Walking in the Rain (Book 4): Dark Sky Thunder by William Allen
Authors: William Allen
Tags: post apocalyptic
Ads: Link
too. Grandpa bought it back in the 1960s, I think. His older brother owned the parcel where the old homestead sat and the cemetery. The rest of the property, we use for pasture and haymaking. Or we did before all this happened. Now I’m guessing it’s going back to weeds pretty quick. There’s some other land closer to Ripley, but I’m sure the situation is the same.”
“Why not use it?” Amy asked, and then did a cute facepalm. “Duh. If you can’t guard it, it cannot be used these days. Sorry but I spoke before I thought.”
“Yep. Good call. There’s water and fencing over there, but not like the fencing we have here. And the ranch lacks the manpower to patrol there. So Dad and Grandpa pulled everything over here for the duration. Hopefully, we can at least bale some of the hay over there at some point. We’ll have to get it before the weather turns.”
At that, I heard Uncle Billy’s deep voice break in on our conversation.
“And that’s why I never wanted to be a rancher. Or farmer. Too dependent on the rain. Or the temperature. Or the winds. You know, stuff we got no control over.”
I turned and saw Uncle Billy standing there, decked out in his web gear and holding an M1A rifle with a suppressor attached. He looked like he might have gotten a bit more sleep, but his eyes still looked a little bloodshot with bruised patches showing under them. Not from drinking, I knew, but from too many late nights and too much stress. It was the look of a survivor these days.
“Only game in town these days, Uncle. Farm and ranch, or starve. And plenty of people are doing that right now.” My words came out a little harsher than I intended, and my uncle held up a hand in submission. Something he never did inside the ring.
“I got it, nephew. That’s the new normal, but don’t mean I have to like it. I miss my loft downtown, you know. And the nightlife, which used to mean something other than the coyotes and wild dogs scheming to dig under the fence.”
Since I’d lived with my uncle one summer, I knew what he meant. Out the window of his loft, you could see the rooftop pool of the apartments next door. And the hot young ladies who liked to lie out and catch some rays by that same pool. Yes, I would be missing that view as well, if I were Uncle Billy. Among a million other things I miss from before the lights went out.
Then I saw my father, similarly decked out in body armor, check rig and tactical gear. He was carrying a rifle as well, and I saw it too had a suppressor. Wait a minute… “Dad, is that your 300 Blackout?”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?” he replied with a bit of snark in his voice that had been conspicuously absent since I’d gotten home. I took that as a good sign. Dad hadn’t been the same person as when I left, and I wondered if all of that was due to losing Grandpa. I had a feeling there was more to it than that.
“Well, I thought you were still waiting for your stamp to come back for your suppressor. That’s all.”
Contrary to popular disinformation, suppressors weren’t illegal in the United States. Just in certain states, where any kind of a “silencer” makes politicians of a certain persuasion piss in their silk panties. Or at least, that was what Mr. Windsor claimed. But, in order to purchase, you needed to pay a big chunk of money for the suppressor, a bit more for the muzzle adaptor, and write a check for $200 for a tax stamp from the federal government. Oh, and wait nine months for the paperwork to come back from the ATF.
“Yes, Lucas. Still waiting on that. No, I got this from a secondary source.”
My confusion must have been evident because my father started laughing at my expression. “Lucas, what does Mike do for a living?”
Ah, there it was. This conversation was getting curiouser and curiouser. “Inconel?” I asked. If I recalled correctly from my reading, that was the preferred material for the job.
“Yes. Part of our contingency plan, you
“Why not use it?” Amy asked, and then did a cute facepalm. “Duh. If you can’t guard it, it cannot be used these days. Sorry but I spoke before I thought.”
“Yep. Good call. There’s water and fencing over there, but not like the fencing we have here. And the ranch lacks the manpower to patrol there. So Dad and Grandpa pulled everything over here for the duration. Hopefully, we can at least bale some of the hay over there at some point. We’ll have to get it before the weather turns.”
At that, I heard Uncle Billy’s deep voice break in on our conversation.
“And that’s why I never wanted to be a rancher. Or farmer. Too dependent on the rain. Or the temperature. Or the winds. You know, stuff we got no control over.”
I turned and saw Uncle Billy standing there, decked out in his web gear and holding an M1A rifle with a suppressor attached. He looked like he might have gotten a bit more sleep, but his eyes still looked a little bloodshot with bruised patches showing under them. Not from drinking, I knew, but from too many late nights and too much stress. It was the look of a survivor these days.
“Only game in town these days, Uncle. Farm and ranch, or starve. And plenty of people are doing that right now.” My words came out a little harsher than I intended, and my uncle held up a hand in submission. Something he never did inside the ring.
“I got it, nephew. That’s the new normal, but don’t mean I have to like it. I miss my loft downtown, you know. And the nightlife, which used to mean something other than the coyotes and wild dogs scheming to dig under the fence.”
Since I’d lived with my uncle one summer, I knew what he meant. Out the window of his loft, you could see the rooftop pool of the apartments next door. And the hot young ladies who liked to lie out and catch some rays by that same pool. Yes, I would be missing that view as well, if I were Uncle Billy. Among a million other things I miss from before the lights went out.
Then I saw my father, similarly decked out in body armor, check rig and tactical gear. He was carrying a rifle as well, and I saw it too had a suppressor. Wait a minute… “Dad, is that your 300 Blackout?”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?” he replied with a bit of snark in his voice that had been conspicuously absent since I’d gotten home. I took that as a good sign. Dad hadn’t been the same person as when I left, and I wondered if all of that was due to losing Grandpa. I had a feeling there was more to it than that.
“Well, I thought you were still waiting for your stamp to come back for your suppressor. That’s all.”
Contrary to popular disinformation, suppressors weren’t illegal in the United States. Just in certain states, where any kind of a “silencer” makes politicians of a certain persuasion piss in their silk panties. Or at least, that was what Mr. Windsor claimed. But, in order to purchase, you needed to pay a big chunk of money for the suppressor, a bit more for the muzzle adaptor, and write a check for $200 for a tax stamp from the federal government. Oh, and wait nine months for the paperwork to come back from the ATF.
“Yes, Lucas. Still waiting on that. No, I got this from a secondary source.”
My confusion must have been evident because my father started laughing at my expression. “Lucas, what does Mike do for a living?”
Ah, there it was. This conversation was getting curiouser and curiouser. “Inconel?” I asked. If I recalled correctly from my reading, that was the preferred material for the job.
“Yes. Part of our contingency plan, you
Similar Books
