William Johnstone - Phoenix Rising

The others laughed.

“Major, these radios are pretty standard,” Willie said. “That means that anyone who wants to can listen in. I suggest that we adopt call signs, rather than use names.”

“Good idea, Willie. How about you assign them?”

“Okay. You’ll be Vexation Six.”

“Negative,” Clay spoke up quickly. “Six designates the commander. Anyone out there listening who has ever been in the Army will recognize that in a heartbeat. I think we should keep the call signs as innocuous as we can.”

“Yeah,” Willie said. “You are right. Okay, how about Mickey Mouse one through four?”

“Alright. Jake, you and Karin are Mickey Mouse One; John, you and Marcus are Mickey Mouse Two; Deon, you and Julie are Three; and Clay and I will be Mickey Mouse Four,” Willie said.

“Let’s test them out,” Jake suggested.

The four radios were checked; then radios, pistols, and flashlights were tucked into pockets.

“Back here at twenty-four hundred,” Jake reminded them as they left on their appointed rounds.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

By the time Jake and Karin arrived, there was very little left of the Wal-Mart Supercenter on South 231. The doors had been smashed in, and Karin started to step inside, but Jake held out his hand to stop her.

“Wait,” he whispered. “Let’s make sure nobody else is in here.”

The two stood quietly just inside the store for a long moment. The store was so dark that they couldn’t see two feet in front of them, which meant that if anyone was here they would have to be using a light, and the light could be seen.

They saw no light, and they heard no sound. After waiting about a minute, Jake turned on the large flashlight he was carrying.

“I think we’ve got it all to ourselves, such as it is,” Jake said.

As the moved deeper inside they could see that what merchandise did remain was scattered around on the floor. There was a large yellow smiley face next to a sign that said SHOP WAL-MART.

Jake moved the light back and forth on the floor so they could see to pick their way through without tripping over anything.

Though the food products, clothing, and small utensils had been well cleaned out, the large-ticket items, TVs, etc., remained. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been strange, but because there were no television stations broadcasting anywhere in America, at least as far as Jake knew, seeing the TV sets still sitting on the shelves wasn’t at all surprising. However many of the TV sets had been smashed, not incidentally, but purposely, as an expression of anger and frustration.

Over each empty aisle in the food store were signs that told what product had once been there. Now the signs were little more than a tantalizing tease.

COOKIES, CRACKERS, CHIPS, AND SNACKS

RICE, BEANS, SPAGHETTI, NOODLES

SOUPS, CANNED MEAT

COLD AND HOT CEREALS

COFFEE, SOFT DRINKS

“Soft drinks,” Karin said. “Do you think . . . ?”

“I bought the last root beer they had when they were still doing business,” Jake said.

There was not one food item remaining anywhere in the store. Not even bulk, uncooked items, such as rice, flour, or beans.

In the book and magazine section, there were several soft-cover books scattered around on the floor.

“Let’s grab as many of these as we can,” Jake suggested. “Without TV or radio, I expect reading will be about our only source of entertainment.”

“Good idea,” Karin replied. “What do you like?”

“Westerns, action stories, just about anything, I guess. I think we are far beyond the ability to be choosy.”

“Look, tablets and pencils,” Karin said, scooping up several of them from the same aisle as the books. “This will please Julie.”

As they moved on through the store, Jake saw a box underneath a turned-over stocking shelf. Pushing the shelf out of the way he saw that the box, though not completely full, had at least ten packages of “sandwich cookies, peanut-butter filling.”

“Whoa, now this is going to be a treat,” he said, stuffing the cookies down into the large, canvas bag.

“Where to now?” Karin asked.

“Let’s go to the garden shop,” Jake suggested.

Amazingly, the garden shop was virtually untouched. There, Jake found a wheelbarrow, which he loaded with a couple of watering cans, spades, rakes, and dozens of packets of seed from half a dozen vegetables. Here, too, he found insect repellent and he put as many cans as he could into the wheelbarrow.

“Wait,” Jake said, stopping at one shelf. “These are the seeds we want.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with what we have?

“These are non-hybrid seeds. I can’t believe there are so many of them.”

“What are non-hybrid seeds?”

“Almost all the vegetables we see today are hybrids. Hybrid vegetables make the best vegetables, but they can’t be counted on to produce seed that will reproduce. For that you need seeds in their original form. That’s what this is.”

Jake scooped up several packets, getting much more seed than he would need.

“If we can stay alive until these seeds produce, we’ll be in good shape,” Jake said.

Karin laughed. “Oh, great. All we have to do is stay alive? Yes, I’m for that.”

Finally, with a completely stuffed B-4 bag on top of the filled wheelbarrow, Jake and Karin stepped back through the smashed doors and started across the nearly vacant parking lot toward Jake’s Volvo.

Jake saw a pickup truck parked next to his car, and he knew, at once, that the pickup truck driver was either siphoning, or about to siphon, gas from his car. He heard a loud, crunching sound, and realized that the driver had not started yet because he had been held back by the locked cover over the gas cap.

Jake set the wheelbarrow down and ran quickly toward his car. The gas thief had a tire iron and was trying to pry up the cover. He was so intent on breaking into the gas tank that he had not seen Jake approach.

“Mister, I paid an arm and a leg for that gasoline and I don’t intend to stand by and watch you steal it,” Jake said.

Jake’s voice startled the would-be thief, and he glanced up at Jake with a wild look in his eyes. He raised the tire iron he was using over his head.

“Stay back, Major,” he said, remembering Jake’s military rank. “Stay back or I’ll lay your head open.”

“You recognized me,” Jake said. “Are you a soldier ?”

“I was. But there ain’t nobody a soldier no more, not even you,” the wild-eyed young man said. “And you bein’ a major don’t mean jack shit to me no more. So you just stand over there—sir.” He slurred the word sir , setting it apart to show his disdain. “And soon as I drain your tank, I’ll be on my way.”

Jake pulled his pistol and pointed it at the young man. “Son, you need to learn not to bring a tire iron to a gunfight. Now my recommendation to you is that you climb in your truck and you drive away. Otherwise I’ll just have to shoot you.”

Seeing the gun in Jake’s hand, the young man’s demeanor changed. No longer belligerent, he lowered the tire iron he had been using to pry open the gas-cap cover.

“All right, all right, I’m goin’,” the young man said, holding one hand out in front of him, palm facing Jake as if by so doing, he could hold Jake off. He glanced at the right rear quarter of Jake’s car. The paint was badly scratched and dented where he had been working to open the gas-cap cover. “I, uh, I’m sorry I messed up your car.”

“Don’t talk anymore,” Jake said, coldly. “You piss me off every time you open your mouth. Just shut up, get in your truck, and drive away from here.”

The young man threw the tire iron into the back of his truck, hurried around to the driver’s side, got in, and drove away.