detail.

  “Well, that box actually has a bed and a chemical toilet, so you are ahead of some folks here. We’ve just about reached the limit of what the home place can absorb, and the other farms are crowded, too. Maybe you can talk to Darwin and Hazel when you get out.”

  “That’s your brother and his wife, right? Mark’s parents. I don’t know if I’ve ever met them before.”

  She paused. Maybe she was thinking, or going over something in her memory. What she said next signaled a change of topic.

  “So how did your family rate getting National Guard protection here? I mean, your family isn’t politically connected or anything. I know you are, or were, a cop of some kind, but that doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”

  Scott shrugged but answered anyway. Best to be up front with the obvious, he decided, and the reason was no secret. Plenty of people already knew, which was one of the main reasons for all the security.

  “Food. We have some crops that need protection, and the Guard has people who need to eat. We took in a bunch of refugees, and had a functioning defense force in place before the Guard showed up. They needed places to base their troops, and their families, and a way to feed them. That’s all.”

  That wasn’t everything by a long stretch, but Scott wasn’t prepared to share anything else with a stranger. He wasn’t going to say anything about his brother’s efforts to unite the other farms along the road or other plans in place.

  “Makes sense. As much as anything does. I’ll talk to your brother tomorrow, if he’ll see me. What’s up with this quarantine stuff, anyway? Just another way to keep the rest of the world at arm’s length, seems to me.”

  Scott felt his ire stir a bit at that comment, but he bit back the angry retort and simply explained the facts of life to the woman.

  “Lots of diseases going around right now. Cholera, typhoid, and the like. Mostly spread by bad water, but you can be a carrier as well. Our waste treatment system is stretched, and we don’t need anybody spreading anything. But I’m sure Cassie told you all this already.”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “That doctor lady was around this morning. Took some samples. I can’t believe she actually has any way to test blood or sputum here.”

  “Believe it. May not be as fancy as in a hospital, but we try. This place can’t afford any kind of outbreak right now.”

  Scott was thinking about what Conners had passed along, about the siege at Fort Chaffee, and that prompted his next question.

  “How did you keep your water clean at the camp?”

  “Daddy insisted on boiling it. A lot of folks did, at first, but later on, not everybody kept up with it. Too much trouble to go get firewood, and some people stopped.”

  “And the ones that stopped were the ones that got sick,” Scott said, completing her sentence. This was a common failure, a slide into laziness that often resulted in an ugly death from dysentery.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Katrina agreed. “So the water was polluted after all?”

  “Of course. Your father knew it would be, and that’s why he kept to boiling.”

  “Well, it didn’t make any difference in the end, did it?” Katrina said bitterly. “He kept us alive and found food for us and he still died. And mom certainly died, too. So what good did all that work accomplish?”

  “He did it to keep you alive, and your mother,” Scott replied, more sharply than he intended. “He maybe couldn’t stop a busload of raiders from attacking your camp, but your father did everything in his power to protect his family. That’s all a father can do, Katrina. That’s his job.”

  Spinning on his heel, Scott stalked away from the small hut and headed for his barracks. He was tired, and sore, and despite the gruff, unaffected exterior he maintained, his heart hurt for the woman he was leaving to her grief. And for the dead little child turned into a pig roast by animals no longer fit to be called human.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Eat your food, Daddy,” the little girl admonished, and Scott couldn’t stop grinning at his daughter.

  Isabella was tall for her age, but painfully thin, and Scott was usually the one pushing food of her. They sat at the outside tables, surrounded by family and close friends as the first hints of predawn light were still peeking over the horizon.

  “Yes, my princess,” he replied, and then turned, pretending to offer his oatmeal laden spoon to little Sophia, sitting next to him in her mother’s lap. His niece, Ruthie, chuckled as well and hugged the seven-month-old close to “protect” her even as the tiny girl opened her mouth like a baby bird. Stan, Ruthie’s husband, covered his face as he stifled a guffaw.

