Holding Their Own: The Salt War (16 page)

“You are the boss,” the chief nodded between bites of homemade bread and string cheese. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want to fill those damn woods with every rifle we can find. That’s what I want you to do.”

Shaking his head, the chief replied, “Volunteers are getting hard to come by, and the situation will get worse after word gets around that Greyson’s clan was chopped to pieces. Our once proud and boisterous, southern men are now thinking twice about entering those woods.”

Gospel grunted, nodding his understanding. “Offer a reward and pull more of our loyal men from the yards.”

“That’s dangerous, Stan. We’re already stretched too damn thin out there. If a wandering gang of nomads finds those trailers, I don’t have enough people up there to fight them off.”

Waving his hand through the air, Mr. Gospel dismissed the concern. “When’s the last time we had a sizable, hostile group wander into our little slice of heaven?”

Peering down at the floor, the chief’s response was barely audible. “Six months… maybe seven since we’ve seen any kind of organized gangs.”

“See? I’ve been thinking we’re wasting too much manpower out there anyway. Reassign as many guards as you can and task them with eradicating this asshole. He is a
real
threat. It would be stupid to worry about something that might happen versus something we know is happening right now.”

The chief nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it right away.”

Grim and the guys set about preparing the last hot meal they would have for a few days. A snared rabbit sizzled over the fire, the makeshift spit allowing the occasional drop of grease to crackle in the blaze. There was a helmet full of blueberries and three ears of corn they’d found growing in a legacy garden on the way to Cartersville. The lima beans, courtesy of the same plot, had been consumed at the previous evening’s meal.

Cory was readying his pack, nervous about approaching the town without his weapon. Nick had warned them not to bring radios either. The team’s least experienced member was to play the role of a random transient; poor, hungry, and bartering his way across the land. There would be no lifeline if things turned sour.

Kevin, as usual, was cleaning his sniper rifle. Nick’s son had blossomed into a naturally talented marksman, his father’s expert tutelage raising the young man’s skill level to equal any shooter in the world. Every member of the team was glad that long range capability was in their inventory.

Grim took a moment, wondering if Bishop was enjoying his time off. After the events of Brighton and Galveston, he had understood the need for a break. The rest of the team had been offered downtime, but all had declined. Keeping the Alliance territories and its ambassadors safe was a full-time proposition. Still, the mental, emotional and physical demands of the fledgling republic had been a drain on Bishop and Terri… and they all knew their leaders needed to get away to refresh their spirits.

Nick was more than a suitable replacement. The ex-contractor pondered the differences between the two team leaders. Bishop was far more laid back, slow to invoke force or violence. But when he did… Lord have mercy.

Nick, on the other hand, seemed more comfortable applying a constant pressure. The big man’s style was to keep the foe off balance… guessing… unsure. In contrast, Bishop would play nice, give the other guy every chance in the world, and then unleash absolute fury when nothing else seemed to work.

Taking his knife to the now browned hare, Grim decided both men were equally worthy of his loyalty and respect. He’d been lucky, serving with high-speed, low-drag individuals over the past few years. For a moment, his thoughts turned back to Deke, the face of his former superior and friend still clear in his memory. In all the years, all the campaigns, all the missions, Deke’s death had touched Grim in a way unlike any of the hundreds of good men he’d watched fall. Deke had been the ultimate warrior, an elite among professional operators. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered.

Grim could see the light fade from his friend’s eyes as if it were yesterday. Shuddering, he quickly pushed the images aside – that night in Memphis still haunted him.

“Haunted,” he whispered with a grunt, taking another slice of meat. “I’m using the word haunted while thinking about a fight to the death in a graveyard. That damn Bishop and his cornball way of looking at things are rubbing off on me.”

“What did you say?” Cory asked, wandering up to the flame.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, picking up a stick and poking at the campfire. “I was just thinking about Bishop and that sick sense of comedy. Sometimes I just want to slap him.”

Cory grinned, nodding his head. “Yeah, but when I first joined the team, his stupid jokes and innuendo made me relax. I would be scared shitless, and he’d pop off one of those little jewels. It helped me chill.”

Grim’s focus drifted off, his vision fixing on an empty point in space just inside the flickering campfire. Images of that night… the night Deke was killed by the grave robbers… of the bloodlust he’d seen in Bishop’s eyes. “Cornball or not,” he said in a low, serious voice, “I’m awful glad he’s on our side.”

It was soon Cory’s turn to stand watch, allowing Kevin to come in and eat. While the remote location of their encampment made discovery unlikely, it was standard procedure for one of them to always remain separate and alert. Grim was pleased to see his teammates perform the switch without thought or discussion. It showed cohesion and professionalism.

“I’m off,” Cory announced after wolfing down his meal. “If they kill me, please bury my bones in West Texas. I don’t like all of these trees and their gnarly roots.”

Grim smirked at the comment, “I think Bishop’s rubbing off on both of us.”

