That was the military’s opener, communicated via megaphone from just outside our locked gates. Despite their conversational tone, I didn’t take it for anything other than what it was, a threat. That their captain appeared to be a woman didn’t make me feel any better about having the United Forces on our doorstep. Their mere presence meant we were in danger.
The woman’s eyes roved over our fence, a mish-mash of material about twelve feet high and topped with broken glass and barbed wire, most of which I wove myself with chicken wire and razor blades. The barricade was a work of art, really.
“I’m Captain Crenshaw with the United Forces,” she said. Her right leg was a prosthetic, same as mine, and there was a long scar that ran along her face and disappeared into the collar of her shapeless green jacket. She looked to be mid-forties and muscular for her age with her graying hair in a short, no-nonsense cut. Before lowering my binoculars, I made note of the M16 slung around her neck. The half-dozen soldiers accompanying her were similarly armed.
At our continued silence, she added, “We have a base 15 miles east of here, halfway to Spartanburg.”
I nodded. The red UF emblem emblazoned on both their Jeeps and their uniform shirts told me as much, unless they’d stolen them and were only posing as military. “What do you want?” I called back, using a megaphone Gizmo and Wylie had fashioned from a plastic funnel and duct tape. I’d tried being polite and respectful of authority in Promised Land, and it hadn’t gotten me very far. I wasn’t about to fake any kind of loyalty or trust in yet another imperial force, the same one who’d stood idly by and watched my friends burn in the fire at The Admiral.
“May we enter?” she asked.
“No,” I answered without consulting Macon or Kitten. We’d agreed on this as a group already. No outsiders, no exceptions.
“You realize we could force the issue,” she called back.
“You could try.”
Her subordinates shifted slightly, looking squirrely, and she raised one hand slightly as if to settle them. The three of us in the watchtower were ready for confrontation, and we had the height advantage, but there were undoubtedly more soldiers where they came from. A shoot-out with the U.S. military was a battle with no winners. The best outcome would be for them to fuck off and forget we even existed.
At my side Kitten reached for his inhaler and took a big gulp. How many more hits did he have on that thing before it ran out of juice? How long before one of my family needed serious medical treatment or surgery? I put the thought away. One problem at a time.
“Those are some big guns you got there, young man,” Crenshaw said to Macon. He held an AR-15 across his chest, and we had another one mounted in the watchtower, presently unmanned.
“Yours too, ma’am,” Macon said with a deferential nod. His respect for authority was genuine, which generally endeared him to these types. Out of all of us, he’d probably make the best soldier. He had the right attitude and he was athletic, not to mention he still had all his natural born limbs.
“Mine were issued by the United States government,” Crenshaw said. “Where’d you get yours?”
“Here and there,” he replied.
“You got ammo for those guns?”
“Don’t answer that,” I said to Macon. We weren’t going to give them an inventory of our weaponry. She could fuck around and find out.
“Respectfully, ma’am, I decline to answer,” Macon said.
She pinched her chin with her forefinger and thumb, digesting that bit of information. “So, how long y’all been out here?” she asked.
“Long enough,” I answered.
“Thinking about settling in?”
“That’s the plan.”
“May we take a look around?”
“No, Captain Crenshaw, you may not enter. Now, what do you want?”
Her mouth set in a hard line as the two of us had a little staring contest that lasted about ten seconds before she turned and said something to one of her subordinates. He pivoted sharply and jogged over to one of the canvas-covered Jeeps, pulled out a large duffle bag, then trotted back and dropped it in front of our wrought iron gate, reminding me of when Little MissPurrfect left a dead rodent at my bedside, a dubious offering to say the least.
“We brought you something to welcome you to the neighborhood,” Crenshaw called.
Macon touched one finger to his forehead as a gesture of thanks while I contemplated what might be in the bag. What if it was a bomb? Were they going to try and force their way in?
“You sure you won’t open the gates?” Crenshaw asked. “We don’t mean any harm. Maybe we could even help each other out.”
Since when does the United Forces give a shit about civilians?
“No thanks. We’re doing just fine on our own,” I said and kept my more sarcastic thoughts to myself.