  Sophia was eating solid food, of course, but still needed the oatmeal to be ground much finer than what her uncle was eating. That didn’t matter to the hungry almost-toddler, as she lunged for the offered bounty. Laughing now, Ruthie was quick to plug Sophia’s mouth with a spoonful of the more appropriately prepared portion of the boiled oats.

  “Uncle Scottie,” Ruthie cried out in mock consternation, “You are too much. You shouldn’t tease these little girls so.”

  “Ah, come on, honey,” Stan said, defending the older man, “Scott can’t help it. That little girl of his has clearly driven him insane. Remember all the times he spent begging and pleading for the little critter to eat her food? This is the sad, sad result.”

  “Uncle Stan,” Isabella protested with all the wounded dignity an eight-year-old could muster, “I didn’t drive my Daddy crazy. He was already like that when I found him!”

  Despite the horrors of the day before, or perhaps because of them, Scott made the effort this morning to enjoy his time with his daughter and his family. Seated at the clutch of wooden picnic tables, Scott Keller was surrounded by the people he cared most for in the world.

  He saw his brother Darwin and his wife Hazel at the next table, seated next to their son, Nick, and his wife, Leslie, and their kids. Scott saw Nick was leaning over, speaking softly in his father’s ear, no doubt imparting some news unfit for little ears. When he caught Darwin’s glance in his direction, the topic of conversation was immediately clear. At Dar’s subtle nod, Scott returned the gesture and turned back to his table mates.

  “So, tell us about the new woman, Uncle Scott,” Ruthie said, her voice taking on a sly edge that the young mother still couldn’t quite carry off. She was a joy to her uncle, and Scott found her husband, Stan, to be a good man, as well as a steady hand with a rifle. A man you could trust to watch your back.

  “I don’t know there’s much to tell. She showed up the other night looking for the Guard. Upset, as you might imagine, when she found out they couldn’t help her family. I don’t know what she is going to do now. She can’t go back to their camp after what happened.” He answered the question soberly, picking his words due to the little ears listening, and from her slight frown he could tell Ruthie felt bad for putting him on the spot. Sophia didn’t notice, but Scott could tell his daughter must have picked up on the nature of the topic.

  “So, her Mommy and Daddy are dead? That’s terrible. Are you going to find out who did it?” Isabella asked, and the table suddenly fell silent. Scott wondered, for the hundredth time, how to answer his daughter’s questions and once again, decided to go with the truth.

  “I don’t know if we can find the once responsible, Bella, but I’m going to try.”

  Seeing his daughter nod in approval at his plan, Scott figured he’d done right again. Being a
father to a smart little girl was no easy task, and the older she got, the more difficult he found it providing the right answers for the little girl.

  Scott was relieved from any more tough talk at the table as a radio call broke the relative quiet of the morning’s activities. Glancing quickly around, he saw Nick with the walkie-talkie and reading his nephew’s face, the message wasn’t good news. Almost never was, he realized, as Nick signed off quickly and then looked around the gathering.

  “Scott, grab your gear and your boys. Full combat loadout. Stan, get your team together to take over at the new blockhouse. Second Squad is rolling into town, and Conners has requested a one of our squads for backup. Scott, you and me are going with our teams. Just got a message at the shack about an attack in Gentry. If we hurry, we might get there in time to save some of them.”

  Scott nodded, pushing his plate aside and standing quickly to his full height. He was a big man, tall and powerfully built, though much slimmed down in the last few months by hard work and a notable absence of junk food in his diet. He suddenly grabbed up his daughter in a tight bear hug, kissing the top of her head before depositing her back into her seat. Then pivoting, he took off at a run for the barracks.

  Isabella watched her father’s back until he was out of earshot, then turned her attention to Ruth, busy giving her husband a hug with Sophia cheerfully lodged in the middle of the mix. Ruth looked worried, a little, but perhaps also relieved that her man wasn’t going into the heat of battle just yet. Then the man turned as well and started off at a run to the house.

