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My new friend, Sarge,and I set out in a dust-caked pickup truck to patrol the dirt road that marches for miles around the ranch. Bernard chooses to make himself known, swooping in front of us before rising high on a draft, then banking toward a large green pond.
“You got some fish in there? For our friend?”
“Bernard, right?” Sarge says.
“That’s right. Good memory.”
He ignores the compliment. “Ye-up. Got small-mouth bass, carp, minnow, all kinds of nummies for your feathered friend. The pond there is fed by the stream that runs from the range out yonder.” He points to the west with a hand that’s weathered from sun, sand, and military action. Far in the distance, I can make out hazy hills.
As we patrol, I learn that life is largely the same for our southern friends as it is for us up north. They run scavenges like we do, but their focus is on farm supplies. They’ve got mountains of feed for their livestock, a couple acres of tractors covered from the weather and ready to go when their current tractors break down. They’ve got hundreds of tanks of fuel and a storehouse with every kind of seed you could want for crops that thrive in this climate. Rows of greenhouses provide an array of fruits, vegetables, and herbs that don’t do well on our Montana mountain. I’m betting Shep’s having the time of his life exploring it all.
Like us, these men have looked for survivors and found only individuals here and there. Theirs is the only settlement they’re aware of in the triangle between here, Baja California, and the Grand Canyon.
“Whenever we try to go east,” Sarge tells me, “we run into mechanical and equipment failure. Never made it past the Louisiana state line.”
“Jammer,” I say, remembering being trapped in that tank. “Raptor had a man who could jam everything from guns to computers to frigging door locks. But we took him down. His is one of the bodies entombed in a crashed chopper on our mountain. My guess? Next time you try to go east, you’ll have an easier time of it.”
After getting to know Sarge a bit, I probe him on something he said last night. “You mentioned you might know why the Working led us here. You feel like spilling the beans?”
Sarge drives with one wrist resting atop the steering wheel. He’s traded his helmet for a much-loved Stetson.“Well, now, it’s just a hunch, but, see, Recon’s got a knack for tactical planning. He’s got a Gift for knowing when we need to prepare for danger. That’s how we knew to meet you when you reached our gates this morning.”
“We pose no danger,” I say.
“I know that now, and so does Recon, but his Gift is tinglin’. Has been for a few weeks. He’s been restless. Truth be told, so have I. For a while now, things have been—” He sighs and gets a distant look in his eyes. I recognize the emotion behind it. Despair.
“Boring?” I say. “Mundane? Same tasteless shit, different day?” He and I both know I’m not referring to Stealth’s down-home cooking.
“Exactly,” he says with a gunshot hand gesture. “Now, don’t get me wrong. Peace is nice. But we’re men of action. We’re soldiers. We need something to fight for or we get…itchy.” He moves his shoulders like he’s scratching against his seatback, and I understand.
“Felt the same way before Cora.”
“She’s something,’” Sarge says.
“Understatement of the millennium,” I add with a grin.
“She’s safe here. We’re not the kind of men who would try anything.”
“I know.” And I do. The Working has given me a peace about these men. They’re allies. Friends. When we followed the calling to Texas, I wasn’t planning on establishing communications with another settlement, but we’ve done just that. Once all this shit with Raptor is behind us, we’ll trade with Soldier Ranch. Finding them was a real boon, and I suspect they feel the same about us.
“One day, I wouldn’t mind if this Working of yours decides to send a woman our way.”
“I’ll put in a good word.”
“’Preciate that.” Sarge scans the ten-foot tall, barb-tipped barrier as we cruise by.
The fence is pristine. Every quarter mile, there’s a two-story structure of stairs and platforms. Lookout towers with cameras mounted beneath their flat rooves. The cameras are pointed outward. Sarge explained to me they’re wide-range cameras, meant to pick up any movement on land or in the sky all around their pastureland.
“When you headin’ out to get your man back?” Sarge asks.
“Probably at first light tomorrow.”
Sarge sucks his teeth. “Or,” he says, hard gaze fixed out the windshield. “You could give us a few days to prepare, and we could go with you.”
It takes me a few beats to process what he’s saying. “You offerin’ to help us?”
He nods, slow, deliberate. “We’ll help you get your man back, and then you’ll owe us a favor.”
I stare at him. “You’d put yourselves in harm’s way for a group of men you just met?”
