Dan And The Bottle Ch 23

Sam Martin sat back in his office in Kentucky, thinking over the news he'd just gotten. The Commander had fallen... not to a bullet, or a bomb; not to any sort of enemy action. To simple old age. An enemy nobody could fight for too long. 'Well' he thought, as he hoisted his small glass of grape juice towards the west, towards the resting place of the man he'd always thought of as his mentor, 'You lived a long, full life, Sir. Godspeed.' He took a small sip and set the glass back down, going back to the equipment inventory he'd been perusing since the trucks had begun to arrive.

The old National Guard base to the south hadn't turned up much; as Seth had said, there had been a couple of storage rooms that the Cubans hadn't found, but neither had been very big, and hadn't yielded much... a few dozen cases of rifles and ammo and a hundred cases of field rations but not much else. Still, every little bit helped.

On the bright side, news of their victory over the smaller Cuban camp to the south of them was quickly spreading, and they were already attracting new volunteers from as far south as Lexington and several small towns in northern Tennessee, and from some of the mining towns in the eastern part of Kentucky. There was still a larger camp, to the southeast, but given the number of new people they were attracting, and the speed at which these new volunteers were learning, he didn't see that as a big problem.

Southwest of them, in northern Texas, the picture wasn't quite so rosy.

The Cubans in this area were better trained, and better equipped. They had found an old US army base to the south, and although there had been numerous American troops there, descendants of the original occupants of the base, they hadn't kept up the traditions and training of their ancestors nearly as well as the Cavedwellers had; and had allowed much of the equipment there to fall into a terrible state of disrepair, besides. The invaders had basically marched in, and after a four day battle, had taken the base as their own. They had then brought in an assortment of mechanics and technicians and had repaired a number of the old helicopters, tanks, APCs, and artillery pieces for their own use.

To the east of them, in Georgia, Mark had recently turned up an old locker that contained, among other things, a wide variety of radio equipment, including what had been known, long ago, as 'kicker' amplifiers for both CB and shortwave radios. He and his teams were soon fitting out all of their trucks with these radios, along with the shop itself, until Pete made an offhand remark about the Cubans 'listening in on the extension'.

They were still puzzling over how to avoid this when Mike and Rachel made one of their infrequent visits... dropping off a third deer carcass... well, three quarters of this one... the other quarter was currently in their smoker.

They had a second motive, this time... to announce their decision to live as man and wife... and to announce Rachel's pregnancy with their first, and most likely their only, child.

Mark decided this happy news was cause for celebration, and sent a few of his people out to spread the news that the shop was closing for the day, effective immediately, and the party would start within the hour... and would go on until nobody was sober enough to stand.

At some point during the party, Mark made a comment about their radio dilemma; Rachel was the one who solved it for them... she had Mark write down a long list of key words that they didn't want the Cubans in the area hearing, then asked him to bring her a dictionary. Opening it to a random page, she blindly pointed to a random word on the page. She was, after all, the only one there who wasn't drinking, in consideration of her condition, so for her, it was an obvious answer to the problem.

The word 'guns' became the word 'elephants'. 'Semi automatic' became 'picture'. 'Camouflage' became 'supreme'. Soon, they had a list of thirty-odd keywords that had codewords to replace them in over-the-air communications. Before everyone else became too drunk to write, she copied this list twice, then enlisted two of Mark's more sober employees to help in making copies from these lists. Within less than an hour, they had over fifteen copies ready, more than enough to cover every road team. Then they did this a second time, using the same list of key words with new codewords, providing a back up, just in case one of the originals fell into the wrong hands. They could shift over to the alternative without missing a beat.

Back in Oregon, at the base where they'd found the labs and the 'Electric rifles', Jan was back, diligently trying to hack the computers in the control room. She had decided that the best thing for her was to get back to work; it was better than sitting in the empty apartment. Life had to go on.

