Jed

Frank had more grim news to share.

"And those raider gangs out in Nevada... word is they rotate through the CB Channel 30 band, keeping it just among themselves."

Gunner reacted sharply.

"They're using CB radio? Then these guys might not just be a rabble running around hitting whatever they stumble across."

"Could be." Mike agreed and picked up the thread. "Using long-range radio systematically means they're scouting targets, sharing intel, and moving as an organization. They're not looting whatever they happen to see. They're hunting."

I agreed with them and looked at Jake.

"Jake. How many CB radios does this farm have in total?"

"Hmm... one in the living room, one in the attic, and one in each of the farm pickups." He paused, then added, "Ah — Dad's bus motorhome has a dual-band unit installed. It can listen to two channels at once. And there should be a spare unused one in the warehouse."

"Good. Then move the attic unit down to the living room. Keep one on Channel 19, and have the other continuously monitor Channel 9 and the Channel 30 band."

"The Channel 30 band?"

"If the raiders are talking on CB, they'll be switching channels according to some kind of pattern. So let's find their call signs and the channels they actually use. Liam, Adam, Chloe — whoever's free — work out a rotation for monitoring the radios and logging what you hear."

"Understood, Boss."

"And that spare CB radio — mind if I install it in my truck?"

"Of course. Go right ahead."

And so we all took our places and began preparing for the unknown threat that was coming.

Dave and Gunner would handle the truck-stop deliveries on their own. Frank spent entire days in the workshop, buried in solder smoke as he built capacitor banks and switch boxes for the remotely triggered shotgun traps. Gunner and I threw up cover around the water tower, the warehouse, and the barn; anywhere the sightlines were messy, we dragged a broken-down pickup into place. And Mike spent days in the farm workshop like a blacksmith at his forge. True to his word, he built a perfect Gun Nest into the ramp door of my trailer, and welded seven shotshell loading tubes along each side of every vehicle's undercarriage.

Then one afternoon, Mike came looking for me, wiping the sweat from his face.

"Boss, got a minute?"

"What's on your mind?"

"Gunner's truck. He's going to be riding point for the convoy from here on out. What if we mounted a reinforced bumper on the front — something like a V-Plow?"

A V-Plow. A massive V-shaped snowplow blade that shoved snow, dirt, and debris out to both sides as it punched a path through.

"That's a good idea. But can we actually build one here?"

"No problem." Mike grinned and pointed at the massive tractor standing off to the side. "See that plow on the front of that tractor? We pull the blade off, tweak the angle, weld it to the F-550's frame — it'll look the part, I guarantee it."

I pictured Gunner's F-550 transforming into a terrifying assault ram, punching through every obstacle the road could throw at it. I liked that picture a lot.

The war talk blaring from the news, the rumors of raiders crackling over the CB, and the trade that was still, just barely, holding together in between. I figured we had to make the most of this strange peace. It was the calm before a storm that would not come around twice.

Time on the farm passed in a blur of work. Dave and Gunner ran the truck stop every day, growing our assets, while Mike armored up the vehicles and made our armor that much harder.

Then one afternoon, a few days later.

"A car—there's a car coming in!"

Adam shouted from the farmhouse living room, where he'd been watching the OP surveillance cameras. Every movement on the farm froze. Everyone went tense.

Cody checked the monitor in a hurry. On the screen, a battered Ford Explorer rolled to a stop in front of the warning sign we'd posted at the head of the farm access road not long ago. The sign was painted in red spray:

A man climbed out of the vehicle and picked up the radio hanging beneath the sign. A moment later, a familiar voice crackled through the radio in the living room.

Cody only let out a breath of relief once he heard that voice, then grabbed the mic. While he was still talking, Jake had already sprinted outside and fired up the old pickup we'd used as a barricade at the farm entrance.

We went out to the front yard. A well-kept but aging Ford Expedition kicked up a cloud of dust as it rolled to a stop, and the face of the man who climbed out — Jed — was lined with the exhaustion of a long journey. Two young sons, looking to be in their early and mid-twenties, and a daughter followed him out of the vehicle.

Jed pulled Jake and Cody into fierce hugs, one after the other, then spotted Dave's mother and offered a slight bow of the head.

