Conflicted Home (The Survivalist Book 9) by A American (learn to read books TXT) 📕

“No. It’s not a tank. But that gun is a tank gun. It can knock tanks out. It just can’t take return fire very well. But we ain’t seen no tanks. Just armored personnel carriers. And it can knock the dog shit outta those.”

We made our way through the base until we came to a fenced area. The gate was open, and we drove in. A tractor hooked to a large tank trailer occupied most of the area beside a metal building. “There she is,” Sarge said as he shut the truck down.

Pointing at it, I asked, “That? You want me to drive that?”

“Yeah. What’s the problem?”

I asked, “Is that thing full of fuel?” He nodded. “You want me to drive that rolling inferno all the way back to Eustis?”

“Yeah. We need the fuel. There isn’t anything out there to worry about.”

“What if some asshole takes a shot at it? I don’t want to be burned up in that thing!”

Sarge shook his head. “A rifle isn’t going to hurt it. It’d take something like an RPG, and we aren’t going to encounter any of those.”

I shook my head. “This is bullshit.”

Sarge’s face contorted. “Would you quit your bellyaching! You’re driving it. End of story. And pull your fucking skirt down. Your mangina is showing!”

He walked away shaking his head and mumbling to himself and went into the building. I stood there for a minute, thinking of all the ways this could end badly. Seeing that there was no choice in the matter, I followed him inside.

The building was brightly lit and much larger than I first thought. Various trucks and fighting vehicles were being worked on by several crews. Things must be pretty intense for them to be working around the clock. Sarge was talking to a large man whose arms stretched the sleeves of his uniform. There was something familiar about him, so I walked over.

“Hey, Faggione!” I said.

He smiled, causing the large cigar in his mouth to turn up. “Hi there, Morg. I see you’re still running with this band of merry misfits.”

“Window-licking retards,” I replied, looking at Sarge. “Glad to see you’re alright. When I saw what happened in Tampa, I was worried about you.”

He pulled a lighter from a pocket and lit the stogie, taking a long pull on it. “We’re alright,” he replied as smoke wafted out of his mouth. “We moved back here long before that mess.”

“I see you’ve found a new line on cigars.”

He held it out. Bouncing his eyebrows, he replied, “Finest Cuban leaf. Having those little bastards here isn’t all bad.”

I smiled knowingly, “Ah. War trophies?”

He smiled again as he tucked it back in the corner of his mouth. “Something like that.” He pointed at Sarge and said, “Top tells me you’re going to drive my truck home.”

“Looks that way,” I replied.

“You still got my babies?” I nodded, and he asked, “You taking care of them?”

“They’re doing fine. But we could use some tires and oil filters. That kind of stuff.”

Faggione nodded and pointed with the wet chewed end of the cigar. “Already in your truck out there. Hope you weren’t planning on having any passengers.”

I looked at Sarge and asked, “I don’t know. Was I?”

The old man shook his head. “Nope. You’re riding alone. If that thing gets hit I don’t want to lose more than one person.”

“You’re a dick,” I replied.

“Don’t let him get a rise outta ya, Morg. “You’ll be fine. We’ve done a lot of recon and there isn’t anything that can ruin your day between here and Eustis. Now south of you, that’s a different story.” He smiled and looked at Sarge, “But we’ll be dealing with that shortly.” He struck the lighter again and took another puff.

“I thought you didn’t smoke those things. Just chewed on ‘em,” I said.

He took the roll of tobacco from his lips and spat a small piece that remained behind. “Usually not. But current conditions dictate I have a drag from time to time.”

I shook his hand, “It’s good to see you again, my friend.”

Reaching into his blouse pocket, he removed several cigars and handed them to me. “For your ride home. It’s against regs to smoke in the truck,” he smiled, “but you’re not exactly in the Army, now are you?”

I took the proffered Havanas and smiled. “Thanks, man. These will be a nice distraction.” He then handed me a Bic lighter. Pocketing it, I said, “This will help,” and I shook his hand again.

“Take care of my truck. I’d like to see it again someday.”

“I’ll treat it as if it were my own,” I replied.

Sarge snorted. “Tony, if you saw his truck, that wouldn’t mean shit to you.”

“Not my fault the damn thing is a bullet magnet.”

Faggione laughed. “Seems to be a lot of that these days.”

“Enough of this bunkum. We need to get ready to hit the road,” Sarge said. Then, in an exaggerated manner, he asked, “You do want to get home, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said dismissively and looked at Tony. “Thanks again. Take care of yourself.”

“I’m safe as being in my momma’s arms. You guys take care of yourselves. I hear it’s pretty tough out there in the wilderness.”

Sarge turned and headed for the door. “Nothing we can’t handle. See you next time, Tony!”

I cocked my head to the side and looked at Tony. “You know, that’s funny.”

“What’s that?” He asked.

“That’s the second time today someone referred to the wilderness. Fawcett said it too.”

Tony worked the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “That’s what we call it now. Anything outside the wire is the wilderness, full of Indians, bandits, settlers and other trials. It’s like being back two hundred years. You take care of yourself out there in that wilderness.”

I followed Sarge back to the warehouse as I thought about what Tony said. The wilderness. I guess it did fit. Life was certainly a lot harder now. Maybe not as bad as trying