Families First: A Post-Apocalyptic Next-World Series Volume 6 Battle Grounds by Lance Ewing (ereader for comics .txt) 📕

“You boys know I can end this right now, don’t you? Why are you joking around?”

“Because,” said Sergio, “we are the least of your concerns right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, in about a week or less, there will be more than a thousand pseudo soldiers camped out about two miles south of your property, led by a crazy fanatic called Baker. You ever heard of him?” asked Sergio.

“Nope.”

“Well, you’re about to. We have even spent some time spying in their camp. They have a thing for the ladies, like your wife and daughter.”

“Wait a minute! How did you know about…?”

Sergio glanced past him at a woman in her mid- to late 40s and a girl of maybe 20, both peering around the side of the main house.

The farmer took a quick look back, telling them to get back inside the house.

“How do I know I can trust you two?”

“You don’t,” said Mike in what had now become his classic line. “But we’re from the next valley over; you know the folks from Saddle Ranch and The West, right?”

“Who runs them?” he asked skeptically.

“John and Samuel, respectively,” replied Mike, putting the man at ease and even lowering his rifle just a bit.

“Okay, I know them both. They’re good men. But that doesn’t tell me why you’re on my property.”

“We need to follow the river down for a couple of miles to take out their forward observers. We can’t just cut across open fields in the daytime,” replied Mike.

“Well, that makes sense. But then what? and why would they come here in the first place?”

“Then we wait,” replied Sergio. “At least we will have cut off communication for now, and they want the next valley over—the Ranch and West properties—for their headquarters. It’s one of the few places that can feed that many people.”

“And you’re going to take on a thousand ‘pseudo soldiers,’ as you call them?”

“Plus their air support,” replied Mike, getting a look from Sergio.

“Now I’m wondering what you’re really up to,” stated the man as he glanced back towards the house.

“You heard some shots north of here yesterday, right?” asked Sergio.

“A few—probably my neighbors hunting is all.”

“Close,” replied Sergio. “They were not hunting but hunted. Mac from the Ranch confirmed it this morning. I’ll tell you what. We’ll go ahead, and you follow right behind. I’m guessing you can still travel hostile territory without being spotted,” getting a nod from the man. “We’ll show you the camp, and if you’re game, you can help us interrogate them.”

There was a long pause, as the farmer thought it over.

“The name’s Hanson, and if you know John, Samuel and Mac, then you must be okay,” he said, lowering his rifle and reaching out his hand.

“Just Hanson?” asked Sergio.

“For now, that’s correct.”

“Like the boy band?” asked Mike before he could take it back. “My sister, Lily—it was her favorite band back in the day,” he tried to argue, getting a look from both men.

“If it ain’t Cash, Daniels, Jennings, or Nelson, then I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Hanson with a smile.

“It’s not,” said Mike, laughing at himself for bringing it up.

“Okay, I’m Sergio, and this here is Mike. I’m stationed all over now, but in Colorado at the moment, and he’s up from Texas since everything happened.”

“Since? Do you mean to tell me you came here from Texas after the lights went out?” asked Hanson.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“How is it—the roads, I mean?”

“Like this,” Mike replied, raising his shirt to show his bandaged stomach, catching Hanson’s look towards the women as they quickly looked the other way.

“All right. All right. Put your shirt down; there are women present. Give me five minutes and I’ll take a walk down the river with you two. Better let me lead, though. I’m not the only landowner we’ll be passing by today.”

* * * *

Hanson—likely his last name, thought Mike—led the way.

Mike was reminded of the old rancher called Jessup that they had met in Plano, Texas, on the way to Vlad’s gun shop—what seemed like years ago now. He liked these rancher types; there was no BS, only facts, and actions based on them. A good crop year and they saved for a rainy day; a bad one the next, and they made up the difference.

Hanson waved his hat, one of those big black ones like Johnny Cash used to wear, at the next neighbor down river, getting an “Ayup” out of him—and his wife, Mike guessed—without a single question.

“I guess you were right about leading,” Mike commented.

Two more properties crossed without spotting anyone.

“Are any of these properties vacant?” asked Sergio.

“Nope, not yet,” replied Hanson. “They’re up there on the hill, and I guarantee we’re in their sights, so let’s keep moving. I got one more neighbor up ahead about a half mile. He owns the rest of the valley, all the way down to the first cookie-cutter neighborhood, and he’s not too particular about loud music.”

The music he was referring to grew from faint to obnoxious as they rounded a bend in the river, seeing five people in the distance dancing like wild animals around a mid-day campfire.

“Hole up here,” said Hanson, looking through his binoculars. “That’s him,” he pointed, keeping low behind a log. “The landowner—that’s him tied up, sitting on the ground!”

“Anyone else living here?” asked Sergio.

“I doubt it. He’s always kept to himself. And no one, including me, ever saw him have a visitor that didn’t work for the City... Those bastards,” he said, watching closely.

One of the men had the farmer putting a revolver to his own head with the one arm untied and pulling the trigger while covered by another. After every