James Rawles - Survivors - A Novel of the Coming Collapse

La Fuerza ripped into Humboldt, Arizona, like a can opener. They had been in the looting business for so long that they were experts. They knew just how to approach various sorts of houses and businesses. Over time they had learned when to push hard, and when to wait, and how to expertly threaten and intimidate. The size of their force and their warnings via vehicle-mounted bullhorns made most residents panic and flee. They had also gained enough experience through hard knocks to know that when there was a certain threshold of resistance, it was best just to torch a place and consider it a loss. But they never just bypassed a house when there was heavy resistance. That would be a sign of weakness.

The contiguous towns of Humboldt and Dewey were easy targets. The houses were so spread out that they could be taken piecemeal. There was no planned resistance, so individual houses could be taken down sequentially, with little fear of being sniped at from behind. The loot was decent, but in recent months it was getting more and more difficult to find fuel. There were rumors that there was fresh gasoline and diesel being made in the Four Corners. Ignacio Garcia planned to move his force in that direction. His plan was to just pick away at the periphery to get fresh fuel, but not take on the owners of the refinery yet. There would be plenty of time for that.

A low rumbling sound came to Beth’s ears. She looked up from her washboard. It was wash day, and as usual she was doing her laundry scrubbing on the front porch. That way she could dump the gray water directly on her flower beds. The sound was coming from the west. A moment later she identified it: a motorcycle engine. It sounded out of place on Road 4990, which for the past two years mainly had horse traffic. Even though the refinery was just a few miles down the road, gasoline was so precious that it was used very sparingly.

Beth was surprised to see the motorcycle slow down and come to a stop at their front gate. She jumped up and grabbed her M2 Carbine, which was leaning against the door frame behind her. She held the gun at low ready, the way Lars had taught her. The buttplate was tucked into the pocket of her shoulder-a pocket that hadn’t existed just a few months before. Beth had lost nearly 20 pounds since the Crunch began. The austere diet and vigorous outdoor work had quickly brought her weight down to 125 pounds.

With a shout, Beth summoned Lars. He accompanied her to the gate. They approached the county road cautiously. Lars carried his Valmet M62 and Beth had her carbine, both at low ready.

When they were twenty yards from the gate, the man shouted: “Mr. Martin would like to see you, sir, as soon as possible. He said it’s important.”

Lars answered: “Understood.”

The man revved the bike’s engine, turned in a tight circle, and drove back toward the refinery. Lisbeth and Lars gave each other curious looks.

Lars arrived at Martin’s refinery just twenty minutes later. He was impressed to see that their security had not slackened in the three years since the Crunch began.

Seated in his office, L. Roy said, “Thanks for coming, Lars.”

Martin paused, looking a bit anxious, and said, “You once mentioned that you’re Finnish, but your given name is Lars. That’s Norwegian, right?”

“Well, my dad was full-blooded Finnish, and my mom was mostly Swedish: her maiden name was Bardgard. So that’s why I ended up with a Swedish given name and a Finnish surname.

Martin replied, “Oh, I see. I’ve heard that the Finnish language is something unique, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah. The Finns are sorta the black sheep of Scandinavia. The language is completely different from Swedish, Norwegian, Icelandic, or Danish. It’s what is called a ‘Finno-Ugric’ language. The languages closest to it are Estonian and Hungarian. That’s because-though they don’t like to admit it-the Finns are actually the descendants of the Mongol Hordes. So it’s no wonder that the rest of Scandinavia doesn’t know how to relate to the Finns. It’s like you’re living in the suburbs, and then the Genghis Khan family moves in next door. That was about nine centuries back.”

Laine paused, and then added: “Your man said you had something important to discuss.”

Martin nodded. “Yes. I had a conversation on the forty-meter ham band with a gent in Prescott, Arizona. He said he had a crucial security concern to discuss. Then he made a very unusual request. He asked if we had anyone here that spoke Navajo. I said yes, and just a few minutes later I put one of my Navajo employees on the radio. Then his man and my man started yammering back and forth-you know, like the code talkers that were used back in World War Two.”

Laine nodded.

“Okay, so after the translation was done, here was their message in a nutshell: They said that the big La Fuerza looter gang we’ve been hearing all those rumors about is headed toward Prescott. It’s supposedly now more than two hundred men strong, and they have somewhere around fifty vehicles.”

Laine let out a whistle.

L. Roy continued: “The folks in Prescott asked us to send help-to assist in whittling them down. There are some combat veterans from Tuba City and from Gallup-mostly Navajos-who already agreed to help, and they’ll be heading to Prescott in a couple of days. They asked us to send at least six men. It’s a bit risky, but I can see the wisdom of confronting La Fuerza now, before they are in our backyard. To my mind, this is sorta like Bush’s War on Terror strategy: ‘Go beat them up somewhere else so that we don’t have to face them on our own soil.’ I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, La Fuerza is a bunch of very bad dudes. Lower than whale scum.”

Lars again nodded and said, “Yeah, I’ve heard about their track record: brutal, unrestrained, unrepentant.”

Martin leaned forward. “I think that it is wise to go out there, and do some attrition, and most importantly to try to take out their armored vehicles. Without those, La Fuerza will lose a lot of their combat effectiveness.” He sighed and then continued, “So, through my code talker, I immediately promised to send eight men, three hundred gallons of gasoline, and at least one hundred and fifty Molotov cocktails.”

Lars nodded and Martin said, “I need a man to be the team leader for the team representing Bloomfield and Farmington. I estimate that it’ll be just a ten-day trip at most. You get in there, you kick some tail, and you get out. You’d need to get the team on the road within three days.”

Before Lars Laine could comment, L. Roy continued, “Here’s the deal: If you take this job, I’ll pay you ten ounces of gold and a transferable, non-expiring credit for five thousand gallons of any fuel we produce here-even kerosene. You’ll get five ounces of gold up front and five upon completion, plus the fuel credit. Each of the other men I pick will get about two-thirds of what I’m offering you.”

Lars cocked his head and said, “That’s a lot of risk for that sort of pay.”

“You’ve got to recognize that it is your own best interest just as much as mine to see this threat removed or reduced. I have no doubt that Bloomfield is pretty high up on their target list. As we’ve discussed before, my refinery is an obvious plum, an obvious target. You know their modus operandi: if they come here, everyone living inside a thirty-mile radius will be at risk. Maybe even much farther than that. And since we’ve got gas and oil wells, we face an even bigger risk, which is that they’ll come and want to stay and make this their home base.”