Against the Grain Read online

  “So what’s the deal?” Breanne asked, bringing me out of my reminiscing.

  “I found her in town last night about to be raped by a couple of guys and recognized her… she graduated a year after me.”

  Breanne had graduated high school a year before me, which put her two years older than Megan.

  “Oh man, I thought she looked kind of familiar. Did they… did she get hurt?” she asked.

  “No, she’s okay,” I replied simply.

  While we didn’t really talk about the things I had done, Breanne was smart enough to read in between the lines and not press for details.

  “She walked from the other side of the state to find the house she grew up in empty, her mom long gone, and then she got jumped to top it all off,” I continued on.

  “You’re not usually one for pity,” she commented absentmindedly.

  “Yeah well she’s got some medical training and grew up working in a plant nursery too.”

  “There it is…” Breanne again semi-mocked me.

  I was maybe leaving out a few details and embellishing others, but the truth was that while I thought Megan was a good person, it didn’t hold much of an argument as to why she would be a good addition for the household. Knowing that, I chose my next sentence carefully.

  “Hey, if you guys can help get her on her feet and find some work for her to do for a few days around here, I’m sure she’d appreciate it. I know you could use the help.”

  She hesitated on this new, factual line of reasoning, and then replied, “Of course we’ll see what we can do. How about you, you need anything?”

  “Where’s Nick at today?” I asked.

  “Out watching over stuff I think. There’s been some noise on the radio so he wanted to make sure we saw anybody coming down the road. Oh hey, your buddy Clint dropped some stuff off for you the other day,” Breanne said and ducked her head inside the back doorway.

  “Sweeeeet!” I exaggerated when she reappeared. She had a cheap book bag on one shoulder and a green and gray rifle in her hands.

  Clint Fenner was a longtime friend and shooting buddy of mine who just happened to live a few more miles further on down the road. Clint and I had met a very long time ago, his son and I used to play together as kids. When his son left home, Clint and I remained close. Our families spent the holidays together and we hunted and fished and ended up spending some time working together in an official capacity too.

  My grandfather may have been the man who taught me to shoot, but Clint was the one who got me learning and improving, then eventually he found a way to put those skills to use. While I was an amateur garage gunsmith by necessity, a.k.a. lack of funds, Clint was a garage gunsmith pro, just because he loved to do the work himself.

  I had given him this rifle as a bare bones gun with a bag of parts and he had worked magic on it. Built on another AK action, this 308 caliber Saiga rifle was not your normal marksman’s rifle. Then again, I wasn’t your normal marksman. It had sat in my safe for probably four years as I slowly bought and collected parts to build the short, scoped, mag fed, full power rifle I wanted. In all that time I never did get around to putting the pieces together myself as one thing or another pushed it to the back burner. Finally two months ago, I dusted it off and turned it over to the expert.

  Being more of a traditionalist and always opting for the longer is better theory, to Clint’s horror and chagrin, I had him chop the barrel down to 18 inches. The length was the perfect balance of weight and handling while still maintaining the velocities needed to optimize the large caliber bullet that would pass through it. The action was smoothed and polished, and the upgraded trigger was set just right, not too heavy, not too light. It was maybe not as rugged as a FAL or HK, and not as accurate as a traditional bolt action rifle, but it also weighed considerably less than most other “battle rifles” and would shoot “minute of man” as well as anything could in a bad situation.

  “You shot it yet?” I jokingly asked Breanne.

  Part of living in the days we now lived in meant everyone at the Ranch had learned to shoot, and Breanne especially had flourished compared to some of the others. She had shown a natural gift for not just being accurate, but being able to engage her mind and really put a gun to use. She could quickly work out solutions to difficult shots at distance and close in, and she shot with confidence at multiple targets. She didn’t have the long term experience of handling weapons, and maybe didn’t know the finer attributes and manipulations of various types of firearms, but she was a talented and competent shooter.

  Breanne, like most of the others, had not fired a single round from the time she was a young teenager until just a few months ago. Early on in their lives their dad David had taught all his kids the basics with an old bolt action .22, and then later on with his hunting rifle. Under my renewed tutelage, the others didn’t exactly learn precision marksmanship, more like practical, good enough shooting, but Breanne had taken to it all. I figured it must have given her something to focus on when everything else in the world was so out of focus. Whatever it was, it was clear that she was a natural and she seemed to enjoy being good at it too.

  “I put it to my shoulder and tried the trigger a few times, seems nice, but I don’t really know how to use the scope that well,” she told me.

  “Neither do I,” I said looking it over and running the bolt a few times. “I always was decent enough with irons and had good enough eyesight that I didn’t need a scope,” I finger quoted, “but this should let me get quicker and more precise shots in at longer ranges. Once I get it broken in and learn to shoot it, I’ll get you behind it and see what you think.”

  “That thing is going to be loud as hell isn’t it?” Breanne asked.