  Gathering up the abandoned plates, Isabella waited until Ruth was paying attention to her surroundings again before asking the question on the tip of her tongue.

  “Ruth, why does Daddy always have to go? Every time there’s a call on the radio, he and Uncle Nick or Uncle Mark always go to help. Every time, my Daddy always has to be there.”

  Isabella’s voice held no accusation, just a simple need to know, and Ruth felt her own heart go out to the little girl. Setting Sophia back in her high chair, Ruth started helping her little cousin in clearing the table. Usually Isabella called her Aunt Ruth, even though she was not, in fact, the little girl’s aunt. There was a message too, in the way Isabella addressed her. Ruth knew she was being asked for a grownup explanation to the girl’s very mature question.

  “Isabella, sometimes we need the very best the family has to stand between us and danger. Your Daddy, and my brothers, were all trained how to do certain things. Just like whenever somebody gets hurt, we all call for Aunt Cassie. Or if one of the tractors breaks down, my Stan is one of the men who gets called to fix it. Anybody can put a Band-Aid on a cut, or put diesel in the tractor’s fuel tank, but sometimes we need the best people trained for something to be the ones to respond.”

  She paused, feeling like she was screwing up her explanation, and then forged ahead.

  “It might not seem right to you, having to see your daddy get called away so much, but he is doing what he can to protect you and do right by everybody here.”

  “So, when Daddy has to go like this, does that mean shit needs to be broken and bodies need to be stacked? Because I heard Daddy say that to one of his friends, that this was a job for the Marines.”

  Isabella said it so casually that at first, she thought she might have misheard the little girl’s words. Then, she fought a mighty battle not to break out in laughter at what the girl said so innocently, not doubt quoting someone else. Instead, she forced what she hoped was a stern expression on her face.

  “Bella, did your daddy know you were listening when he said that?”

  Pausing for a moment to think, Isabella finally shook her head.

  “I don’t think so. I was taking a nap I and heard him talking to Mr. Pete out on the deck. I know Daddy was a Marine, but he always said he fixed helicopters. I don’t know why he said that to Mr. Pete.”

  “Well, you know it isn’t polite to eavesdrop, don’t you?” Ruth said, again trying to practice her stern mother routine. If nothing else, she looked at it as practice for when her own little girl started growing up and started asking unfortunate questions.

  “But I wasn’t. Honest,” Isabella protested. “I just wanted a drink of water. And anyway, I think they were drinking beer, too.” She added this last bit at a near whisper, willing to throw her father under the bus to excuse her own perceived bad behavior.

  This was the last straw. Ruth felt her composure crack, and then shatter. The moment took on a surreal quality, as if she were looking at the scene from outside her own body.

  Everywhere else, men and women scrambled to get trucks loaded for what many feared would be a life or death struggle, and Ruth found herself laughing until tears ran down her face. Isabella was not amused, but Sophia thought her mommy acting funny was hilarious too, and joined into the laughter.

  As Scott emerged from his quarters, running as fast as his old legs would carry him while struggling under fifty pounds of weapons, water, and ammo, he saw his niece holding a tearful Isabella and a curiously joyful Sophia as the three sat at the partially cleared breakfast table. Shrugging, he shelved any questions for the moment as Keith, Ben, and Mike all followed him out of the structure. He’d find out later, he decided.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Normally, getting into Gentry would not have been a problem. Early on, some civic-minded soul had taken the time to clear a path through the stalled vehicles to allow access. The troops knew where they were going and even had they not known the destination, the drivers could have followed the sounds of the gunfire. The steady chatter of 5.56mm on burst was countered by the heavier bangs of hunting rifles being used in a slower, methodical rate of fire.

