Journey Through Chaos: The Valley

By Ward Williams

Worldwide financial collapse creates anarchy and chaos in the United States. One man anticipates this chaos and prepares a journey to a safe haven in a valley two hundred miles away. The rapid disintegration of government control puts him in grave danger but also brings several strangers into his life who help him fight his way to the valley.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483558561

Book preview

Judgement

Chapter One: Uninvited Guests

Grant Watson settled into his favorite chair on the front porch, enjoying the vista highlighted by a setting sun. Long, deep, shadows slowly crept across ravines, gullies, and rock outcrops. High in the Ozark Mountains at one end of a long valley, his cabin's front porch view never failed to delight and impress him. In the distance, a light haze hung miles high as a post-industrial reminder of the recent past. On a tripod In front of him, a set of Russian made Giant binoculars awaited his evening vigil. Taking a slow sip of George Dickel, cooled by spring water from a nearby artesian well, he pulled the tripod closer with his other hand, using the powerful 30 X 90 glasses to enhance his view of the darkening valley.

Slowly scanning the binoculars, he easily picked out neighbors' cabins on the valley floor, usually marked by an exclamation point of smoke from their supper cook stove. It was still too early in the fall for a real fire but soon a pall of smoke from numerous fireplaces would streak the valley's sky, spoiling his view. For now, he could sip his whiskey, regret the lack of cigars, and wait for his friends to arrive with some 'take out' before the usual Friday card game. Taking the last sip from his glass reminded him that his personal stock was getting low. Soon it would be time to study up on the once popular distilling techniques famous in this part of the country a century ago. Would it still be considered moonshine if it was made by the light of day, he mused to himself?

The dust marking his friends' approach on horseback showed a quarter mile below on the winding road. His eyes caught an unexpected, distant flash along way down the road very close to the entrance of his valley. Focusing the binoculars on that end of the road brought into view a barely noticeable dust cloud and occasional flashes of bright materials as their surface caught the opposite setting sun. Originally made for military and KGB surveillance, the binoculars gave him excellent field of vision even at a distance of ten miles. They were a gift from grateful neighbors that up to now had only been used for pleasure on leisurely evenings. Through a gap in the trees, ant-like figures could be seen moving west on the valley road.

Mark broke his concentration by riding into his yard waving a large canvas tote bag of fried chicken and cottage fries which represented his 'marker' from last weeks poker game. Hey Grant! Ready for paybacks? What're you lookin' at? Ain't it a little late in the year for Lisa to be sunbathing in the raw? Mark Abrams was six foot three inches tall, about about twenty pounds over his playing weight of 225 when he was a varsity tight end for the Longhorns and later the Dallas Cowboys. The twenty-eight year-old dismounted the bay he was riding and clomped onto the porch with a certain gangly grace, oblivious to his host's focus on the view at the other end of the valley.

Mark was the youngest of his close friends in the valley. Grant appreciated him for his droll wit and hell for leather, go-for-the-gusto approach to all situations. He wondered what it was about him that Mark related to and decided it was probably his long-dead grandfather. Poker and chicken may have to wait awhile, Mark he replied evenly without turning. We got visitors coming and I don't think that one bag of food is going to take care of them.

Chapter Two: General Grant

No shit! Mark quickly moved to his horse and plucked his own binoculars from a saddle bag. Standing on the porch, his much younger eyes picked out the moving party about ten miles away. Looks like at least twenty or so, on foot, with maybe a couple of pack animals moving toward this end of the valley on Firetower Road.

I'll have to take your word for the pack animals but that sounds about right with the dust I make out Grant agreed, though irked that his fifty-two year old eyes couldn't see the damn mules even with the Giants. Pushing back the tripod, he cast a regretful glance at his now empty glass and called to the other three arriving players to join him around the table inside. Looking around at the familiar faces, he took a deep breath and told them about the visitors coming up the road. Looks like a least twenty people, moving in a loose military style formation. Not true professionals, more like wannabes. I think we have to assume their intentions are not friendly.

Mark, Cheryl Robinson, and Luke Cleburne were closer to him that any of his other acquaintances in the valley population of about 400 souls. They represented his social circle, political advisors, news sources, and informal council of war. Not to mention the fact that he got to take their money in marathon poker sessions on a good night. This was not shaping up as a good night.

Cheryl spoke first Who's on watch at the Firetower today?

Mark waits for about two seconds then says Bobbie is, but from his position he may not have spotted them, yet. The view from this bluff with the sun at our backs kinda throws a spotlight on them. Luke, what do you think? The older man, shaking his head and shrugging, said nothing, his weatherbeaten face reflecting deep thought. Luke would be the last one to overreact and the first one to move once a decision was made.

