At each location, Jeff left an NCO—non-commissioned officer, basically the highest ranking enlisted guy—and a small contingent of men. He would need to send down supplies and relief troops daily from the Homestead.
His ham radio nerd up at the Homestead had hooked them up with three ham base stations, even though their little hand-held ham radios seemed to work well between town and the Homestead. The only thing that nagged at Jeff was the lack of communications security. Pretty much anyone who stumbled onto their frequency could listen in and figure out what they were doing. He had instituted a list of codes with his guys. But, if an enemy listened long enough, they would figure it out.
For their last stop, Jeff’s team selected the smallest and closest of six refineries to “liberate.” They had made that choice based on intel; the Homestead had a member who used to work at that refinery, and he knew how the plant functioned.
It wasn’t as though the Homestead planned on refining its own gas, at least not for a long time. But the refinery maintained tens of thousands of gallons of fuel of several types in a dozen huge tanks. Until the gas went bad, they could use it or sell it. And, if they survived long enough to rebuild society, having an intact refinery would be a huge step ahead for everyone.
All that was gravy as far as Jeff was concerned. His primary goal was to keep the Special Operations boys busy. If they weren’t given meaningful work, they would start breaking stuff around the house. Might as well get them doing something useful. Preserving infrastructure and assaulting targets fit the bill. Plus, Jeff suspected that gas and medicine would become the new money when things settled down. Being rich in consumables during the Zombie Apocalypse couldn’t hurt.
As they reconnoitered the refinery, Jeff didn’t like what he saw. Security around the facility showed organization, with three armed guards covering sensible fields of fire. The security forces were undermanned, but it looked like Jeff might have to get in a shooting fight in order to take the plant.
A choice had to be made: either assault the refinery or talk the guards into giving it up. He would sacrifice surprise by talking to the security guards, but there was a lot of upside to trying to talk them down. For one thing, he would avoid any risk of casualties or damage to the refinery. One stray bullet could cause a leak that he didn’t know how to fix. Capturing a refinery with a hundred holes in it sort of defeated the purpose.
His team deployed in a rough perimeter, and Jeff marched straight up to the refinery gate.
Nothing happened. Jeff pounded on the gate, and, still nothing happened. Evan reported by radio that the guards had tightened their defensive positions, presumably because they knew there was an armed guy in military camo hollering at their gate. Two of the security guys were positioned on top of storage tanks and another was covering the gate with his rifle.
Jeff found some cover behind a guard shack, and he went through his options. He could still assault the plant. They could probably shoot all the defenders without losing anyone, but that would open up Pandora’s Box of Combat—meaning: you never knew what you’d get.
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, Jeff reminded himself.
He could sneak in and light a fire up against one of the storage tanks, forcing the security guards’ hand. But that defeated the purpose of the assault in the first place, especially if the fire spread to other tanks.
Jeff routinely geeked out over military history, especially feudal warfare. It occurred to him this situation penciled out like a modern-day siege. Why not form a cordon around the facility and wait? The guards probably didn’t have much water. They were probably getting water from the irrigation ditch to the west of the plant. His guys could deny them their water source without any risk at all.
That plan seemed to accomplish both of Jeff’s objectives: keeping the SOF guys busy and protecting the refinery. If hungry pyromaniacs came around to light the refinery on fire, Jeff’s guys would shoot them. Even though he had hoped for the thrill of victory today, bottling up the refinery accomplished everything he needed.
“Evan. Jeff. Over.”
“Go ahead.”
“How about we just let these guys sit for a few days? They’ve got to get thirsty sometime. Over.”
Evan radioed back, ignoring radio protocol. “Oh, Great Lord Clovenhoof, we shall besiege the castle at your command… You’re the tactician. Sounds good to me. Over.”
“Copy. I’m coming back. Over.”
Jeff trotted out from behind cover and ran across the field to Evan.
“I’ve got another idea,” Jeff huffed, just a touch winded.
“Oh, boy.” Evan started laughing. When Jeff got creative, life got complicated. Evan knew this from many years of adventure with Jeff.
Jeff steeled himself for a hard sell. “The Homestead could spare you and probably ten of these guys. I think Ross is working on adding a bunch of neighborhood guys to perimeter defense, and I can train those guys up in a few days. I think we have a little time. Do you want to go on a fun run?”
“Sign me up, brother. What could possibly go wrong?”
Jeff smiled. “This is just a thought, so don’t shoot it down right away. Why don’t you guys borrow a few toys from the Army Depot?”
Evan looked away, smiling. “Fucking thug. It’s always gotta be wild and crazy with you. Do you have a couple dozen main battle tanks I don’t know about? How’re we going to take stuff from the Army Depot? They’re actual troops, not dipshits like these guys.” Evan waved back at the refinery.
“Hear me out.” Jeff held up his hands defensively. “I was just out at the depot and that place was leaking guys like a wool condom. There’s no way they can cover down on all those ammo bunkers; there’s like two hundred of them. And, as you know, they’ve got good stuff. Not just .223, but belt-feds, high explosives. Dude, if the world keeps going downhill, ammo and guns will be the same as money. I don’t know about you, but I like money.”
Evan thought about it for a moment. “Sure. Fuck it. Let’s go rob the Army Depot. Sounds like good times. Who do you want me to take?”
Twenty minutes later, Evan and ten guys marched west, looking for cars to steal.
Federal Heights,
Salt Lake City, Utah
Carl Redmund invited Jimmy hunting. Jimmy said yes, but ran through a long list of misgivings in his mind. This wasn’t a world where a man should agree to something because he wanted to avoid conflict, but that’s exactly what Jimmy had done.
Back in the old world—just one week ago, he reminded himself—Jimmy used to hold Carl Redmund in awe. Redmund had been a football player at the University of Utah and he had undoubtedly had sex with scores of women and had, literally, been the big swinging dick on campus.
That was twenty years ago and, even though Jimmy hadn’t even gone to the University of Utah, it still factored into his thinking. Redmund had little to add in a relationship with Jimmy. After a few hunting forays to the cemetery, where Jimmy had brought back half-a-dozen deer, he had been crowned The Hunter on his street. He didn’t know if it was self-delusion or self-discovery, but Jimmy now thought of himself that way now, too. Based on results, he was the apex provider in his neighborhood. Bottom line: he had fed a lot of people over the last few days, including Redmund and even the bishop.
Deer had disappeared from the cemetery and Jimmy hadn’t been able to figure out how to dry deer meat, so they would need more deer in the next couple of days. From what he had seen, hunting up Tellers Canyon was a serious challenge. The mountain crawled with hunters and survivalists, almost all of them armed. Working around the competition and finding deer would be tricky.