Back in Sturgis, Jimmy Archer Jr. and Debbie continued getting the new house in order, which consisted mostly in lining the inside of the outer walls with heavy beams, six inches thick and a foot wide, effectively bulletproofing the place for anything short of armor piercing rounds. The windows of their small house had been replaced with five inch thick sections of plexiglass, scrounged from an old home center storage warehouse, and could only be opened from the inside, adding another layer of security. Jimmy would have been just as happy moving back to the Cave, so that his now pregnant wife would be close to their hospital facilities, but she would have none of it. and he knew his wife... when she had her mind set on something, Debbie had a whim of steel. He knew her decision was the right one, of course; they both had classes to teach, and both had already made friends in the area. Besides, the five and a half acres of vegetables they were growing were just about ready for harvest, with all the processing that entailed.

Mike O'Connell sat back in the saddle, glad to get out of the office for a while. He, Dan Jenkins, and Marsh Johnson were out hunting, looking for the predator that had developed a taste for beef... all three of them had lost cows and calves over the past month. The tracks left behind at the kill sites had been a bit confusing; at one, there had been tracks from several wolves, and big ones, at that... at another there had been the same, but overlaying those were coyote prints. The only conclusion they could come to was that wolves were responsible for the initial kill, and coyote had come in afterward to feed on the leftovers. It wouldn't be the first time, and they all knew it wouldn't be the last.

Dan was the first one to spot it, off in the distance; the tracks hadn't lied... it was a Big Bastard. Mike dug out the binoculars with the built in rangefinder, and looked it over carefully. He knew, instinctively, that he was looking at the Alpha male of the pack... even at this range, over seven hundred yards away, the damned thing appeared to be the size of a Great Dane. He slipped out of the saddle and extended the legs of the bipod at the end of the stock of the Barret .50 caliber sniper's rifle, counting on Jenkins to grab his horse and retreat back behind the low hill.

The trigger snapped crisply at six and a half pounds of pressure, and he barely had time to get the scope back on the target before the heavy bullet slammed into the side of the doomed wolf. The big creature flipped over and off the ridge line it had been standing on, and Mike knew, instinctively, that it had been a clean kill. The local coyotes and other scavengers could clean up the mess.

North and slightly east of them, Ray Simpkins and several of his friends were out hunting deer. While the leaders at the Cave had been right in one respect... the nearby hills had been ripe for a good crop of corn... they hadn't taken into account the growing size of the local deer herds. They'd culled eleven of the animals already, hauling the bodies back to the butcher shops inside of the Cave whole, and gaining credits for the large amounts of venison that would eventually be put up for sale inside the complex. The internal organs would be dumped into the three big saltwater 'lakes' where they raised crab, lobster, shrimp, and assorted saltwater gamefish, including small tuna.

Caleb Johansen exited the new underground farmhouse, wide-eyed. The place was built like a fortress... he knew he'd never have any trouble with tornadoes here. Although he'd never been to the Cave, he was impressed with the way they'd built these new buildings, and had a feeling he was seeing why the militia had so many survivors in their group.

He and Jeanine, along with the others in their group, had already had visits from their parents and other elders from their old community, and had explained that they'd moved back because there was simply more room here for crops. Not entirely untrue, though it was merely an excuse to come back here and begin the work of building up a 'defense force' of their own. His dad had been mightily impressed with the several buildings that made up his son's new farm, and was actually thinking about asking if they could do the same thing with his own property... not to replace the house he'd grown up in, but to help him to build such a shelter, just big enough for him and the wife, and maybe a bit of extra space, just in case they had any visitors.

His wife wanted grandchildren, of course.

Jeanine set about getting the kitchen in order, while Seth was spending much of his time outside, felling thirteen dead trees around the property, most of which had been ready to drop at the next high wind anyway. He'd actually become quite adept with a chainsaw, and while he didn't need anywhere near that much firewood, he knew that he could barter off much of it for other things he was going to need. Having an extra thirty five or forty cords to trade with would give him a huge advantage.