"Glad you made it."

In the swirl of joy and bewilderment that came with the sudden family reunion, Jake asked,

"What's going on, Uncle? You didn't even call."

Jed gave a bitter smile.

"Would've if I could've gotten through. So I just came. Figure I fled the Great Winter same as you."

He said he'd come from Ashland, in southern Oregon. Jake introduced the rest of us, myself included, and explained that we too had gathered here fleeing the Great Winter.

Then Jed looked around and asked,

"So... where's my brother?"

Jake's face went rigid at the question. In a low voice, he told his uncle about the terrible tragedy of the past few days. The color drained from Jed's face.

In silence, we led him and his children around behind the farmhouse, to a small rise where three new graves had been dug. Jed sank down in front of his brother's grave, marked by a wooden headstone, and wept without a sound. Our newly found sanctuary was beginning, once again, in grief.

After we'd given him time to mourn, Jake gave Uncle Jed a brief account of everything that had happened — the raider attack, our arrival, and the fact that I was the leader of this small group. Jed had already heard rumors of Polar Bear over the CB radio, and once he learned I was Dave's friend on top of that, he accepted the new order of things.

But he had one problem. He'd come charging here with nothing but the idea of settling down on this farm, and he had no preparations whatsoever for a long-haul move. Jake put him at ease.

"Don't worry, Uncle."

Jed said nothing.

"If we have to move, you can stay in Dad's motorhome with us."

Later, Jake quietly filled me in. "Uncle lost Auntie to cancer a few years back. That's why this is hitting him even harder." I just nodded in silence. And so Jed's family began to settle naturally into our strange little community.

Jed, in particular, clicked well with Frank and Mike — fellow engineers. He introduced himself as having spent more than a decade as a turbine engineer for the Danish wind-power company Vestas, and said he'd personally worked on the construction of the massive Shepherd's Flat Wind Farm in eastern Oregon.

From that day on, he volunteered to help Mike with the vehicle modifications. Watching the two of them hunched over their soldering and welding, I found myself thinking, Wind power. It might not look like a useful skill right now. But someday, if we ever stopped wandering and found a safe place to settle — that might be the day Jed's expertise would matter.

And so the strange peace continued on a farm where grief and hope crossed paths. Thanks to days of hard work by Frank and Dave, more than two-thirds of the crops that had filled the warehouse had already been converted into cash and survival supplies.

That evening, every family gathered for another generous dinner. After the meal, Jake called us into the living ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠room — the satellite TV, which had been struggling with a weak signal for a while, was coming in again. The world on the screen was still caught in the vortex of war, and the news turned to the movements of the federal army.

And then, at last, the news we'd been waiting for came through.

Relief sighed out from every corner of the living ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠room. But Mike's expression didn't ease.

"Don't let your guard down. Once a war starts, the army can snatch young people off the street anytime they want. Nobody even thinks about leaving the farm for a while."

The living room had filled with that news, and together with our newly expanded family we spent a rare evening of peace, the conversation laced with laughter.

I went back to my trailer after that and spent some time playing with Wolf. But something sat uneasy in a corner of my mind. Those raiders we'd faced, and the tattoo that stood for thirteen. Was that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠really all of them? Or were they just one piece of something bigger? An ominous thought brushed through my head, but I pushed it away as best I could and went to bed.

The next day, a busy morning on the farm was shattered by another alert.

Adam's urgent voice burst from the radio. At that single signal, the people on the farm moved like well-drilled soldiers, each hurrying to their assigned position. Gunner and I walked into the farmhouse living room with our rifles, and Mike was already there.

Then a stranger's voice crackled through the visitor radio. Mike picked it up.

Mike cut the radio and studied the screen. And it was the exact moment he looked at my face.

"There — more vehicles."

Adam, watching the monitor with us, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠called out. His finger pointed to a corner of the screen.

Beyond the access road, on the highway, another column of vehicles — seven or eight of them, easy — was slowing and turning onto the approach. And the man from the pickup that had arrived first was waving them in.

The OP camera zoomed in, and it was immediately obvious they weren't ordinary travelers. Mike looked at me. His eyes were asking what we should do. I spoke calmly.