Ed Mason sat back in Murphy's bar, going over what he knew of this new 'militia' movement. He knew, first off, that they were fighting the Cubans here in Texas, which was bad for business. He ran guns for a few Cuban supply sergaents, men who were just as corrupt as he himself was.
He knew that they were most likely cattle ranchers, since the supply of beef was down significantly. The rest were likely farmers and hired hands.... something he'd briefly tried his hand at before figuring out that it was too much like actual work.
He'd made his living by sucking up to a few of the Cuban military troops, supplying them with stolen stockpiles of whiskey and ripping off a few of the hippie farmers in the area, waiting until their crops of pot plants were close to complete maturity, then moving in with a few friends and uprooting entire gardens and drying them in hidden drying sheds, trading the ill-gotten goods for a few rifles and ammunition, trading those to gangs of punks who specialized in home invasions and stealing some of the few old cars and trucks that were still kept roadworthy.
After all, where you couldn't trade, you could raid.
He'd expanded his operations over the years, adding several moonshine stills and whorehouses to his little empire. The women came from all over the territory, mostly captured by the raiders he supplied with ammunition and other goods.
The raiders, in turn, kept him supplied with all manner of goods, among them cattle and other livestock rustled from ranchers to the north of his main holdings in the ruins of Dallas and Ft. Worth.
Now, though, it looked like he'd have to get actively involved; or, at least, get some men in place. He needed some boys who had a minimum of tattoos, who could clean up well, put on some shitkicker boots, plaid shirts and blue jeans, and blend in with the other men looking for work at the ranches to the north.
Mark Powell wasn't a rancher, a farmer, or a fighter; he was a prospector, of sorts. He didn't look for silver or gold, though he found a fair bit of that, and he didn't use a metal detector or a shovel. The main tools of his trade were a pair of boltcutters, heavy work gloves, and an aging panel truck.
Mark made his living by going into abandoned towns, generally bypassing the already-looted stores and houses, and looking for old storage facilities. People put the strangest things away in them.
Kitchen utensils? He found 'em by the ton. Appliances? He'd quit taking those, over a year ago.... he still had a warehouse full, at his main base near the ruins of Atlanta. Guns and ammo were particularly prized, as were anything he found that was related to camping, hunting, fishing, and primitive living. He'd long since lost count of how many lockers full of tools he'd found, and not too long ago he'd cracked the door on a locker containing five big barrels of motor oil., still sealed and completely usable. Those he kept for his own use, and some of the wandering traders he dealt with.
Today he was in South Carolina, going through a series of lockers at a place called 'U-Stor-it'.
Cutting the lock on his sixth locker of the day, he groaned.... another dirty mattress, in front of a bunch of clothes. He was about to turn away when something caught his eye.
The clothing was packed in an orderly fashion, which was a sign all by itself; most of the time it was in garbage bags and old cardboard boxes, usually half rotted.... this stuff, though, was hanging from coathangers on makeshift racks, and much of it appeared to be new... what's more, there was a fair bit of what appeared to be military surplus camo uniforms. Those he knew he could trade for food, fuel, and other things he needed. Many of his customers were hunters, after all.
Digging further in, he found tents, several sleeping bags, and a number of other camping supplies. Those would come in handy, even if he couldn't trade them off. These went straight onto the truck.
Behind all of this he found several big storage tubs and two military footlockers, all of them taped shut at the seams with duct tape. These he dragged out into the fading sunlight.
The storage tubs, he soon found, were full of foil packages of dehydrated foodstuffs, of the sort used by hikers and campers back before the war. There was a good chance that most of that would still be edible. He quickly loaded all eight of these in to the truck as well.
One of these caught his attention.... it was significantly heavier than the rest. Cracking it open, he found reloading die sets and bullet molds in a dozen different calibers.... including .454 Cassull, .50 caliber Desert Eagle, and .650 nitro. That was for an elephant gun.... something he'd never seen before.
Finally, he came to the two footlockers... and they proved to be a treasure trove.
The first was packed with ammunition-hundreds of small boxes of it. Everything from .22 LR to .308 and .30-06 to dozens of boxes of 12 gage shotgun shells.
The second was even better. Who ever had packed it must have been a collector, or an old gun show dealer, because underneath a layer of assorted pistol ammunition were several pistol cases. Aside from four Berretta M-9s, there were half a dozen genuine Colt .45 automatics, a pair of Smith and Wesson .44 magnums, and three Desert Eagle .50 caliber revolvers. At the very bottom he found two double barreled shotguns, cut down to the length of large pistols, and something he considered the Holy Grail.... another revolver, this one chambered for the .454 Cassul cartridge.
He quickly went back through the ammunition he'd stacked to one side; sure enough, there were five boxes of cartridges for it. This one he loaded and stuck in his belt.
Once everything was loaded into the old panel van, he found that there were two long cases in the very back, that he'd almost missed. Long cases brought two possibilities to mind.... and he was willing to bet these weren't guitars. The first held a pair of good, solid Browning Auto-5s, both chambered for 12 gauge, and the second held the most massive gun he'd ever seen. Closer inspection revealed it was a double rifle.... holy shit, he'd found a frickin' Elephant gun! It was chambered in .650 Nitro, and there was a long double row of shells for it, just below the rifle itself.
He took the extra time to load up both Desert Eagles, the sawed off shotguns, and four of the Colts, arranging them in the console of his truck before heading out... a reasonable precaution considering how unsafe the roads were these days. If he pushed it, he could be back at his warehouse in seven or eight hours.
The ride back, though, was uneventful, for a change. He radioed ahead while he was still ten miles out, letting his employee, Paul Hemmings, know that he'd be pulling in in about ten minutes, and to have the main garage doors open for him.
"How'd it go, boss? Anything good this time?"
" Oh, a little bit, yeah.... "
Paul knew That tone... considering he was back three days earlier than planned, he must have hit on some good rooms early in the trip.
Mark pulled the truck inside, closing the heavy double doors behind him, and then turning around, backing up to the sorting tables. They had a routine; nothing got opened up until the entire truck was unloaded.
