Solaris Mortem: The New Patriots by Rusty Henrichsen

went back down into the cellar and fetched the firearms. He placed them in the wheelbarrow, then went back down again. He would gather whatever lumber he could and bury the guns beneath it, along with his Bible and water filter. With any grace, he would look like a guy salvaging a little building material rather than a gun runner. Gun runners would be shot, or worse—forced out of the zone so their chips could explode.
    It was all part of the New Patriot Charter: No man, woman or child shall keep or bear arms unless specifically called upon to do so by assignment to the New Patriot Militia. Ignorance or willful infringement of the Law shall be considered treason and punishable by death.
    Terry thought on this provision of the new law and debated now if he had done the right thing at all, unearthing the guns again.
    Maybe I should just put them back and wait….
    Wait for what? Someone to steal them?
    No, I don't think so.
----
    Terry brought the guns home to stash them and stash them well . He could not afford to lose them. All it would take is a salvage crew or one of the bio-sanitation crews to go nosing around in the wreckage of that old house, and that would be it. That was their job after all.
    Kat’s apartment was on the ground floor, and Terry began to search for the crawlspace access. It seemed the best place to hide his guns; away from Katherine and the kids, and more importantly, away from any authority types.
    He found the hatch in the kids’ bedroom closet and carefully pulled back the lid. It was dark and smelled damp. Shit. This will rust the guns in no time.
    Terry looked around for some oil to protect them, but cooking oil was all he could find.
    “This will just have to do.”
    He wiped the guns down generously then dampened a bath towel with the vegetable oil and wrapped them up in an oily cocoon. Terry used almost the entire bottle and putting it back in the cupboard he thought, Kat’s going to be pissed.
    He eased himself down into the crawlspace and wished he had a light. Terry grabbed the guns and no sooner than he began to crawl, he ran face first into his first spider web.
    “Ah, Jesus!” he cried and wiped the sticky silk from his face. He wanted to stash the guns perhaps twenty feet from the access just to be sure no one would find them, but a couple more spider webs convinced him that ten feet was ample.
    Terry tucked his gun roll beneath the heavy, black, plastic vapor barrier and crawled back toward the daylight.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    B io-sanitation was a nasty job. House by house, they checked every one. About half of them were empty. About half of them were not. Those were the bad ones. Inside were the dead or the dying. If they were dead, they were loaded into the back of a covered truck for their appointment with the incinerator. If they were dying, they were put on the list of houses to re-check the following week. If they were just sick, but not too far gone, they were given direction to receive the vaccine and the chip. Some refused, but most wanted to live.
    “Hey man, gimme a hand in here.” It was Terry’s new work partner, Austin. “You’re gonna love this one.”
    Terry grimaced. He caught the sarcasm. “What is it?”
    “It’s goddamn whale, that’s what it is. A whale of a woman!” Austin laughed and turned back into the house. Terry wished he could find amusement in all of this, but he could not.
    “Coming,” he muttered and climbed the steps up to the whale’s tomb.
    Seeing the woman, who had been dead perhaps a week, Terry decided, whale , was accurate.
    “Good God, man! We should boil down the blubber for lamp oil,” Austin mused. Terry couldn’t help but chuckle at that one. Sense of humor, check.
    It was all the two men could do to roll her onto a bed sheet and drag her out of the house and onto the porch.
    “Aye, Captain. She’s a big’un. Four hundred pounder, this lass. Me reserves are spent. Permission to return below deck to me hammock?”
    “Haha,”