  Lieutenant Conners, pushing down on his helmet and briefly sticking his head out of the uparmored Humvee for a better look, ordered his lead driver to take a round-about approach to the furniture store that housed the new Community Center in downtown Gentry. From the volume of fire, Conners knew the battle was still going on, and the last thing the young officer wanted was to blunder into an ambush. This attack, occurring in broad daylight and coming on the heels of the coordinated attacks against the state forest camps, made the soldier cautious.

  Using their encrypted short range radios, the lieutenant directed the dispersal of the forces under his command and the two trucks bringing up the rear of the four vehicle convoy quickly fell back another hundred yards to comply with their new orders. While the National Guard troops would use the mounted machine guns on their Humvee to break up and distract the attackers hunkered down behind their buses on the street, the auxiliaries would be tasked with securing the two buildings to the south of the furniture store. That put Nick and Scott guarding their backs and flanks, and both men knew they likely faced more attackers using the stout brick structures for cover.

  Rather than splitting his forces, Conners intended to deploy them where they could do the most good. Scott saw what the Humvees were doing, and figured it was as good a plan as any. Despite his time in the Corps many years ago, he wasn’t a strategic thinker and never was. Leave that to Conners, and to his nephew Nick, who learned the trade as a non-commissioned officer in the Army.

  Ben drove the battered old diesel farm truck, and Scott rode shotgun, while Mike and Keith sat on the bench seat in rear of the cab, cramped and anxious to get started. All four had their heads on a swivel, constantly moving and scanning for ambush, and Scott continued to talk them in as they approached the rear of Auntie’s Antiques, the three-story building adjacent to the long defunct Stiles Furniture Store.

  “Stack up on the door in standard file, men,” he said, his voice deep and commanding over the sound of the engine and the approaching gunfire. “We will clear in pairs this time. As soon as we make entry and clear the back storage area, Ben, you and Keith will hold the doors leading out to booth spaces on the ground floor. Mike, you and I will head upstairs. Clear two, then clear three. Only after we signal two and three are clear, only after,�
�� Scott repeated, “will you boys clear the rest of the first floor. That will let us make sure the upstairs are solid. Mike, we move fast and shoot anything that moves. Don’t hesitate. You got me?”

  “I got you, Scott. Full speed ahead all the way.”

  The men knew this building. Scott was impressed that Conners remembered that tidbit, given everything. They’d worked with the owner over a month ago, aiding him in evacuating his family out of the apartments up on the third floor in exchange for some of the kerosene lamps and other useful items still stashed in the old building. The stalls, many owned by individual renters who hawked a variety of antiques and trinkets, had been looted early on, but not professionally. Strictly smash and grab, and flee with anything resembling food or bling. Then they ran. Not at first. But eventually, the survivors ran.

  The story was near legend around town. The old man, Fetterman, hid upstairs with his wife, aged mother, and three half-grown kids, when the first wave of looters hit the store. Fetterman, a little guy with a white fringe of hair around his head like a monk’s tonsure, had resisted with great vigor and no little skill as he’d turned the stairs leading upstairs into a fatal shooting gallery for the attackers.

  The quiet old man, a bit of a fussy fellow as best Scott could recall, somehow managed to get his hands on an old but still serviceable World War II MP-40 submachine gun. Commonly called a Schmeisser, this German manufactured weapon was a terror in the enclosed space of the stairs. At the time of the move, old man Fetterman regaled the lads with the gruesome story of the wooden treads on the stairs running with spilled blood and pointed out the many bullet holes punched into the sheetrock as they’d hauled steamer trunks and armoires out to the moving truck.

  Now, Scott was worried they might be next on the chopping block. Hence, his rush to get upstairs before anyone up there had the chance to mount a defense. Sometimes, he knew, speed trumped stealth.

  When Ben pulled up and the men piled out of the truck, Scott was the first to spot the telltale sign of more trouble. The back entryway was compromised. The heavy steel fire door was already wrenched away from the frame, and the metal handle was knocked off the door. Probably a sledgehammer, he mused.