Grant waited, feeling some urgency, but knowing the group needed time to react to the situation and come to a consensus. Once, he would have paced around the room throwing out opinions and directions, ignoring the groups' need to develop a critical mass before acting. Time had taught him that these people could not be shoved into action until they were emotionally and intellectually ready.

Luke finally broke the silence and grinned I don't suppose we can eat some of that chicken as long as we're just sittin' here with our thumb up our butts? Luke had an easy going way of relieving the tension and gently Cheryl stood and returned minutes later with the food, plates, napkins, and catsup. Luke went to the bucket full of ice cold spring water and grabbed a few bottles of PBR and a church key saying I am so sure Napoleon would agree with this strategy .... fried chicken and beer for the troops! He offered a mock grimace to the beer and asked where does Izzy get this stuff, anyway? Izzy Izyumov, famous throughout the valley for his scrounging, was notoriously secretive about his means and methods. Once he had showed up with a wagon load of designer jeans, 500 pounds of flour, and two Korean War era . 30 caliber Browning machine guns. Izzy had apparently acquired his arcane skills in Mother Russia before he immigrated in the '90s. Rumors about pre-Chaos Russian Mafia connections abounded but Izzy remained stoic, neither confirming nor denying them. Mostly, the valley people just enjoyed the perks of his junk wagon style trading.

Food was passed around and eager hands grabbed for wings and drumsticks. Appetite was never a problem with this crowd. Watson hesitated, wondering if his impatience was noticeable and wondering for the hundredth time how he wound up de facto leader of this bunch. In between bites of chicken and gulps of beer, the spontaneous council of war discussed the possible intentions of the visitors, the probable speed of travel and the best course of action.

The food was just about decimated when he glanced sideways at Cheryl, the emotional barometer of their close knit group. She always sensed when it time to wait and when it was time to act. Her compact, lithe, body, was concealed by loose fitting jeans, a plaid flannel Orvis shirt, and topped with a faded lucky Razorback ball cap. Leaning forward slightly, she reached for a drumstick and caught his eye. Guessing his thoughts, she dipped her head affirmatively, acknowledging his unspoken question and sat back again.

I figure we got about four hours at the rate they're coming. He watched faces, noting no one was fidgeting or distracted. What say we rally the troops and rendezvous at Bald Eagle Point at 19:30 hours?

Oh, Jeez, I just love it when you sound like Chuck Norris in one of those chopsocky MIA flicks. It really turns me on Cheryl grinned at him, popping his 'I am the great leader' balloon.

You say that now, but will you respect me in the morning he deadpanned back, one side of his mouth turned up slightly to acknowledge the verbal pinprick.

You bet, great leader. That would be the same as 7:30 p.m., right? Luke chimed in. General chuckles and laughter followed by a pause.

Luke took a sip of his beer, leaned back and spoke for the first time. Practical as always, he asked Weapons? Personnel? Scouts?

Two squads will be needed...First and Third are on stand-by this week. Two M-60's with two boxes of ammo each, rifles and sidearms with 200 hundred rounds of ammunition and two antipersonnel grenades for each person. Bring night vision goggles, light rations, radios, and couple of RPG's in case they have something heavy. Dark clothes only. Send two scouts out, retrieve Bobbie and radio word of the visitors's position as soon as they are spotted. Oh, and tell them to confirm hostile intent, weapons, uniforms, etc. when they report...the usual intelligence. Better alert the leaders of the Second and Fourth squads, just in case

Grant looked around the circle of friends, seeing nothing but resolve in their faces. "O.K. people, let’s do it! Everyone but Mark broke for their horses. He paused just long enough to drain his beer but easily caught up to the rest at the front gate. We may just have enough time, if everyone is where they are supposed to be and follows the drill, he thought.

Chapter Three: Arm Yourself Obi Wan

After the others left the room, Grant looked around the sparsely furnished room, with its Adirondack furniture, wood burning stove, and deer antlers mounted above the fireplace. The high open ceilings with huge timber beams revealed a loft bedroom. He loved the rustic comfort and log cabin design of his mountain top home. Shaking off thoughts about losing it, he went over to an old olive drab army footlocker and opened the lid. Inside, wrapped in oil cloth, were the tools he would need tonight. Quickly he pulled out a 9mm Makarov, chambering a round and shoving it into a black nylon shoulder holster with the safety on. He knew there were better firearms for close work like the Glock or Beretta, but he liked the Mak's feel and size, not to mention that he could usually hit what he aimed it at, within fifteen yards or so. It also needed very little field stripping since its sturdy frame had been designed to be operated in sub-zero Russian winters without any lubrication. A 12 gauge Remington model 870 with modified folding stock and a bandolier of buckshot shells followed. Something else he could hit what he aimed at, he chuckled to himself. He quickly pulled on a black Polartec vest over his dark green shirt. Strapping on the shoulder holster and slinging the shotgun behind his back, he grabbed his Armalite fully automatic rifle off its pegs and headed for the barn, pausing to grab his pre-packed canvas saddle bags, hat, and portable two-way radio before closing the front door.

