The Homecoming: Countdown to Armageddon: Book 5 (22 page)

     “As for us, we tend to look the other way as long as they were careful and made sure there was no one in the bullet’s path who could get hurt. We generally chew them out and give them a warning, and let them go. We recognize that people have to feed their families, and that meat is damn scarce out there.”

     “What else do you listen for?”

     “Anything that might indicate there’s someone in need of help, or hurt. A scream. A yell. Someone pounding on metal or breaking a window as they see us drive by.”

     “And that’s why you cruise around with all the windows down?”

     “Yep. That’s exactly why.”

     “I thought it was because you’d never heard of this new thing they invented, called ‘air conditioning.’”

     “Actually, smart guy, the air conditioner works quite well on this car. But if we’re going to serve and protect the people, we have to be able to hear them when they call out to us.”

     They were downtown now, and pulled up next to a majestic triangle-shaped skyscraper across the street from the Alamo.

     “What’s this, Dad?”

     “This used to be the Emily Morgan Hotel, one of the finest in the city. Actually, I guess technically it still is, although they closed down with all the other hotels right after the blackout.”

     “And we’re here… why, exactly?”

     “Because I want to show you something really cool.”

     They walked into the old hotel and saw several people milling about. Some of them recognized Scott and greeted him warmly. Word had gotten around that Scott would soon be moving away, and a couple of them wished him well.

     As they walked through the lobby and toward the staircase, Scott explained.

     “Only the first seven floors are occupied. That’s because even though the city is able to provide electricity now, it’s still very iffy. Temporary blackouts happen several times a day, and no one wants to get stuck on an elevator for several hours. That, plus the elevators haven’t been serviced since the blackout and it appears that no once proficient in elevator maintenance has survived. So nobody wants to ride them anymore. People only live as high as the number of stairs they’re willing to climb. For most of the high-rises, that’s six or seven stories. And the people who live on the seventh floor are the ones in the best shape. That’s where we’re going.”

     He looked at his son and smiled.

     “I hope you had your Wheaties this morning.”

     Zachary returned the look with a puzzled gaze.

     “Huh?”

     “I said I hope you had your Wheaties.”

     “Dad, who or what is a
Wheatie
, and why in the world would I have any of them?”

     Scott chuckled.

     “It’s from an old commercial, and it’s a breakfast cereal… Oh, never mind, I guess you had to be there then to understand it.”

     “Yeah, I guess. You have to be very old, apparently, to understand it. So why are we going to the seventh floor again?”

     “I want to show you something very cool.”

     They exited the stairwell on the seventh floor, a bit winded, and peered out of a hallway window onto the city below.

     “Do you know what that is across the street?”

     “Yes. That’s the Alamo compound, isn’t it?”

     “Exactly. Can you tell me which building, specifically, is what people consider the Alamo?”

     I’m pretty sure it’s that small building in the center, with stone walkways on one side and green grass and trees on the other side.”

     “Very good. Technically, the entire compound is all part of the Alamo, but that small building in the center is the one people associate with the name. It’s actually the chapel that was in the center of a huge compound that once covered a good portion of the downtown area. There were artillery emplacements, parade grounds, even picnic and market areas. It was once quite a place.”

     “I thought you were gonna show me something cool.”

     “You sure are an impatient guy. No wonder your mother slaps you around so much.”

     “Mom never slaps me around. Oh, wait. You’re kidding, right?”

     “Yes. Maybe she should. But yes, I’m kidding. Anyway, find that building in the center of the compound. The one everyone has always considered the Alamo and posed for photos in front of. Remember how I said that was actually the Alamo compound’s chapel?”

     “Yes. So?”

     “Look at it closely and tell me what you see.”

     “Wow, that really is cool. It’s an old chapel, and it’s in the shape of a cross.”

     “Exactly. I went in that building easily twenty times over the years and never realized its shape, until one day I saw it from above. And I’ve mentioned to a lot of people since then that it’s in the shape of a perfect cross, and almost no one else knew it either. Now you have an interesting bit of trivia you can share with your friends.”

     “Okay, cool. Can we go now?”

     “Nope. I want you to look down into the Alamo compound now. The space between the buildings. Tell me what you see.”

     This one took Zach a little bit longer.

     “Gee, I don’t know. Other than a bunch of kids running around, nothing.”

     “See any adults?”

     “Now that you mention it… no. Why?”

     “Camp Alamo is one of the largest youth camps in the city, run entirely by kids. They’re all orphans, or runaways who claim to be. They’ve boarded up the chapel out of respect for the dead, but they use all the other buildings… the long barracks, the administrative buildings, the old gift shop… as their living quarters. They hold school and church services outdoors, under a hundred year old oak tree. And they grow their own chickens, pigs, fruits and vegetables on the grounds as well.”

     “Wow. Can we go visit it?”

     “Yes, that’s our next stop. I just wanted to give you an overview first. Now look out this other window, off to the northeast. See that patch of green between all the other buildings?”

     “Yes. Is that a park?”

     “No, that’s Camp Alamo’s wheat and corn fields on Brooklyn Avenue. They spent months tearing down two city blocks full of abandoned houses. Tore them right down to their foundations, and carted everything away with wheelbarrows. Then they broke the foundations into pieces with sledge hammers, and hauled that rubble away too. When they were done, they had two city blocks with nothing left but rocky dirt.

