“But you might need backup.”
“Maybe,” John said. “But I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if you were hurt because of something foolish I’d done. That’s why I’m telling you to head back to Betsy and wait for me there. Take the pistol and these extra rounds. If I don’t show by dusk, then bring Gary back to our camp.”
“You’re not the only one who lost someone,” Gary said, raising his voice.
Brandon crossed his arms and nodded vigorously.
“And what good will you do your family if you’re dead?” John asked. “Besides, you don’t even have a weapon to protect yourself.” He turned to Brandon. “This isn’t a debate. Do as I say.”
John turned, continuing on while the other two stood and watched him leave. He was more than fifty yards away before he heard the sound of their footsteps heading through the forest in the other direction.
He took this moment to steady his breathing. The intense summer heat was making it hard to breathe, sapping his energy, but not his resolve. The feeling reminded him of the call to move into Iraq back in the spring of 2003. It had been his first time in combat and his heart had been hammering a wild beat in his chest. Sweat from the sweltering desert heat had poured down his face in a never-ending cascade just as it did now. The only thing missing in this Tennessee forest was the distinct odor of diesel fuel kicked up by the Bradleys as they rumbled ahead.
Keeping low and moving from cover to cover meant John’s trek would take longer, but it also reduced the chances that he’d be spotted.
The road remained on his left and it wasn’t long before he spotted a roadblock. Four men, none of whom were in military gear. Their weapons were mostly AKs, which John felt was strange. Normally in a societal collapse, folks would grab whatever they had handy. In most cases that meant a shotgun or perhaps an AR like the one he had. At the very least he’d expected to find a mishmash of weapons.
Dropping low to the ground, John took a moment to observe the men. They looked like some sort of militia, undisciplined and bored to tears. One of them was waving his rifle around in the throes of an animated story while the other three looked on laughing. John only caught snippets, but it sounded as though he was telling them how he’d mowed down a man who’d resisted his orders to hand over his hunting rifle.
Scanning the forest ahead of him, John didn’t see any other pickets set up. He guessed the first layer of their defense was still geared toward intercepting approaching vehicles. He wondered if this was the same militia he’d encountered yesterday during his mad dash to find his family.
Moving further into the forest, John cut a wide swath around the men at the checkpoint.
A mile further on, the forest opened into a series of acre-sized properties. This wasn’t the big city where folks were wedged into tiny parcels of land. Here there was space to spare. But this also meant the bulk of his cover and concealment had just vanished. John would need to move from house to house, covering portions of open terrain.
He stopped for a moment and made a game plan. Once he reached the first house, he would move around back toward the shed and the derelict vehicles, always ensuring he kept them between himself and the road.
Already it was clear that the city center and a train yard lay just ahead of him. Not that the latter was working, but when the government finally did find a way to swap out the newer high-tech engines for the older ones waiting to be mothballed, these rail lines would take on a whole new importance. Yet another reason why the weeks and months to come would resemble the 1800s in more ways than one.
Chapter 12
The house before him was completely boarded up. After that was a home with broken windows and a front door hanging off its frame. It hardly seemed as though anyone were living here and if John hadn’t spotted the sentries on the road back there, he might have wondered if he were entering a ghost town.
As he set out at a quick pace, his AR gripped tightly in his hands, the weight of his tactical vest sloshing from side to side, he couldn’t help feeling exposed. This was usually where a half-decent shot with a Remington 700 put one right through your heart.
After scrambling to the corner of the first house, he heard what sounded like a loudspeaker. The monotone voice from it sounded like the teacher from that Ferris Bueller movie John had seen years ago. The distortion was making it hard to understand.
The amount of equipment the town would need in order to run that kind of system was staggering. Someone in Oneida must have had one heck of a Faraday cage—a metal enclosure designed to protect electronics from getting fried during an EMP blast.
John moved to the far side of the house and peered around the corner. Once he saw that the coast was clear, he headed for the shed. Once past this ring of outer properties, John was sure he’d get a better view of the town.
Route 27 ran right through Oneida and John was willing to bet that many of the important buildings would be along that road. Important buildings that might just contain his wife and children. But he wasn’t there yet. He’d have to cross the last few open properties before he reached a safe place from which to observe.
Breaking cover, John wasn’t more than thirty yards from the next house when a shot rang out. There was nowhere for him to go except for a drainage ditch that ran between both properties.
Scrambling down into it, John took a moment to catch his breath before he peered up to search for the source of the shot. Was someone hunting nearby? Or had the bullet been meant for him?
The sharp crack from another rifle echoed from the town and this time the dirt kicked up near the lip of the ditch. Then came the distinct sound of men whooping and hollering in the distance and something else. An unmistakable sound that made the blood in his veins turn to ice.
Horses’ hooves. Lots of them.
Taking another peek, John understood quickly that he was in trouble. His only guess was that they must have spotters looking out for approaching scavengers and other ex-military types like him. Who else would still be alive in a country where law and order had completely disintegrated?
The men on horses, perhaps a dozen strong, were moving quickly in his direction and suddenly John was glad he’d told Gary and Brandon to stay back. If the jig was up for John, at least he wouldn’t be bringing anyone down with him.
Think! he scolded himself.
The closest house was less than fifty yards in the opposite direction. The doors and windows were sealed tight with plywood, but it was his only real chance. Moving closer to the enemy wasn’t an option. But first, he would lay down some suppressing fire and hopefully buy himself a moment to escape.
Resting his AR on the top of the depression, John peered through the scope. The men charging toward him were bouncing up and down in his sights, making them hard to hit. But he knew he didn’t need to peg the men. As much as he detested having to do it, he only needed to hit the horses carrying them.
Slowing his breathing, he aimed and pulled the trigger three times. The first grouping struck the horse in the neck and it fell to the ground, tearing up a large chunk of earth, throwing the rider forward violently. He struck the ground, rolled and didn’t move.
John quickly readjusted and fired at the next man in line. Thankfully, this volley struck the rider instead of the horse, dropping him from the saddle, leaving the horse to run aimlessly without him.
Seeing that they were under attack, the other mounted men scattered left and right and John didn’t waste a minute, springing from the drainage ditch and across the open ground. A few of the horsemen saw what he was doing and called out to their comrades. More shots broke the humid summer air and thudded into the shed to his left. There was a good chance he wasn’t going to make it. John swung around the shed and used the angle to take out two more enemies moving on his right flank. He then fired at a third, but the rounds went wide.