Gus Lector and his girlfriend, Mary Stone, in the farm to the immediate south of Seth, were doing much the same thing; Mary was busy stocking the shelves in the pantry while Gus was out plowing several fields, turning a load of compost into the dirt so it could sit through the fall and winter, absorbing the natural fertilizer and getting ready for the spring planting. He was actually running pretty much on a sort of 'mental autopilot' though, while he thought over methods to get his younger brother and a few of his cousins into some manner of the basic training he'd gone through, back in Clancy. He knew it wouldn't be easy; after all, they already got a lot of exercise just doing their farm chores. Maybe, if he dropped by his dad's place, and just idly mentioned needing a bit of help taking down a few of the dead trees around his own place, turning the 'widowmakers' into usable firewood, and a few thousand board feet of usable lumber...

Far to the south, in southern New Mexico, Hector Ortega was busy harvesting his last crop of the summer season. He, his brother, and both of his sisters were picking the last of his peppers by hand, which his wife and his sister in law would then pick up by the box full and haul off to the sprawling farmhouse for drying and canning for the short winter. His corn was already in the silo, and the tomatoes and some of the potatoes were in the root cellar, so all he really had left was the wheat, the oats and the oranges and grapefruit, and one more field of potatoes. Both the wheat and the oats required special machinery, which was currently over at his neighbor's place. He knew that Jose would most likely bring the big harvesters back with empty fuel tanks, so he was going to have to barter with Senor' Miller for more fuel. It just never seemed to end, around here.

'Ah, well...' he thought, 'it's a good thing the kids like climbing the trees.' His children would harvest the oranges and the grapefruit, freeing him up to get the rest of the crops in. Much of the food would likely be stolen by the Cubans from the camp to the south, he knew, but he and his neighbors had little to fight back with. A few bolt action rifles and shotguns wouldn't go far, he knew. He and his fellow villagers, it appeared, would have to swallow their pride and have another talk with that trader the next time he passed through. What had his name been?

'Marty Crawford... that was it.' he thought, as he continued, filling yet another basket with the mix of Jalapenos and banana peppers from the field. This one was nearly finished, and the next one would be an even bigger pain in the ass... he hated digging potatos.

Marty, John Medford, Don Anderson, and Chet Quinn, meanwhile, were busy at another one of the old storage buildings, sorting through the ancient clothing and furniture and kitchen supplies. They'd found one locker, full of cases of old canning jars, several cases full of kitchen knife sets, sets of pots and pans, and new-in-the-box small appliances, coffee makers, blenders, pasta makers, even a few old stand mixers... perfect. Chet's wife was constantly complaining about kneading bread dough by hand. Don thought that it might have been an overflow warehouse for a restaurant supply house at one time, an idea that was reinforced by the three big walk in refrigerators that took up the back twenty five feet of the old room.

Marty, meanwhile, looked at the room he'd just opened up and groaned... bag upon bag of old clothes. 'Oh well...' he mused. Considering nobody was currently making clothes anymore, some of them would still be useful. He set about dragging out the old trashbags full of clothing, only to find that they were only two layers deep, and behind them were a fairly decent looking set of washer and dryer, and behind those were a large stack of storage tubs. He called out to John to bring one of the trucks over and give him a hand.

It took the two of them over two hours to clean out the old room, but in the end, they were glad they had; aside from the appliances and clothing, they found what appeared to be the entire contents of someone's old apartment in the storage tubs, including what was probably the man's pride and joy... a collection of old handguns, no two alike.

They decided to open one more and call it quits for the day, and were quite happy they did. This one was on the second level below ground, and must have belonged to a pharmacy... dozens of large brown jars, full of different tablets... and all kept cold by the concrete floor, so some few might still be good. Even though the temperature outside was pushing into the nineties, the temperature down here was in the mid fifties, at best. While most would have lost their potency over the years, there were some that might still be good, especially considering all of the bottles were vaccuum sealed, light resistant, and kept in the cold, inside of storage tubs. They'd have to have the chemists back at the hospital check them out.

