Conflicted Home (The Survivalist Book 9) by A American (easy to read books for adults list txt) 📗

I looked out the side window and replied, “You need to stop being a dick.”

“I second that!” Dalton called from the turret.

After what seemed like forever, Ted called back. Looks deserted, boss.

Sarge sat for a moment, tapping the mic on his leg. “Pull around and go check that rest area out. We’ll cover you from here.”

Moving. Ted replied.

The MRAP came around us and headed towards the exit. The truck rolled slowly up the ramp as we sat and watched. The big truck would move up a few feet and pause, then move up again. It did this repeatedly until it was finally sitting in the parking lot.

“What’s the word, Teddy?” Sarge asked.

We had a couple of bodies squirt out the back, but it looks like this has been abandoned for some time now.

“Safe for us to move up?”

Looks that way. We’ll drive out the other side. I’ll let you know if we see anything.

“We’ll wait for your call.”

It didn’t take Ted long to call back with the all-clear. We had to go up the ramp and into the rest area to get around the roadblock. The rest area was a total mess. Trash, clothes and heaps of debris were everywhere. The vending machines had been dragged out into the parking lot and stood up with sheets of plywood laid across the tops to create a shelter of sorts. A couple of rusting barrels sat by piles of wood. It was obvious that this location was manned for a long time.

“Look at that,” Sarge said, pointing out the window.

He was motioning towards a large pile of clothes, shoes and assorted personal items. Several types of cheap backpacks and messenger-type bags were mixed in. “That doesn’t look good,” I said.

“That’s nothing,” Dalton called out. “Check out your eleven o’clock.”

A tree at the edge of the parking lot was festooned with women’s undergarments like some sort of garish Christmas tree. We all knew what it meant.

“There’s been some evil shit going on here,” Sarge said.

“Yeah. Just think of all those college kids trying to get out of here,” I replied.

Sarge grunted. “I hope we run across the bastards.”

“That’s not our mission. We’ve got shit to do and it doesn’t include trying to restore order to the city of Gainesville.”

“I know, I know,” Sarge replied, waving me off. He nodded forward. “Go on, let’s get a move on.”

I pulled past the MRAP and assumed the lead of the convoy again. But as bad as the rain was, it worked in our favor and kept people sheltered, which allowed us to make it through Gainesville without seeing another soul. And that was how much of the trip went. It was just mile after monotonous, rainy mile.

“Wish we had a radio,” I said as Lake City was coming into view.

Dalton, who was back in his seat now, leaned forward and asked, rather excitedly, “You want me to sing?”

He started to clear his throat as Sarge pointed over his shoulder at him, replying, “Don’t even think about it.”

Dalton slumped. But he perked right up and said, “Yeah. You’re right. You’re a much better singer than I am. You go.”

Sarge turned slowly in his seat. I had to laugh, because as the old man swiveled in his seat, Dalton leaned away, at the same speed. And Dalton was nearly as bad as Mike. When the old man started to turn around, Dalton again leaned forward. Sarge quickly looked back over his shoulder and Dalton instantly sat back. I laughed out loud and Sarge shook his head.

“Why am I always surrounded by assholes?” He asked.

“You’re just lucky that way,” I replied as I swung the truck onto the I-10 ramp.

Sarge nodded. “At least we’re on I-10 now. Getting closer.”

I looked at my watch, it was already after noon. “It’ll be dark before we get there.”

“What do you care? You wanted to drive in the dark.”

“Just making an observation, you old prick.”

Sarge looked at me for a minute. “We can move faster now. Speed up.”

“Why is this piece of asphalt any safer than the one we just got off of?” Dalton asked.

Sarge rocked in his seat. “Because the Army is in full control of this piece.” He pulled a fluorescent orange marker panel from a pocket and handed it to Dalton. “Get your ass up in that hole, Gulliver. Hold this up so we don’t get out asses shot off.”

Dalton wormed his way into the turret and held the panel over his head with both hands. It flapped in the wind as we rolled forward.

We were still coming around the ramp as it swung to the west. As the interstate proper came into view, so did a couple of armored vehicles. I instantly slowed. Staring down a large caliber gun will do that to you.

Sarge pointed and said, “Keep going. Just take it slow. They’re expecting us.”

As we approached the overpass of the southbound lanes of I-75, I saw several uniformed men standing under it. They were all armed, but non-threatening, as they waved us forward. As we rolled up to them, men approached the Hummer from both sides. Sarge opened his door and the young man standing there nodded at him, and greeting him, “Afternoon, Top.”

Sarge got out and shook the man’s hand. “How’s it going?” He asked.

I got out as the two men talked and looked around. A large tent was set up under the overpass, banked with sandbags. There were several other sandbagged emplacements as well. It looked to me like a well-prepared defense. The young soldier standing on my side was rocking back and forth on his heels. I looked at him and asked, “How’s it going?”

He shrugged and looked up. “Rain keeps the shitheads away.”

“You guys see a lot of action here?”

“We take a lot of pot shots. Thankfully, these dipshits can’t shoot for shit. There was one guy that was pretty good. He’d come out every day at the same time and crack off a round. He hit