  “It doesn’t have to be," I unscrewed the flash hider on the end of the barrel. “There should be a suppressor in that bag with the mags and extra parts… but yes, it’s still going to be pretty loud. I just hope the impact doesn’t change too much with the suppressor on it.”

  Actually I really hoped that with the suppressor fitted to the front end of the gun, that it wasn’t going to make it feel completely unbalanced.

  “Clint said he had sighted it in on his little range and there was no big difference,” Breanne supplied.

  “Awesome, I’ll have to hit him up on the CB tonight.”

  “Does that mean you’re staying here tonight… with your new friend?” she added.

  I had an open invitation to stay in the spare bedroom of the main house, and I did stay the night every once in a while, but this was one of those times I thought the small tent in my pack may be a better option.

  “I don’t think I’ll take up space in the house tonight... but I’ll probably be around somewhere close by,” I replied. “And hey about her, she needed some help and I was in the right place. It’s good of you guys to take her in, even if it’s just temporarily.”

  “It’s the right thing to do,” She said, not being too specific.

  With that, I handed the Saiga back to her and picked up my AK74. I really, really wanted to carry the new gun with me to go see Nick, but it was unproven to me as of yet, and the magazines in my pack were full of 5.45, not 308.

  Chapter 4

  “Hey, you have some beer stashed out here? It’s been a long couple of days,” I sighed and sat down next to Nick.

  He was currently sitting in a hole, half hidden in another of the rocky outcroppings. This particular spot was one that we used regularly as it was just down from the peak of a little ridge line and offered a great view of the road in both directions.

  “Hey man, how’s it going?” Nick greeted me with his normal upbeat attitude.

  “Oh you know, I’m just thriving and surviving these days.” I rolled my eyes dramatically.

  “Yeah aren’t we all,” he laughed.

  Nick was about my same age and as tall as I was, but nowhere near my weight or stature. What he lacked in mass, he made up for with his brain. I had met him through Breanne
when they were first dating, and I came to find out that while he appeared to be outgoing with other people, it was a ruse. He was incredibly intelligent and introspective and had an excellent cynical inner dialog to go along with his sharp wit, which meant that he and I got along great.

  Nick had grown up out of town originally, but he had embraced the city lifestyle and easily forgotten what it was like to be able to see the stars at night. Even now, he was still trying to get used to not having constant noise and electronic stimulation in his life. His adjustment to this new lifestyle was like everyone else’s; slow.

  Over the years we had gone camping together a few times and these days he tried to stick with me in the woods and on the gun range to learn as much as he could, but at the same time, he was constantly preoccupied. I knew how overwhelmed and stressed out he was with trying hard to figure out how to run things on the Ranch and keep everyone happy. Being married to Breanne and with kids of their own, and also due to the circumstances of where they were living, once his in-laws passed on, Nick would become the de facto patriarch at the Ranch… and it scared the hell out of him.

  “So do you have traffic out here or what?” I asked him, referring to having a manned OP, or observation post. We didn’t normally keep people out here these days anymore unless we had a reason to be concerned and suspected there may be visitors.

  After the first few months most people living in this area had sorted out whether they were going to make it or need help, and for the most part if they came to us, we helped them move on in another direction. It was difficult sometimes pointing a hungry family towards the shelter in town, or giving them the idea that we were not here just for them. We kept our friendly arms wide shut, because it was for the best for everyone. The families here had just enough to keep themselves going long enough to learn how to live in this new world without taking in beggars.

  There had been emotional arguments and breakdowns, and I had earned the reputation of being a heartless bastard who could turn my back on anyone, but over time the others started to realize the necessity of drawing such a hard line, even if they didn’t like it. I was pretty sure some of them thought I actually did like turning away old acquaintances, but a few people, like Nick and Breanne, they realized it was for the good of everybody.

  When the months turned into a year, and after the winter took its toll on the rest of the population, it was seldom that anyone came down the road that we didn’t already know. We were friendly with the few neighbors that were left, and we knew them all well enough by sight or sound so everyone tried to give a heads up to the others and work together. Through the CB radios we kept in loose contact and let the neighbors know when someone would be out and about on the road, or if others unlooked for were headed their way.

  Barricading the road a few miles from here did wonders for car and truck traffic, but it was a double edged sword. The barricade forced people to get out of the vehicles that we would be able to hear coming and walk in much quieter by foot. If they decided they wanted to abandon their rig at all. We had hoped the barricade would be enough of a deterrent for most people, but some saw it as a reason to come check us out, thinking we must have something good enough to protect.

  There were two other neighbors somewhat nearby, further on down the road from the Ranch houses and the barricaded end, so we were the lucky ones that got to deal with any “trespassers” first. It was good for the neighbors, but not ideal for us. They were just a couple of families, one with some livestock, and the other with the hay and farm fields that we all desperately needed, and what’s more, they knew it. It wasn’t a great situation although we tried to help them out with everything we could, including getting CB radio units set up to help keep everyone in contact. Even further down the road there were a couple other houses, now empty. Their previous owners having decided that they would be better off with their own relatives a few states away.

