on the roof he was standing on. Across the street, he could see four more. It was a good thing they hadn’t started shooting. His people would have been mown down in a matter of seconds, even with Jackson and Kerry covering them.
Roy led them wordlessly down a ladder into the store below. There, they found another three dozen survivors. Roy introduced everyone, although SSgt Brown knew he wouldn’t remember a single name. The survivors seemed to be of every shape, color and creed. There was an older couple, six or seven kids who all looked to be under the age of ten. There were women and men, husbands and wives, almost all races were represented.
All of the adults were armed with a firearm. SSgt Brown saw a long row of broom handles leaning against a wall. Each one topped with what appeared to be the tines of a pitchfork on top. Beside each one was a piece of wood that stood about two feet. They all seemed to come from the same few pieces of wood, like they were a table or two at one time.
Upon further interrogation, that is exactly what they were. Someone had taken several tables and fashioned them into shields. Then they had taken all of the broom handles from the closest hardware store and produced spears. Roy told them that there were enough spears and shields to outfit each adult in the Haven twice.
Roy also showed them the latest weapon to come from the Haven’s resident weapons designer. The man’s name was Carl. Carl had been an aircraft engineer for 40 years. He had retired to the Gulf Coast last year. Before that he had helped design some of the best combat aircraft this country had ever built. Today Carl was fashioning something resembling a short sword.
He proudly showed the group how he would hammer and grind lawnmower blades into something that resembled a crude Gladius. The finished product had about a 15 inch blade, and the hilt was slightly longer than a large man’s hand. He would wrap the hilt in nylon parachute cord. He informed them that he would have liked leather, but that was just too hard to come by.
SSgt Brown picked up one of the swords. It wasn’t too bad. There was no pummel on the end of the hilt, so the sword’s balance wasn’t all that great. The tip, however, was very sharp. And, the edge was razor sharp for about 10 of the 15 inches. He gave it a tentative swing. The weight of the tip made the swing more powerful, but less controlled, than he had intended. He could picture slicing through a zombie’s head with this modern day Gladius.
The old man offered to let SSgt Brown keep the one in his hand. He thanked the man, but respectfully declined. “We’re not here for weapons right now,” the NCO told them. We’re actually on the hunt for medical supplies.” He spent the next twenty minutes telling the survivors in the Haven about the Island.
“Sounds like you have a lot of mouths to feed,” one of the younger men said after he finished.
“We’re not just feeding folks,” SSgt Brown responded. “We’re trying to find a place to start over.”
“Well, looks like we got us a place right here.” This man was older. His grey stubble and short grey hair told SSgt Brown that he was probably in his late 40’s. His accent wasn’t southern, more like the Midwest.
Kerry spoke. “We’re not asking you to leave. Sergeant Brown was simply explaining why we are here and what we are looking for.” She looked to the first man to speak. She liked his rough features and dark hair. Her voice cracked as she realized he was staring at her. “We would like to know that we have friends here.” She quickly looked away from his piercing eyes, the butterflies dancing in her gut.
“So,” began the older man. “You don’t want to take us in, but you want to pillage our hunting ground?”
“We are most certainly not trying to pillage anything,” Jen retorted. “We’re trying to find
Roy led them wordlessly down a ladder into the store below. There, they found another three dozen survivors. Roy introduced everyone, although SSgt Brown knew he wouldn’t remember a single name. The survivors seemed to be of every shape, color and creed. There was an older couple, six or seven kids who all looked to be under the age of ten. There were women and men, husbands and wives, almost all races were represented.
All of the adults were armed with a firearm. SSgt Brown saw a long row of broom handles leaning against a wall. Each one topped with what appeared to be the tines of a pitchfork on top. Beside each one was a piece of wood that stood about two feet. They all seemed to come from the same few pieces of wood, like they were a table or two at one time.
Upon further interrogation, that is exactly what they were. Someone had taken several tables and fashioned them into shields. Then they had taken all of the broom handles from the closest hardware store and produced spears. Roy told them that there were enough spears and shields to outfit each adult in the Haven twice.
Roy also showed them the latest weapon to come from the Haven’s resident weapons designer. The man’s name was Carl. Carl had been an aircraft engineer for 40 years. He had retired to the Gulf Coast last year. Before that he had helped design some of the best combat aircraft this country had ever built. Today Carl was fashioning something resembling a short sword.
He proudly showed the group how he would hammer and grind lawnmower blades into something that resembled a crude Gladius. The finished product had about a 15 inch blade, and the hilt was slightly longer than a large man’s hand. He would wrap the hilt in nylon parachute cord. He informed them that he would have liked leather, but that was just too hard to come by.
SSgt Brown picked up one of the swords. It wasn’t too bad. There was no pummel on the end of the hilt, so the sword’s balance wasn’t all that great. The tip, however, was very sharp. And, the edge was razor sharp for about 10 of the 15 inches. He gave it a tentative swing. The weight of the tip made the swing more powerful, but less controlled, than he had intended. He could picture slicing through a zombie’s head with this modern day Gladius.
The old man offered to let SSgt Brown keep the one in his hand. He thanked the man, but respectfully declined. “We’re not here for weapons right now,” the NCO told them. We’re actually on the hunt for medical supplies.” He spent the next twenty minutes telling the survivors in the Haven about the Island.
“Sounds like you have a lot of mouths to feed,” one of the younger men said after he finished.
“We’re not just feeding folks,” SSgt Brown responded. “We’re trying to find a place to start over.”
“Well, looks like we got us a place right here.” This man was older. His grey stubble and short grey hair told SSgt Brown that he was probably in his late 40’s. His accent wasn’t southern, more like the Midwest.
Kerry spoke. “We’re not asking you to leave. Sergeant Brown was simply explaining why we are here and what we are looking for.” She looked to the first man to speak. She liked his rough features and dark hair. Her voice cracked as she realized he was staring at her. “We would like to know that we have friends here.” She quickly looked away from his piercing eyes, the butterflies dancing in her gut.
“So,” began the older man. “You don’t want to take us in, but you want to pillage our hunting ground?”
“We are most certainly not trying to pillage anything,” Jen retorted. “We’re trying to find
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