     “They talked the city into bringing in topsoil with the very first dump truck they got running. Since then they’ve been able to grow two crops a year of corn, and two crops a year of wheat. They have the strength and stamina of youth, and they’ve developed a sense of teamwork that’s pretty impressive.”

     “Wow! What do they do with all that food?”

     “Well, they eat the bulk of it. With the strength and stamina of youth, remember, comes very healthy appetites. But they trade or give a lot of it away, too. They feed a lot of people from the neighborhoods around here. Anyone who’s hungry need just knock on their door. They’ll fill water bottles from the natural well they’ve got on the grounds, and send people away with something to eat as well.

     “It’s because of their generosity that no one steals from them.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Their corn and wheat crops on Brooklyn Avenue are never pilfered. Never. They’ve got signs on each end of them, saying they are maintained by Camp Alamo. And no one touches the crops, not even to steal an ear of corn. They’re the only subsistence crops I know of in the city where that’s the case. The locals respect the crops because they know that’s where the food comes from if they’re ever hungry and need to knock on the Alamo’s doors.

     “Word has gotten around to the transients and the few marauders who are left to stay away from the crops too. They know that the local residents will beat the hell out of any outsider who steals from them.”

     “Wow, that’s pretty cool. Can we go over there now?”

     Scott laughed at his son’s continued impatience. But he had nothing left to show him from above street level.

     “Sure. Why not?”

     The pair trudged back down seven flights of stairs, and Zachary had to wait while his father quelled a domestic dispute in the lobby.

     When he was finished, Zachary asked what it was all about.

     “They were fighting over ownership of a coffee cup.”

     “A coffee cup? Seriously? Who in the world would fight over a coffee cup?”

     “Hey, in a world where you have very few possessions left, you tend to guard them like they were gold.”

     “How did you settle it?”

     “I told them if they couldn’t stop fighting, I’d take it into custody and book it as evidence. And the first one who wanted to walk twenty seven blocks to Police Headquarters to claim it could have it. They looked at each other and decided to share it.”

     Zachary snickered and commented, “King Solomon would have been proud.”

              -44-

     The father and son crossed Houston Street and entered Alamo Plaza, the area in front of the Alamo that was once bustling with tourists. Now only occasionally did anyone walk by to visit the cradle of Texas liberty, and they were mostly locals checking to see if it was still standing.

     To the majority of residents, the shrine had become just another building, or a place to obtain a free meal when food was scarce.

     The teenaged guard at the long barracks gate leading into the compound recognized Scott and welcomed him.

     Scott said, “Hello, Smitty. How are you?”

     “I’m fine, Officer Scott. Are you bringing another one to join us?”

     “No, sir. This is my son, Zachary. I’m just bringing him down here to show him the miracle you guys have accomplished with this little piece of land. Mind if we look around?”

     Smitty and Zachary shook hands, and Smitty responded, “Feel free. Just don’t take anything or we’ll have to call a cop.”

     Scott smiled and began his tour of the Alamo grounds. Zach hung on his every word.

     “Very few adults are allowed in here. Mostly police officers and firemen, and local clergy. We bring them almost all of their new members. When we find an orphan on the street, alone and struggling, we try to talk them into joining this group or another like it. They find strength in numbers, and find that by

banding together they become safe. The camaraderie helps too, and the teamwork. They find that by working together, it’s much easier to provide food, water and security, than by going it alone.”

     “What are they doing over there?”

     Zach nodded toward four neat rows of folding metal chairs, laid out neatly five to a row. On each of the chairs was a small boy or girl, five to ten years, who sat perfectly still paying rapt attention to a girl about Zach’s age. The girl was pacing back and forth in front of them.

     “Let’s not go too close. We don’t want to disturb them. They’re teaching school to the little ones. Just the basics. Mostly how to read and write, and to add and subtract. Odds are none of these kids will ever learn how to build a rocket or repair a computer. But they’ll learn enough to get them through their lives.”

     “Sounds kind of primitive.”

     “It’s funny you should use that word. Camp Alamo, and others like it, are a throwback to the San Antonio of two hundred years ago. The clothing is different, but if you were to walk onto the grounds in the early 1800s, you’d see pretty much the same things that are going on now. Older kids teaching their younger siblings and friends. People growing crops and tending to farm animals. Teenaged girls taking corn and wheat and grinding it into flour, then making the flour into tortillas to trade with the locals for clothes and medicine and whatever else they needed.”

     “Speaking of teenaged girls, that’s what I was mostly looking for. But I don’t see a lot of them.”

     “Last I heard, the teenaged boys outnumbered the girls about fifteen to one. I’m no expert, but I think there may be several reasons for that. Teenaged girls are, rightly or wrongly, considered more vulnerable than boys. They’re more likely to be taken in by families or friends than the boys are. Another reason is that many parents who committed suicide took their daughters with them, to prevent them from being raped or taken advantage of. Their teenaged sons, on the other hand, were often spared, with the thinking they might be tough enough to survive in the newly harsh world.

     “Lastly, many teenaged girls took their own lives because they got tired of being brutalized and used. Or they’re still out there, preferring to live on their own rather than live under a junior high school atmosphere where boys are constantly fighting over them and competing for their affection.”