  The CB radios were spares, or more accurately they were “liberated” units from abandoned cars and trucks that I had come across. With little to no outside electrical grid power, the car units were a good compromise that kept the little local area communicating. Clint, who lived even farther out, had a good CB, HAM, and Shortwave set up and an antenna tower that he ran off a big old generator. We used him as our “repeater” to get information farther in and out than what our little units were capable of doing.

  Here at the Ranch there was a small battery bank and trickle solar charging system that we had cobbled together. The panel had come from the Harris’s grandparent’s motor home that they used to camp in during the summer months. It was a cheap system, but it gave us a way to recharge our batteries and monitor a radio scanner without running the car and truck engines. We actually had a good bit of gas in the various fuel cans, but there was not nearly enough stabilizer to keep the octane from going dead.

  Every once in a while we heard over the radio how gas stations in the big city some thirty miles from here were getting irregular shipments in, it was mostly all slated for the hospital generators, then the infrastructure guys who were trying to fix the roads, and then the power and water crews. It would be a while before we saw any tanker trucks come out our way and in the mean time, what we had, we were reluctant to use. Not that we really had anywhere to go.

  “We picked up some weird static and a couple broken voices on the CB this morning. Then again on the FRS scanner a little bit later. I thought if they were close enough for the FRS’s to hear ‘em,we might want to have a lookout,” Nick explained to me.

  The FRS radios were little hand held walkie-talkies that during their prime, could be found at every box store and sporting goods site in America. Their range was never as good as advertised, and cell phones had taken over their urban usability, but in the woods they still had a place. Using them as we did now, it was not an exact science as the finicky radios were prone to picking up random static, but it was good for Nick to have thought outside the box on the subtleties of their uses.

  “And have you seen anything yet?” I asked him.

  “I watched a chipmunk cross the road like two hours ago,” he deadpanned.

  “Yeah,” I laughed. “Good call on getting eyes on the road in any case.”

  “So what are you doing out here?” Nick asked me. “I didn’t expect you to be back for a week or two.”

  “Well… I kind of ran into someone and ended up bringing her back here,” I said lamely. I was going to need a better way to explain this if I got asked many more times.

  “Her… really?” Nick repeated and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Yes, her,” I relented. “Her name’s Megan. Bre and I went to school with her and I used to know her pretty well a while back. I came across her group a couple days ago; she needed some help so I stepped in. Honestly though, I think she might be a good addition to this place.”

  “Oh yeah, how so?” Nick asked.

  “She’s smart, down to earth, and she used to garden and do medical type stuff too,” I summarized.

  “Is that all?” Nick again asked, baiting me into what I knew he wanted to hear.

  “Yeah she’s a cutie too,” I conceded.

  And she was. Megan’s angel face was accented by her dirty blonde hair and sparkling green eyes. She was thin but with the right curves; a young woman in her prime was an art form, but it was always the mind that sealed the deal for me.

  “Good deal man,” he smiled broadly at me. “Has Breanne met her yet?”

  “Uh yeah, kind of. Actually they’re a lot alike, so that’ll be… interesting.” I answered.

  Breanne was the more active one in the marriage, with Nick being a somewhat more passive person. It worked for them for the most part, although there had been times of frustration that Nick would confide in me about. Breanne had talked to me too about it once or twice, but there were a couple other girls like Cary and Michelle, her brother’s wives, that she was closer with.

  “So how’s that thing treating you?” I
changed the subject and pointed to the gun leaning next to him.

  I had helped out by loaning a few of the people on the Ranch a couple of long guns that I had in my little collection. It was just a couple of bolt actions, a semi auto SKS, two shotguns and a couple .22s, as they were just good enough for what everyone needed. I knew each gun well and loved them all, but it was mutually beneficial for everyone to have a means of defense and getting food. After some basic safety and handling instructions, we started to see who had a knack for it and who struggled. The ones who had shooting experience and picked it up quickly, or those who were devoted to practicing, I paired up with certain guns.

  Everything I had loaned out so far was pretty much your standard long barreled, wood stocked, politically correct firearms. All the other fun guns were still locked away. I had been planning on upgrades at some point for the people who really showed an aptitude for shooting, but hadn’t got around to it yet. I wanted to be sure that I saw people could not just hit their target, but really be able to work with their firearm. I wanted to know that they knew how and when to use it, like Breanne had shown me.

  Nick currently had my short M38 Mosin Nagant carbine, and Breanne kept a Yugoslavian SKS close by her side.

  “Good I guess, for only having shot it a handful of times,” Nick shrugged.

  “Yeah it’s too bad, but we’ve gotta conserve ammo and keep the noise down. That’s why I’m so big on the dry firing,” I subtly reminded him about keeping up on his own practice routines.