Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

“Then what’s the problem?”

The colonel stood lost in thought. Finally, he said, “Now that they are assembled, I’m afraid to send them in. I’m not too sure they would go anyway.”

“Raiders.”

Nodding, the colonel turned back the map and pointed to northern Arkansas. “The damned raiders. Big Springs is right here in the middle. It’s a perfect spot for a settlement. They have their own water supply, electricity, and the works. They raided some hillbilly theme park nearby, Silver something or other. From the old technology saved from the past, they now have leather working shops, bakeries, a place to cure meat, and enough farmland around to raise wheat for bread.”

He paused. “The area also has more damned raiders per square mile than a dog has fleas. The place is getting crowded.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t taken everything over.”

He grinned at his adjutant. “They have the same problem we do. Those redneck hillbillies are stubborn as they come, and they don’t move easy. Their places are isolated and hard to get to. And generally, they are well defended.”

He pointed with his marker to the top of the map. “Jeremiah Starking has close to five hundred people here on the Upper Jacks Fork, northeast of Big Springs. Men, women, and kids. Maybe a hundred of them fighting men. He’s ex-military and knows what he is doing. His people haven’t turned bad yet, but they aren’t far from it. If anyone takes over, he would be the one. I don’t think it will be long before he decides to move into the area. Trouble is, it won’t support all of them, and our people too. He has some of his men in there now, stirring up things, seeing who’s in charge and who they need to get rid of. From our last dispatch, we also know Pagan Reeves is there, and no one seems to know which side he is on. The last report we had, Reeves was completely out of control.”

“We have enough troops—”

“That is not an option, Lieutenant.”

“What about the other Regional Commanders? Can’t they send in troops?” Lieutenant Saints’s voice was insistent.

He glared at his underling. “You still don’t understand. We lost two patrols in the last month. Our soldiers aren’t woodsmen. The raiders are. We’re like the English going against the American Indian and Colonials. They’re eating us alive in there. But what a company of soldiers can’t do might be done with just one man. If he’s the right man.”

“It would be suicide.”

“Maybe.” The colonel’s voice was soft. “But he might buy us enough time to get our men trained. If our man can keep them busy long enough.”

Already guessing the answer, the adjutant sighed. “I suppose you have someone in mind?”

“Sure. John Trent. Do you remember the plan that passed through here last month about reinstating the United States Marshal’s Service? I think we have our first recruit.”

“But sir? I know he was your son-in-law for a time, but do you think that’s wise? Some people say he is worse than the raiders. Remember? Caplinger Mills two months ago? He killed four men, and wounded two more. The people won’t stand for it.”

“Oh, they’ll stand for it. They have to. No matter what you’ve heard, John Trent is an honest man, and fair.” His voice turned grim. “From the messages we receive, all that the people at Big Springs want is protection. Well, they’ll get it.”

He turned his steely eyes on Saints. “You don’t know what kind of man we’re dealing with, do you?”

“You mean Trent? Guess not, sir. Other than the fact he’s a damned cold-blooded killer.”

“John Trent is a throwback. Somewhere in his genes are instincts and skills we couldn’t begin to understand.”

“You mean, like in the 1800s. Western frontier?”

“Not even close, lieutenant.” He strode to the window again. “All these people you see? The traders, the soldiers, even the mercs and raiders to a certain degree, are still tied to civilization in some manner. As bad as The Fall was, there’s still enough left of modern technology to shape us. We need things to survive, like tools, shelter, and survival gear. And we all need other people.”

He paused a moment. “Trent doesn’t need any of those things. You strip him naked and send him out in the wild, he’ll come back fat and sassy, and tear your heart out.”

“I know he was married to your daughter, sir.” Saints gave a derisive laugh. “I’ve even heard the rumor he doesn’t like to fight.”

He turned and looked directly at the lieutenant. “That’s correct. He doesn’t. Left alone, John Trent wouldn’t harm a fly. He’s a man who is very slow to anger. However, given cause, the fire inside him shows no mercy. You have heard the expression, cold fire? When angered he becomes a killing machine and makes the old SEAL teams, Delta Force, or our Enforcers look like choirboys. He simply doesn’t need us. He’s totally and completely self-reliant.”

“So, in other words, you think Trent will get pushed too far and take care of some of our problems.”

“I’m counting on it. The town of Big Springs wants a company of soldiers. What they’ll get is one man. They’ll get John Trent.”

“Well then, if all you say is true, God help them.” The adjutant shook his head ruefully.

Colonel Bonham snapped his head around and stared at his assistant. “No. God help the raiders.”

The wind through the trees was a whispering rustle as the man on the roan gelding gazed across the hills making up the Ozark Mountains in southern Missouri. The nearer hills were sharp in the morning light, a mural etched in different shades of green and brown, broken by grey limestone outcroppings, cliff faces, and an occasional abandoned farmhouse.

Successive dark hills gradually faded away in the haze and mist of the morning. The fresh breeze would soon push away the haze, revealing deep valleys and high mountainous hills choked with so much scrub brush and vegetation it was nearly impossible to pass through unless you knew the way. The oak and maple trees spread a canopy over the forest, while pine and cedar tried to soak up what sunlight passed through the leaves above.

John Trent felt at peace with himself as he relaxed in the saddle, sitting well back from the cliff face, and close under the shade of an old gnarled oak. He idly reached out and touched the dark, crusty bark, feeling its texture through fingers as hardened as the bark, and wondered how many of nature’s denizens made their home in this one old tree. The tree had taken all the punishment time could give it—its bark twisted and hardened by the forces of nature, yet still keeping its uniformity in shape and size. For over a hundred years, judging by its size, the oak had stood benignly watching the parade of humanity pass through these hills.

Of course, there wasn’t much of a parade anymore. Nature had taken care of that.

He felt an affinity for the oak, for his body, too, had stood the test of time, hardened and tempered by the fires of survival until he was as much a product of nature as the oak. The difference was… he could feel, and see, and because of those things… know regret. The oak would never feel regret, or get tired of its life. He envied the oak for that simplicity.

He knew the tiredness often slumping his shoulders wasn’t physical. Mostly, it was a mental state. On occasion, in somber moments of reflection, he marveled at the senselessness of what the world had become. He could feel the emotions coming up in him, a gusher that, even when capped, still let rivulets escape. It was like trying to stop the leaks in a dam with your fingers. At some point, you will run out of fingers.

He understood how these people felt, something separating him from his peers. The other scouts and couriers in the Combined Armed Forces, USA, just reacted without caring, to whatever happened to be going on. The raider did not feel despair or remorse of any kind. They harbored an impotent anger at the world for becoming such a place. Anger, because the world had lost so much. Anger, because death seemed to be the easy, if not only, way out. In death, you aren’t hungry, or cold, or so damned tired you can’t stand up. In death, you aren’t afraid to close your eyes at night to rest, fearing someone who is just as scared and cold as you, may sneak up and cut your throat for the blanket you’re wrapped up in. Raider. The very word brought fear in the eyes of army and settlement people alike. Their mantra was simple. No plans, just live for the day. Anyone not in your group is an enemy. Do not trust anyone, and never—ever—show weakness.