Home Coming (The Survivalist Book 10) by A. American (best business books of all time .TXT) 📗

Sarge nodded, “Probably a good idea. Let’s load up and get on the road. Jess, you drive the Hummer. Wallner, get one of your people in the two-ton and the rest of you in the Stryker with me. Everyone, keep your radios on and pay attention. I’ve already talked to Teddy, and he said there are no surprises waiting for us. They didn’t have any problems last night, so this shouldn’t be any trouble. We’ll get the shit loaded, blow what we don’t take and head back.”

Everyone loaded into their respective vehicles and we moved out with me in the lead. The old man didn’t want the Stryker at the head of the column and most of the others didn’t know where we were going. So, I was at the head of the line of vehicles as we passed through Altoona. The market was bustling this morning. I’d noticed in recent weeks that the markets were getting busier with more and more in the way of offerings.

Food, naturally, was one of the most commonly traded commodities. But other things were showing up as well. Clothes and shoes were becoming a big seller as people wore out the cheap disposable footwear that was so common in the Before. Boots were highly sought after, and a person could just about name their price for a high-quality pair.

But I was also struck by another item on display that was becoming more common. In each of the markets there was generally a knot of two or three young, and sometimes not so young, women offering their personal services. I wasn’t at all happy about seeing this particular activity and thought it was something that would have to be addressed. Or maybe not.

Prostitution is often called the oldest profession in the world; and for the moment, it wasn’t a problem. They were consensual encounters between two people. For certain, we would not tolerate anyone being forced into the sex trade. It was something I was torn over. I certainly wouldn’t want my daughters doing it. But in some cases, what else would these women do? They’re probably trying to feed a family or at least their kids. It was definitely something that needed to be addressed, one way or another.

But that was for another day. There was another task at hand today. I blew the horn on the truck when we passed Baker and her people. They were in Umatilla working on the lines. Baker waved, and I saw Terry look over his shoulder from the bucket. He was cutting a side-line with a pair of ratcheting cutters made just for aerial powerlines. These lines aren’t just aluminum as they appear. There’s a steel support cable in the center of them to help hold the weight and they will positively destroy conventional cable cutters if used.

Leaving Umatilla behind us, my mood changed. Driving into Eustis wasn’t like it used to be. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. But we had to pass through town, through what was left of it at least. The column had to slow to navigate the cratered streets and piles of debris. It reminded me of scenes from Middle Eastern cities during the seemingly never-ending wars. Burnt out shells of cars. Shoes, something that always struck me for some reason, lying in the road.

I don’t know what it is about seeing a shoe in the road like that; it gets to me. Maybe it’s the fact it’s usually just a shoe. The thought that it had been on someone’s foot until it was blasted away. Or they ran out of them in sheer terror as they tried to get away from the hell that was raining down on them. The shoes I saw today weren’t on a video from Iraq. They were right here in my town and they only served to worsen the feeling.

Eustis was disturbingly quiet. I only saw a couple of people on our ride through town. Eustis was normally bustling with people. The lakeshore was always crowded with people fishing or working nets, gathering water or tending to other daily tasks. But the worst site was the armory. A pile of blackened twisted metal was all that remained. As I looked at what was left of a building I’d been into many times, all I could see in my mind was Sheffield and Livingston’s faces.

A sense of relief washed over me as we made our way out of the downtown area. The rest of the ride was uneventful, relaxing even. As we passed through Zellwood, I saw a number of people. They were friendly, if nervous at the sight of the odd convoy of vehicles. After a short ride to the auto auction, it was time to get to work.

We pulled up to what was left of the auction building. Everyone was gathered up there, except for Dalton and Mike. I imagined Dalton was still out looking for Russian souvenirs, and there’s no telling what the hell Mike was up to. The tank rolled to a stop and the old man appeared out the top. Ted walked towards him with a devilish grin on his face.

“I’ve got something for you,” Ted said as he shook the old man’s hand.

Sarge looked around, “Yeah? What’s that?”

Ted whistled, and Dalton appeared from the ruins of the building. But he wasn’t alone. Mike was with him; and between the two of them was another man, his hands bound, and a piece of cloth tied around his head.

As they approached, Ted held his hand out in a welcoming gesture. “I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Aleksei Vodovatov.”

“Well no shit?” Sarge growled.

Dalton tore the blindfold off the man’s eyes. He blinked and squinted against the early morning sun. Sarge took a couple of steps towards the man, inspecting his uniform. After a moment, he said, “He’s not wearing a Colonel’s uniform.”

“Yeah,” Ted replied and held out a small card. “But his ID says he’s a Colonel.”

Sarge took