The Bonus
The excavator Cyrus was running laid down the last of the dirt and knocked in the mound beside it. A moment later his son came rumbling up from somewhere in a skid loader.
The bucket smoothed the earth flat, scattered brush and weeds over the top in a rough camouflage, then rolled back and forth packing it down. Watching them work with that casual, practiced ease, an unwelcome thought crossed my mind — that this farm might have buried people here before.
A strange peace settled over the place. I couldn't afford to relax, though. I called Mike and Merle, Cyrus's brother.
"You two — take the watchtower. Third floor of the farmhouse. I need eyes on the perimeter."
Merle shrugged.
"Looks to me like those Coyotes are all dead. What's there to worry about?"
"Trouble always comes from where you least expect it. Being careful never hurt anyone."
At my tone, the two of them grabbed their rifles without another word and headed for the watchtower. Amid the busy cleanup, Mike and Merle settled into a rotating watch.
I was taking stock of the surroundings when Wolf started whining and fussing at my side. He'd been waiting for me in the trailer — the poor guy must have had a rough time of it.
"Wolf. Want a treat?"
"Woof!"
"Alright. Let's go."
Figuring I'd stretch my legs at the same time, I started toward my trailer with Wolf and told Gunner and Dave to gather up the loot and bring it over. Then I called Frank.
"Frank, check the vehicles. See if any of them will run as-is, or if we can at least pull parts. Be thorough."
With everyone assigned, I gave Wolf his treat and went to reassure Dave's mother and Frank's family. Some time passed.
Once the loot was sorted, the guys gathered again. Gunner spoke first, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Firearms first. Thirteen rifles total. One SIG MCX Rattler, nine AR-15 variants, and three AK-pattern. Two decent shotguns — a Kel-Tec KSG and a Benelli M4."
"The SMGs are mostly junk, but we've got one MP5, one Uzi, and two MAC-10s. Pistols — Glocks, Colts, Berettas — nine in all. And..."
"Ammo looks like a good four thousand rounds, easy. Plus three usable plate carriers and five tactical belts I set aside."
Next was Frank, who'd gone over the vehicles.
"Vehicles... out of six, two are intact. One Ford F-250 and one Chevy Silverado. There's a minivan that still runs, and another pickup that should be fine if we swap the radiator and tires. The other two... parts donors, basically."
I was turning over what to do with the haul when Mike came down from the water tower, rotating off watch, and joined us at the trailer. He looked at Dave and spoke up. Dave's pickup had stalled once coming across the border, and it had been sitting wrong with him.
"Dave, maybe you ought to swap trucks while we're at it. Looked to me like there's a newer one in the mix."
"I'm fine — mine's still running. How about you swap that minivan of yours, Uncle Mike?"
Mike waved him off.
"Not me. My van's loaded with gear, and I maintain it myself — still runs like a champ. No need to swap."
Gunner shook his head too, equally uninterested. I looked at Dave.
"Dave. It stalled on you last time, didn't it?"
"Well, yeah, but..."
"What's the problem?"
While Dave hesitated, Frank jumped in.
"Can't use the Chevy. They jacked the suspension up so high it might as well have a neon sign saying I'm in a gang. The Ford F-250, though — it's practically new, no flashy mods. That one should be fine."
He thought for a moment, then added,
"Wait a second... that's a diesel, isn't it? Even better. If Dave swaps trucks, we can put the whole convoy on diesel. My truck's an F-250 too, and Uncle Mike's Chevy Express and Gunner's GMC Savana are both diesel models."
His point landed. I thought about the enormous advantage — supply, maintenance, everything — of running a single fuel type. It was the same reason the U.S. military put jet fuel in its tactical vehicles.
"What about the plates?" Dave asked, worried. "It was a gang truck. It might be flagged."
Frank snorted a laugh.
"Haha. You think I'd let a buddy of mine walk into that? Don't worry. Your old F-150 and that F-250 are both F-Series — they don't look that different. Swap your plates onto it and most people won't even notice."
"Besides, in this mess, who's going to sit there comparing an F-150 and an F-250? And nobody's going to be running VIN checks."
"But they're still different models..."
Dave pressed, still uneasy. Frank waved him off.
"Oh, come on — you think I'd leave the F-250 badging on there? We just peel it off. People yank emblems off their trucks all the time. Nobody's going to care."
Frank's pitch finally settled it. A childlike mix of worry and excitement crossed Dave's face. He seemed to be picturing his beat-up old pickup next to that gleaming new F-250. Then his grin nearly reached his ears.
"Did I... just get a new truck?"
"That's right. Brand-new F-250." I laughed.
Once the swap was decided, I turned to Frank.