Across the country, in Texas, the crew from the O'Connell ranch were completing their fifth run, bringing back a number of still-servicable boats, RVs, and old pickup trucks, and the mechanics at the ranch were soon working twelve hour shifts getting these roadworthy again. The wives got into the act, too, of course, making new seat cushions, mattresses, and pillows for each one, most using denim, deer hides or a patchwork of rabbit skins.

In one of the old rooms, they had run across a vehicle that would be worth it's weight in gold. It appeared to be some sort of vending truck; built in to the inside were flat top griddles, several small fryers, a number of latched cabinets, and a fair sized refrigerator. There was no food aboard, of course, but they could deal with that.

The one thing they couldn't deal with was fuel. Almost everything on board this rig ran on propane, which was in short supply around here. If they could get that problem worked out, the old truck would make an ideal field kitchen. They knew the Cubans were getting it from somewhere, though, so if they could hijack a few truckloads from them...

Far to the north, in central Maine, one of the gate guards ran through the castle that dominated the hill top, seeking the Lord's Chamberlain. Upon finding that notable, he went to one knee before him.

"Sir Geoffrey, I must inform you, sir... men approaching from the south, and they don't appear to be the regular traders."

Sir Geoffrey Powell, Chamberlain to the King, fished in his purse for a coin, finally locating a nickel, and tossed it to the young man.

"Thank you, Squire. Return to the gate, and take two runners with you."

He had noted the young squire's remark about the traders. Such observance should be rewarded.

The Squire ran off, barely remembering to stop by the junior Squire's quarters to recruit two runners as he snuck a peek at the coin in his hand.

A whole nickel was enough for a whole loaf of bread for his family... and a cup of wine for himself.

The trader didn't have much, and he was buying furs, besides. Something the King frowned upon, since he laid claim to all the animals in the thick forests to the north, west, and south. Most of the local peasants paid him a fine Medeivel disregard, of course... trapping coneys, squirrels, and other small game was the only way most of these folks survived. Those on the sea coast were the lucky ones... they had but to go out in the small boats, dropping nets and crab and lobster traps along the way, coming back the next day to haul in food for a week at a time.

Thomas Densmore, the young squire, was a trapper, like his father before him, but he couldn't bring out his own furs at the moment... not with the King's 'Inspectors' present, monitoring every transaction. He would have to wait to sell the few furs he had... he might have the ear of the Lord Chamberlain, but he had no Royal permit to trap, nor to deal in furs. Perhaps he could wait until the traders left the town proper and catch them on the road. He had a small stock of what he liked to call his 'trading goods', mostly scrounged from one of the small towns surrounding Portland town, back when he was more adventuresome, but he hadn't been back there in several years.

Joe Nelson, known as Trader Joe at most of his stops, waited until the Lord King's inspectors were out of earshot before idly mentioning that his road would next take him southwest, out of the small kingdom... and he stll had coins to spend. Around here, the King's soldiers had gone through every home and every old store, cleaning them out of all the old coins, taking every coin they could find in the name of his majesty, of course; but every last one had held back a pocketful of the smaller coins for themselves. It was from one of them that he'd heard of this local 'Kinglet', as he liked to call them.

He and his little caravan traveled a mere five miles outside of town, making camp on the only southwest road, settling in around small fires to wait. They didn't have long to wait.

The first one to show up was a weasel of a man with a bundle of rabbit and mink. None were exactly clean, nor had any been properly tanned and cured.

Joe looked over the furs carefully, noting places on some of the furs that hadn't even been properly scraped; there were still small patches of rotting flesh attached in spots. Still, there were a few rabbits he might be able to do something with.

"Twenty cents."

"Twenty cents!? The mink alone..."

"Is worthless. Whoever you got these from doesn't know the first thing about tanning hides. They're not even scraped right. I'm being generous. At twenty cents I'll be lucky to break even."

Richard 'little Dick' Swenson thought it over... he knew most of the furs were in sad shape, but you never knew unless you asked.

"Twenty cents, and a mug of whatever wine you're carrying." he countered.

"We have no wine, but we have a small cask of ale... a mug of that instead." Joe was lying through his teeth, of course, but little Dck didn't know that.