Walking toward the barn, feeling absurdly over-armed, a line from an old Clint Eastwood movie came to him. After shooting the bartender, Sheriff Gene Hackman complained that the dead man was unarmed. Eastwood replied well, he shoulda armed himself. Well, no problem here. Grant briefly studied the three horses in crude stalls. Better take the mustang who is sure footed and unlikely to stumble on the back trails at night. He had found this Pinto wandering around in a large soybean field, bridle still on, munching away on whatever plants were still growing there. Probably the horse was a survivor of the adopt-a-wild-horse program started with noble but misguided intentions during the last century and continued right up until the Chaos broke out. Lucky for him. At the time, he was afoot and dodging some pretty mean banditos. Overcoming his normal fear of large, four legged beasts, grabbing the reins and climbing on, he lurched off in a manner any rodeo clown would envy. Fortunately, the pony was trail-ride tame and seemed eager for some exercise, even if he had to put up with some lame, pretend cowboy. He called the horse Bean short for soy or pinto, take your pick. God only knows what the horse called him.

Better acquainted with horses now, he turned Bean up the hill onto a trail that could barely be made out in the growing dusk. This was a more difficult passage but would save precious time to Bald Eagle Point. A huge yellow Labrador followed close behind. The dog watched him as he turned in the saddle. Not tonight, boy. Stay and guard the house. Stay! he emphasized. The dog drooped his head and peered at him impishly from hazel eyes, weighing his desire to follow against the firm command. With obvious reluctance, he turned and slowly walked back into the yard. Grant muttered to himself wonderful hunting dogs but terrible watch dogs; I'm sure the damn dog would pounce on any intruder, tail wagging joyfully while he licked him to death.

He arrived after about an hour's ride, leaving a lot of time to think. Unfortunately, this also left plenty of time to consider what could go wrong. Alone now, doubts crowded in, shoving aside the previous confidence. Who were we facing? What were their intentions? How strong are they? People were depending on him to know these things and react with the right measure of force. Maybe they were on a friendly mission, ambassadors from some other isolated settlement. Maybe they were better armed and prepared than us. His gut got slightly curdled and began its flipping and flopping. About half way up the hill, he stopped the horse, leaned over and puked the fried chicken and beer all over the trail side. Feeling somewhat better, he washed his mouth out with canteen water and continued up the trail into the fading light.

The worst part was not just his fear of getting hurt or killed but the thought that his friends and neighbors were counting on him to lead them through this. In the beginning, when he hadn't known them very well, it had been a lot easier to take charge. Emotionally, the risk of failure not been so high. One of these days, he would make a mistake and that could cost someone or several someones their lives. For the hundredth time, he thought.. 'why me, and what the hell am I doing here'? He had no experience leading troops, had never seen combat, and absolutely had never been a violent person. What qualifies him for their trust? Sure, he had helped them in some scrapes and by the luck of the gods had pulled through in a couple of tough fights. How long could that continue?

Shaking his head, he reassured himself that they were ready, that the training maneuvers and drills he had insisted on for all kinds of grim scenarios would get them though this. More than that, his ego wasn't so big that he didn't realize that there were many capable people in the valley and most of them would be with him tonight. Besides, we don't have a choice.

He was almost to the rendezvous when his radio crackled on. Obi Wan. . . .this is Loose Cannon it spoke to him. ‘Loose Cannon' was Robbie Stewart's call sign, an inside joke from when Garth had irritably described him that way because he was always going off half-cocked. Robbie had replied half-cocked, my ass! Whip yours out and we'll just see who has the half and who has the whole! The comment, along with his wild, Mel Gibson like grin, had broken everyone up, defusing the confrontation completely.

Obie Wan, over'. His call sign lightly mocked a time during a squad training exercise when he suggested they use the force after one of their group posed a ridiculous hypothetical battle problem with no practical options but death or surrender. Later, when someone asked in jest what the force was, he had pointed to the Front to the Enemy label on a nearby Claymore mine and said well that will just have to do until Luke Skywalker comes along. Ever after that his radio call sign was Obi Wan Kenobi, or usually just the shorter Obi Wan".

