Walking in the Rain (Book 4): Dark Sky Thunder by William Allen Page B

I’ve been where they are. When we got to the Keller’s house, I slept outside the first night. They offered me a bed in the bunkhouse and I declined. Wasn’t sure I could trust people being nice to me again. Not after everything.”
    After a considerable wrangle, I got the honor of placing my butt on the line in an effort to make new friends. Mom wasn’t happy, but she eventually gave in once Dad promised, again, to maintain over watch on me. And so the three of us who made up the team had gathered up our kits and headed back out into the woods. With the eight-foot barbed wire fencing all around the ranch, we couldn’t exactly cut through the back pasture even if we wanted to, so we humped the extra miles and got into position by noon.
    Now we were talking.
    “What’s with all the gear, son? You a Marine too?”
    The speaker turned out to be an older man in his fifties, and the one Dad and I both agreed looked most likely to be the leader of the group. He was the oldest of this group of survivors, though given his emaciated state, I might have been off on his age range. He looked like a bag of bones rattling around in a skin suit.
    As we neared, I stuck out my hand for a shake while replying. “Lucas Messner, sir. And I’m not a Marine. Or any kind of military. Just stuff I’ve picked up since the lights went out. My family owns the ranch over there.” I nodded slowly over the man’s shoulder to indicate the proper direction. “But you already knew that. All the shooting we did yesterday attracted your attention, I’m sure.”
    “Paul Sandifer,” the man replied. I noted his handshake was strong, and I wondered how hard he was pushing himself to gather up enough strength to manage the grip. “And yes, we heard the shooting. We were worried there was trouble. That shooting was actually a good bit quieter, really, than we expected.”
    “Suppressors help with that.”
    “Is your father really out there watching us?”
    “Oh, yes, sir. Listening in, too,” I said, pointing at my earpiece.
    I heard several groans over the radio when I disclosed that tidbit. But I wanted Mr. Sandifer to know I wasn’t just talking out of my ass if Dad made a suggestion.
    “Well, Lucas, why don’t you come over here and take a seat? We can talk a bit out here in the open where all our people can see us.”
    Mr. Sandifer made a gesture to a pair of straight-back kitchen chairs, no doubt salvaged, and I nodded in agreement as I took a seat. I fought hard to avoid pulling a face as the muscles tensed, but I thought Mr. Sandifer might have picked up on something, anyway. For a half-starved refugee, he seemed to still be a sharp guy. I wondered once again if it was a good idea even broaching the subject of working together. We weren’t taking these people to raise or making them part of our clan, but I thought best case we could help each other.
    “You all right?” the old man asked with concern as I was getting myself settled. Yep, too perceptive by far.
    “I suspect your group of people saw your fair share of trouble getting here. Am I right?” I asked, shifting the focus away for the moment. When I saw Mr. Sandifer’s cautious nod, I continued. “Well, so did we. My group, that is. You likely noticed when we came rolling in the other day, right? Two trucks and several wounded?”
    This was a ticklish admission, since it might make us appear weak, but I wanted to establish some rapport. Some type of shared misery, if you will.
    Mr. Sandifer seemed to consider my words for a moment before he replied. “So now you folks have reinforcements from wherever you came from. Young, healthy men and women added to the group. You said you weren’t military, but were they?”
    At least he was polite enough not to call them deserters. “Not even close, Mr. Sandifer. School kids, mostly. But we can and will fight. Make no mistake about that. Ever. They’ve learned the lessons of survival in the hardest school left in this