"Alright. We'll take the F-250. The rest of the running vehicles go to Cyrus. But strip every usable part off the wrecks first — tires, batteries, whatever you can get."
"Don't you worry. I'll pick those things clean down to the bones."
Frank answered with complete confidence. I looked at Gunner.
"Gunner, pick two of the captured rifles. I want to give them to the farm."
Gunner gave me a look that said really?, but he didn't ask. He picked two of the better AR-15s and handed them over without a word.
Then Dave came over, a little hesitant.
"Chan... could we get some guns too? And some training?"
I looked at him, surprised. Dave glanced away, embarrassed.
"The whole fight, I was just hiding in the trailer... it felt kind of shameful, you know?"
"You weren't hiding, Dave."
I put a hand on his shoulder.
"You were protecting your mother. Frank was protecting his family. That said... we're going to need the training going forward."
I looked around at everyone.
"We've got our deal with Cyrus, and we need two more days here for vehicle maintenance and refit. In the meantime, Dave and Frank — you'll learn basic marksmanship and weapons handling from Gunner and Mike."
Frank added something.
"World being what it is, I'd like my wife and boy to learn too..."
"He's seventeen, right?"
"That's right."
"Not too young. Go ahead."
Gunner and Mike nodded without a word. I picked up the two rifles and headed for the farmhouse to see Cyrus.
The moment I stood, Wolf — always quick on the uptake — fell in beside me. Walking the darkening path with him, I felt a quiet satisfaction. Nobody had been hurt in the fight, and we'd come away with a decent haul. Wolf seemed to pick up on my mood; his step looked lighter too.
"Feeling good, Wolf?"
"Woo-oof."
He circled me once, then fell back in at my side as we walked the night path.
When we stepped onto the farmhouse porch, Cyrus greeted me with a bright smile, like I was an old friend. We sat across from each other in the living room, and I spoke first.
"Time we filled up, as promised."
Cyrus waved a hand.
"Fuel's the least of it. I'd give you boys anything and not think twice."
I set the two AR-15s on his desk.
"These two rifles, and every vehicle except the F-250 and the minivan we're keeping — they're yours."
Cyrus's eyes went wide. He was genuinely grateful.
"Well I'll be... thank you. Take as much fuel as you want. All of it. Hahaha."
He thought for a moment, then something occurred to him.
"Hold on. That trailer of yours — you could load fifty-five-gallon drums in there, couldn't you? Alright. I'll sell you as many as you can carry."
This time it was my turn to be surprised.
"Absolutely. We'll make the room."
Then Cyrus lowered his head, rubbing his chin like something was chewing at him.
"Ah, hell with it!"
"What? Is there a problem?"
"Nah. I'll only charge you for what goes straight into your tanks. Cans, drums — whatever you load extra, that's on the house."
"Are you serious?"
"Never done a thing like this in my life. Figured I ought to do one decent turn before I die."
"Thank you."
After that pleasant conversation with Cyrus, I took another walk around the farm with Wolf. A peaceful evening was settling over the front yard, the bloodstains already gone.
Then Merle came over to tell us a barbecue was ready.
The smell of meat on a massive grill filled the farmyard, and our crew and the farm folk all gathered for a celebration they hadn't had in a long time. Everyone was glad for a real meal. Watching Dave's mother smiling as she talked with her son, I suddenly thought of my own parents, long gone, and something ached in my chest.
I was lost in that memory when Mike came over with a beer in his hand.
"Cyrus is giving you the drum fuel for free, I hear?"
"Yes. If we clear some space in the trailer, I think we can fit two drums."
Mike grinned.
"Aw, two drums? That's just sad. We're already here — let's take the time and load as much as we can."
"What do you mean, take the time?"
"Tomorrow, we all put in a day's work. Like I mentioned before — we hang cargo nets from the trailer ceiling, get the miscellaneous gear up out of the way, and we weld jerry can holders onto the sides of the trailer and our pickups."
He laughed, that hearty chuckle of his.
"We hauled that heavy welder all this way through this mess — might as well get some use out of it!"
Mike seemed to be calculating the space in his head. Then he spoke with complete confidence.
"Move all those jerry cans you've been hauling inside the trailer out onto the side mounts, and you'll have room for ten drums in there."
Fifty-five gallons to a drum. Five hundred fifty gallons in all. Converted, that was better than two thousand liters — an enormous reserve of emergency fuel.
It all felt like a strange kind of trade. We had hunted the Coyotes with our lives on the line, and in return we had gotten fuel and guns.
In a world coming apart, the bonus that violence had bought us was five hundred fifty gallons of diesel and thirteen rifles.
For a moment, the smell of meat cooking on the grill and the copper tang of bloodstains that hadn't quite dried seemed to mix together on the wind.