We got some bad boys here, at least twenty or twenty-five. They've already raided the Hansen's place, took everything that wasn't nailed down. Hansen's dead. So’s his wife. We got there right after and it looked like he put up a fight when they grabbed his daughter. Wasn't nothin' we could do, chief -there was too many of them.

Understood. Gimme some intel on weapons.. This was grim news but Grant knew better than to react right now. At least that answered the question about their intentions. They were raiders, pure and simple. Their desire for loot had slowed them down and may give us some extra, much needed time.

Mostly small arms, spotted at least five AK's, some hunting rifles, some MAC-10 knock-offs, and something that looked like a light MG. They are wearing cammo with full packs, and got two pack mules, fully loaded. That was all we could see from where we were. Bobbie is with us and I had all I could do to keep him from rushing them. Their ETA to rendezvous is about a hour unless they stop to bother someone else.

Ten-four. Good work. Fall back to the knoll above the rendezvous point. You'll be the mop up for stragglers. Keep radio silence. Two shorts and a long click when you see them from the knoll. Out". Garth was relieved the boy hadn't lived up to his moniker. If they lost the element of surprise, it would be a very long night, indeed.

Chapter Four: Rally at Bald Eagle Point

Bean delivered him to Bald Eagle Point about fifteen minutes later. Tying the horse in a shallow gully protected by a large boulder, he lifted the saddle bags off his back and plucked the rifle from its scabbard. Grant moved to his pre-selected command site on a slope about thirty yards from the road. His spot was covered by dense undergrowth, partly enhanced by some camouflage netting he had removed from an old deer stand. On either side of his position, there were large rock outcroppings, making a natural pillbox. He had thinned the bushes in front, leaving a great view of the road, with only a few trees down the hillside blocking his field of fire. Grant was a strong believer in maximum defensive protection along with maximum offensive firepower.

Once, during a period of long unemployment after being fired for challenging the ethics of his boss on certain billing practices, he had read The Art of War by Sun Tzu. The book had been recommended by a friend who said it applied just as well to the business world. It had never helped in much in the corporate wars but its passages often comforted him when preparing for situations like this. Of course, quoting the book to his comrades usually just provoked gibes like 'yes, Obie Wan' followed by a smirk or a laugh. He suspected they took him more seriously than they let on, but quoting ancient books was just fodder for their typically American brand of wit.

Laying out his gear where he could easily access it was done in ritualistic manner. One of the advantages they would have tonight would be back of the hand familiarity with the terrain and a well organized attack based on hours of drill. This place was picked for its advantages in concealment, field of fire, and high ground on both sides of the road. Every person knew his or her spot. Anyone traveling up the road had no practical egress on the flanks. During training, he had stressed the even small details, like always putting gear in the same places every time so that it could be found quickly even on a moonless night. Of course, tonight was a fine example of a 'hunter's moon', bright enough to see the quarry without artificial aid.

His radio made some static, followed by Mark's voice announcing I'm here. Grant you here, yet? He replied curtly Yes, dammit! Radio silence and no names! Grant didn't know if the visitors had scanners but he didn't want to take even small chances. Mark slowly made his way up the hill bent slightly by his gear and the brute weight of the 23 pound 'pig' he carried. He dropped his gear and the M60 off at his position ten yards away and slightly below Grant then moved over to a conversational distance.

First Squad's about thirty minutes away he reported to Grant. Cheryl thought 2nd squad ought to take up at rendezvous number two, just in case we don't stop them here. Third squad's moving across the valley but they're at least thirty minutes behind the others.

Grant let loose a short sigh, thinking dark thoughts about Billy Bob Sarge Wilder, the leader of 3rd squad. He was always the most disorganized and slowest of the four active duty squads in the valley. His nickname derived from his rank with the Arkansas National Guard, something he constantly reminded everyone about, telling war stories and actually wearing a silver chevron pin on his fatigue cap.

Of course, Billy Bob never stressed the fact that the only action he had seen was guarding an ammo dump in Kuwait during the first Persian Gulf war. Still, his military service qualified him to lead and so far, he had proved dependable, even if slower than the others. Grant suspected that his tardiness was more a small gesture of defiance to his command than real incompetence. Wilder had been one of the few people to oppose his selection as commander of the valley forces.

