Moss shook his head. He had that nervous look on his face, like he was expecting an ambush or maybe something worse. John couldn’t blame him. On patrol in Iraq, you learned quickly that when civilians weren’t on the streets or heading to market, the odds were better than none that an ambush was waiting up ahead.
They continued south at a cautious pace, the men in the back of the pickups scanning right and left. They were still on the outskirts of town, but John had anticipated reaching some type of blockade manned by people he could speak with.
“Either these folks have skipped town altogether,” Moss said, “or we’re about to get a nasty surprise.” His hands remained clamped on the wheel so tight his knuckles were turning white.
Soon a used car lot named Hot Wheelz came into view. On the other side of the street homes stood in the center of large properties. That was when a hand-painted sign along the highway caught John’s eye.
It read: Welcome to the Independent State of Scott.
He glanced over at Moss, who was shaking his head.
“That mean anything to you?” John asked him.
“I know you spent most of your life down in Knoxville,” Moss said, “so I don’t expect you to know it, but the folks around here are pretty feisty and independent-minded. The State of Scott goes back to the Civil War. Scott County was named after General Winfield Scott, hero of the war with Mexico in the 1840s. Well, in 1861 these folks weren’t interested in leaving the Union like the rest of Tennessee and voted instead to secede from the Confederacy and form their own independent state. Hence the State of Scott, as it’s been called. Heck, they only repealed the resolution sometime in the mid-1980’s. These folks do things their own way.”
It wasn’t until the convoy rolled right into town that they spotted the first barricade. The body of a wrecked eighteen-wheeler lay sprawled across the road. On top of it, a structure of sheet metal and other debris helped to create some cover for the men standing guard. The first thing John noticed was the look of fear on their faces at seeing such a large group of armed men rumbling toward them. Moss pulled to a stop about a hundred yards short, while John fished out the white pillowcase from his gear. Opening the door, he planted a foot on the unseasonably hot September asphalt and waved the pillowcase around in wide circles.
The rest of the convoy stayed back while Moss drove ahead, stopping less than twenty feet from the barricade. A scrawny old man draped in dirty overalls moved out from behind cover. “This is a peaceful town, I’ll have you know. We like to mind our own business and I suggest you all do the same.”
John introduced himself. “We’re not here to steal from you,” John told him.
“Name’s Nathaniel,” the old man said. “But only my mother called me that, God rest her. Folks around here call me Nash. And let me tell you, if I thought for a second you boys were marauders, we wouldn’t be sitting here chatting.”
“I suppose we wouldn’t,” John conceded. “Listen, Nash, we’ve been trying to reach your people on the radio. To warn them about the men claiming to be from the federal government who probably showed up after the power went out.”
The old man snickered. “Oh, them.”
Part of John had hoped that he’d been wrong, that the Russian agents had skipped Huntsville. The population wasn’t more than a couple thousand at best, but the railroad which cut through Oneida did pass through here, so maybe that was reason enough for the enemy to want the town. “They’re not who they claim to be. I know they probably showed up with fancy papers, but they’re—”
“Y’all are from Oneida, aren’t you?” the old man asked and, as he did, other figures began to emerge from behind the barricade.
John nodded.
A toothless smile creased his weathered features. “Oh, we got your message loud and clear. I think it’s best if you come into town and meet Boris.”
Chapter 2
“Boris?” John asked.
“Boris. Morris. Damned if I remember what he said his name was. Certainly wasn’t Tom Smith. He’s no American and that’s all that mattered. Anyway, bring your men in, we owe you a debt of gratitude.” The old man spat on the ground and fixed John with a crooked stare. “I gotta say, that little sniff test you gave us worked like a charm.”
There was a cold, deadly look in a man’s eyes when he was luring you into a trap. The people gathering around John now didn’t have it. The old man hopped into the driver’s seat of a truck and led them into downtown Huntsville. But using words like downtown to describe what John was seeing was beyond an overstatement. In truth, Main Street, Huntsville was little more than a strip of small shops, gas stations and doublewides, leaving John hard pressed to find a building taller than a single story. Even the mayor’s office was a bungalow that bore an uncanny resemblance to a funeral home.
Following close behind in a snaking column was the convoy of pickups from Oneida. The men’s hackles were up and perhaps it was best that way. None of them, including John, were entirely sure what they were getting themselves into. The only thing that helped set their minds at ease was the firepower they could bring to bear if things went sour.
The old man pulled into the parking lot facing the mayor’s office and that was when John saw it. An imposing oak tree to the left of the building. The last of the pickups pulled in and stopped. The men in the truck beds stood, many shielding their eyes against the sun to get a better look.
“They weren’t kidding,” Moss said, leaning into the steering wheel.
John opened the door and stepped out, his AR at the low ready position.
The old man was out too, pointing at the tree. “What’d I tell you? There’s Boris and his friends.”
Four bodies hung from one of the oak’s stout branches.
Secretly, John had hoped he might get a chance to interrogate Boris and perhaps gain some valuable intel; an opportunity they’d missed with the Chairman.
“What happened?” John asked, realizing only after how foolish the question probably sounded.
“What do you think happened, son? We hung those commies.”
The Russians weren’t communists, but John wasn’t going to start splitting hairs. “I see that. I guess what I meant was, how did it happen? There was a terrible battle in Oneida when we ousted our imposter and many innocent people lost their lives.”
“Like I told you,” the old man said. “Once we got your radio signal, advising us about the invasion and the fifth communists—”
“Columnists.”
“Pardon?”
“Fifth columnists,” John said, elbowing Moss who was doing his best to stifle a giggle. “Never mind. What happened after you received our warning?”
Nash worked his toothless jaw as though he was still finishing dinner. “The townsfolk, we had a secret meeting. See, this Boris and his men tried to take our guns, but that ain’t how things work in the State of Scott.”
John smiled. “Moss here told me all about that.”
“Folks here like to do things their own way. We hid the best guns and handed over busted-up .22s and target shooters. You gotta give ’em something so you don’t rouse suspicion.”
John glanced over and noticed none of the corpses seemed to have any bullet wounds. “But how did you—”
“Heck, we did what any good southerner would do. We killed ’em with kindness,” Nash said as he slapped his knee and let out a hearty burst of laughter. “Seriously though. We threw a banquet and before we ate, everyone stood up to sing the national anthem. Any red-blooded American knows you don’t sing the anthem before eating. You say the Lord’s prayer. Well, when they went along with it, that was our first hint they might not be who they said they were. Then we watched their lips as they pretended to sing the anthem. I think they got as far as ‘dawn’s early light’ before they started lip-syncing worse than that Britney Spears girl. Anyway, by that point we’d seen more than enough and gave ’em a great big serving of arsenic mash potatoes.”