The Zone by RW Krpoun Page B

buzzards circling, there had been killing done up here. Not my problem anymore, though. And from what Fred had said, not really much of the government’s problem either.
    Seeing all the vehicles shook my resolve because for the first time I really grasped the immensity of the task I had appointed for myself. Still, there was no harm getting a feel for the land-it may well be impossible, but I wouldn’t know for sure until I had a better look. One thing was certain: the rules of the game were new, and I did not yet understand them fully. Until I did, there was no saying what was possible.
    I saw them before they saw me; I had bounce-checked my gear to insure nothing rattled when I moved, and I am fairly light on my feet when I need to be. They were sitting on the lowered tailgate of a Ford Ranger that had run into the guard rail and lost the radiator and a tire, drinking Bud Lite long-necks from a red and white cooler open on the roadway, a couple more bottles floating in what had once been ice.
    One was a big guy, a little older than me, with graying hair worn long despite being pretty bald on top and wire-rimmed glasses; he had a leather vest with patches over a tee shirt and a chain anchoring his trucker billfold to his belt and shit-kicker boots. At a glance he looked like a biker, but the tats were wrong, and the patches on the vest were from concerts and guitar companies. A musician, roadie maybe, from the look of his hands a good man in a bar fight, but not one to start trouble. Probably bounced when he was younger. The other was a wiry black guy, maybe five six and no fat, just those stringy muscles you get from hard work every day the Lord sends, with a haircut that was fuzz fighting bald, face wrinkled by sun and smiling, wearing a white shirt with blue stripes and his name on a patch on the left (Mick) and a company logo on a patch on the right. Both had shotguns and pockets full of shells, Mick had a pump Mossburg with a pistol grip and the musician had a Remington 1100 with the barrel cut back to the foregrip by somebody who knew what he was doing and a trimmed-down stock.
    Mick saw me first as I came around the truck and started so bad he dropped his beer. “Easy,” I lifted my right hand. “Not hostile.”
    “Damn quiet, though,” Mick said, half grinning. He was the sort who grinned a lot, I guessed from the lines on his face. “Want a beer, officer?”
    “Martin, I’m retired, disabled. No beer for me, thanks.” I pulled out my water and took a swig.
    The musician lifted a hand. “Charlie. You sure don’t look retired.”
    “Out looking for family.” On closer inspection both were dusty, sweaty, and tired in a way I hadn’t seen in a while: the kind of tired that is as much emotional as physical. “Looks like you guys have been hoeing a rough row. You’ve heard about the Exclusion Zone?”
    “Yeah,” Charlie nodded thoughtfully. “It put the cherry on our day. How it is, I manage and tend bar at the Busted Wheel, you heard of it? Great music, play some myself. Guess I own it now-my cousin did, and he got both the bug and a load of buckshot inna skull. Mick here is a regular, a bunch of us loaded up and started rounding up those near and dear. The Wheel’s a concrete box when you get down to it, so it’ll do for a bit, Zone or not.”
    “You get your people?”
    “Most. ‘Course, we lost some doing it. We’ve been at it all day. Nothing personal, but the police lost interest yesterday.”
    “Those that lived, yeah. Me, I’m sort of a hermit, late to the party.” I passed out my candy bars. “Just shot my first…whatever these are a little while ago. They weren’t kidding about skull or spine.”
    Mick grinned and shook his head; he hadn’t said a word since offering me a beer. He had gotten another for himself.
    “It’s true,” Charlie nodded. “We found that out the hard way, cost us a very good bass player, and Mick’s best worker, plus a couple others. You haven’t seen