That was a good idea Cheryl had on 2nd squad. No sense in taking chances. They might find a way around us or break through. Grant mentally slapped his forehead for not thinking of it himself. He filled Mark in about the Hansen's. The big man just grunted, reached in his pocket for some Skoal, then in another pocket for some charcoal to darken his face. After a bit, he said, Did you know ol' man Hansen's daughter, Susie? She asked me to go to the dance next week with her. I told her no, because of Darla. But you know, I wish I had said yes. It wouldn’t have hurt anything. Grant didn't respond right away, recalling the pretty seventeen year old's face. You know, when I used to put this shit on my face for games, I never thought I would be doing it and thinking about how much I'd like to tear some fucker's heart out with a machine gun. I was only thinking 'bout the next catch and how it might impress a pro scout or a cheerleader. Mark moved on down to set up his position without waiting for a reply.

First Squad arrived with Luke in the lead. The squad's leader, Jerry Bearkiller, picked his way up the hill to make his report. Jerry was a Native American who had wandered over to the valley in the early Chaos days from the Sallisaw, Oklahoma area. As a former Army Ranger he had seen quite a bit of action, starting as an eighteen year old private in the Persian Gulf. Later he had seen peacekeeping service in Somalia and Bosnia, ending his career after the ill-fated Palestine peace mission in 2012. Bear, as he was known, had been one of the few survivors of the famous ambush of Delta force in Somalia. The former gunnery sergeant squatted down on his left side, looking downright cheerful, like he was heading for a party instead of a firefight. First Squad present and all accounted for, sir. We're fully supplied with ammo and grenades but the M60 is kaput until we can replace the drive spring. Also, we ran into Gary and Jimmy Bashears who was out huntin' some wolves that have been killing their stock. They wanted to come and I figured we could use 'em. They got their hunting rifles and two boxes of ammo apiece.

The Bashears' brothers were known for their ability to track wild game and kill at incredibly long distances. This was something they had gotten a lot of practice at since wolves were being seen in increasing numbers. Once they were almost extinct in these mountains but the Sierra Club had convinced the Game and Fish Commission to start a resettlement program in wilderness areas of the state about eighteen years ago. With fewer humans around, they rapidly repopulated and had reestablished themselves as formidable predators.

Bear, you look way too happy about this situation''. The other man grinned and responded with Hoo Hah" and a thumbs up. Bearkiller had never found a fight he didn't like.

Grant gestured to his right "Tell the Bashears' to head over to the knoll and join up with Robbie, Joe, and Billy Bob. Issue them one pair of infrared viewers and tell them they will be mopping up stragglers and runners. Tell them they are to follow Robbie's orders and no shooting until after the ambush starts. Tell them to shoot to kill. Oh, and give them the countersign; it's 'werewolves' in response to 'London'. Those boys may be a little trigger happy over there and I don't want any accidents.' Signs and countersigns were pre-arranged and usually taken from top forty hits of the last century since they were familiar to young and old alike.

Meanwhile, about two miles away, Billie Bob paused on a switchback and let his squad pass him by one by one. He scrutinized the gear of each one, making sure there were no telltale rattles or missing equipment. Tighten it up, girls, his sarcasm aimed at the two heavily laden stragglers bringing up the rear. No offense, Robin he murmured to the lone female towards the middle of the group. None taken, Sarge she replied lightly. He admired her posterior in the dim light for a moment, then turned his attention up the trail. Robin was a pretty good trooper, for a girl, he thought.

The next thought he had was about that pissant, Grant Watson. He knew Grant was probably furious that his squad wasn't already setting up at the rendezvous. They had already had words about his squad’s habitual tardiness during the training exercises. He just had a slow bunch and if Grant had ever had any military experience he would know that he was getting the best he could out of them. Plus, he rationalized, several men had further to go once the word was put out to meet at the rally point. Well, we would get there and we would hold up our end. He was damned if Watson would ever have anything to say about his boys fighting. Before Watson showed up in the valley, he had been the company commander and he had been doing a damn fine job. He just hadn't had time to get things properly organized yet. Then Watson comes along with his little band and saves the day. It wasn't no more than being in the right place at the right time, he griped to himself. Sooner or later, ol' Obi Wan would screw up and people would realize what a total cluster fuck he was.

Back at Bald Eagle Point, Grant was getting nervous about the tardiness of Third Squad. If they got here too late, their noise would give us away. Damn Billy Bob anyway! I was hoping that when it' was the real deal, he would step up and be here when he was supposed to. First Squad was in place, scattered along the south slope above the road. Each position was chosen carefully to provide overlapping fields of fire and a minimum of danger from friendly fire. Bear had been a tremendous help with the tactics of the ambush and placing the heavy weapons. If Third Squad didn't arrive soon, he would have to split the