Cory threw on his ragtag pack, spinning once like a runway model so Grim could sanction his disguise. Nodding, the senior man said, “You look like a vagrant to me. We’ll see you tomorrow - if everything goes to plan. Good luck.”

And with that, Cory was gone, wandering into the darkness with his newly acquired, rambling gait.

Grim lowered the night vision monocle and peered at Kevin. “They’ve reduced the number of sentries even more. My bet is your dad must be kicking some serious ass.”

The kid merely nodded, as if to say, “What else would you expect?”

Using a combination of hushed whispers, curt hand gestures, and a small map drawn in the dirt via Grim’s finger, the two raiders quickly outlined their plan.

Patting the younger man on the shoulder to reassure him, Grim pushed off. Kevin watched the skilled warrior zigzag toward the high, chain-link fence surrounding what was essentially a massive parking lot filled with semi-trailers.

Grim managed the outside of the barrier without incident, quickly scanning up and down the fence line to make sure a patrol wasn’t in sight. Kevin was scanning as well, ready to warn his teammate if anything went astray.

The fence was cake. Designed more as a psychological barrier than a serious security tool, Grim easily climbed over and dropped down on the other side of its eight-foot height. There was no barbwire.

Kevin’s turn to mount the metal enclosure was next, the young shooter unloading the round from his rifle and racing toward the fence. He tossed his long gun over to Grim and then began climbing. In less than 30 seconds, the two men were inside the compound and moving off.

It was easy to tell which trailers were empty – they weren’t locked. The two men progressed inward, covering each other as they passed through the open spaces separating the seemingly endless rows of cargo haulers.

They had just passed into the fourth row when Grim motioned Kevin to stop. Eyeing the padlocked rear door of a nearby container, Grim removed a short crowbar from his assault pack and moved closer with an obvious look of ill intent on his face. “Time to become a felon,” he whispered to the nodding boy.

The door’s hinges actually gave way before the lock, but the ex-contractor didn’t care. A few seconds later, he was shining a flashlight into the interior.

Furniture. Bedsprings, mattresses, and cardboard containers all labeled from some manufacturer in Georgia.

It then dawned on Grim that he should be paying attention to the lettering on the outside of each unit. One row later, Kevin recognized the logo of a nationally known drugstore chain boldly painted on a nearby example. Its padlock was no match for a little elbow grease and the iron lever. Again, Grim’s torch illuminated the interior with bright light. This time they hit pay dirt.

The cargo hold was stocked full of medical supplies and household goods. There were boxes and crates labeled with everything from “feminine hygiene products” to “pain relief.”

Two large footlocker-type containers were secured with secondary locks, each stenciled with the letters, “Narcotics – Pharmacist Only.”

“Painkillers,” Grim supposed. “Antibiotics, heart medications, insulin… who knows what all else.”

“Why wouldn’t they have passed this stuff out to the people?” Kevin asked.

Grim shot the lad a look, his expression clearly indicating that the boy still had a lot to learn. “Power,” he whispered back. “The guys running that town have a clenched fist on the jugular of the community… loosening its grip only as much as necessary to maintain control.”

“Didn’t dad say that Cartersville had lost a lot of people to sickness after the collapse?”

“Yes, he did,” replied Grim, hopping down from the rear of the trailer.

“So their leaders… just let people die? Wow… those are some cold dudes.”

Grim shook his head, marveling at the naivety. There had been so much conflict, death, and horror pass in front of his eyes. He couldn’t even remember what it was like to believe the world was a benevolent place. “We’re going to show everyone in that town the truth, and then those assholes really will be cold dudes… dead and cold.”

They found several more egregious examples, one bay stuffed to the brim with canned soup, another packing at least 20 generators. Grim pocketed a few samples as evidence of the heinous activity.

“It’s still an hour before we are supposed to be at the rally point. Let’s chill out inside one of these empty trailers until it’s time to raise a ruckus,” Grim said.

“You said that almost like you’re looking forward to it,” Kevin smirked.

Grim smiled brightly, a rare reaction from the normally serious contractor. “Putting down the bad guy is one of life’s more refined pleasures. The only problem with this line of work is deciphering who is good and who is evil.”

Of all the rugged men Kevin had worked with, Grim was by far the most intimidating. He’d found the best way to get along with this moody co-worker was to remain as quiet as possible, listen intently, and keep his thoughts private.

On the other hand, he couldn’t ignore this rare philosophical opening. It addressed a question that he knew often troubled Bishop… and sometimes his father. “How do you tell, sir? How do you separate such complex creatures as human beings, especially in a world like we live in now?”

There was a pause before Grim answered, the question seeming to take him by surprise. “I can’t,” he finally responded. “I gave up years ago. I found the only way to reconcile the whole ball of wax was to believe in my leaders and follow orders. That’s why I offer my rifle to the likes of Bishop… and your dad… and the council. Sometimes things are clear, like in black and white. But that’s rare. The rest of the time, I put my faith in the leadership and trust their judgment. That’s why the collapse occurred, Kevin. The world lost confidence in the management, and everything went to hell.”