Pappa Zulu – Chapter 2

“Rest is the sweet sauce of labor.”

-Plutarch

Welcome to TAOS, the sign said, the borders done up with ridged lines. Beyond it, the outer gates of the township rolled up to meet them, the sentries waving to them as they approached. Whitman naturally slowed them down as they came to within a few meters of the gates.

“Oh, I can smell the barbeque from here. Do you think they do Tex-Mex?”

Saunders frowned at Whitman. Their geographic position made that statement seem entirely stupid to her. “What else would they do here, you fucking redneck?”

“How the fuck should I know? Do I look like Dezba?”

That sent a silent chill through the cabin, and Whitman immediately felt like an idiot. More so than usual. No one like to be reminded of the absentee Sergeant, least of all Saunders. For most, it was a reminder of the hardened Whiskey killer they were now without. But for Saunders, it was a reminder of the shoes she had to fill. In either case, it was a matter of unknowns and wild speculation.

Everybody knew he had lost a hand during the special op to LA, but the whispers had it that he had lost a hell of a lot more than all that. And since the LT – the only one who had any business knowing anything about the Sergeant – wasn’t talking, the speculation was pretty much growing like wildfire. The smart money said he had PTSD, but others were suggesting shit that was truly farfetched, like he he had been infected and was being kept for “special” research.

Stupid shit. She wished she had something more factual to go on. But Braun and the brass were keeping that one close to their chests.

The sentries jumped from their posts and began to unbar the gates. They opened inward, and out walked a third. Saunders immediately felt a chill as she caught sight of him. A leather vest and an ammo belt was all he wore up top, no body armor or even long sleeves. Down low, he had on a pair of slacks and work boots that looked about as old as he was. And of course, a hat that looked like something out of a Steve McQueen role.

Over one shoulder, he carried a 12 gauge that looked to be store bought, and the strap hung down about his chest. In another life, Saunders might have admitted that it was somewhat attractive, if her mind wasn’t focused on all the safety regs he was violating.

He walked up to their cab and looked in the window. Whitman pulled his hands from the wheel, as if he were having flashbacks to being pulled over. The man appeared to be chewing something and stopped briefly to talk.

“First Platoon… Snakes?”

“Rattlesnakes, yes, sir,” Saunders replied. “CO’s in the third vehicle back if you wanna talk to him.”

He was staring at Saunders now, chewing consistently. Eventually, he shrugged and slapped the hood.

“Go on ahead. Council’s waiting for you…”

Saunders smile and  slapped Whitman on the arm. “You heard the man, Private. Move it.”

Whitman put his hands back to the wheel warily and drove past the gate. The convoy followed, each one waving to the sentry man as they passed. Once they were through the townships’ defensive barrier, they began to enter the outermost streets, all of which still looked abandoned.

“Shit, man, I thought that guy was going to eat us alive.”

Saunders would have argued, but she couldn’t say with any truth that she wasn’t nervous herself. The northern townships were renowned for standing their ground during the First Wave; but judging from the man they just saw, she would think the Whiskeys took one look at this town and ran screaming away. She wondered if the LT would try to talk recruiting while they had their little sojourn here. It was a touchy issue, but one which needed to be done from time to time. Not enough volunteers were coming forward lately, and they still had a job to do.

Past the outermost streets, they reached a chain link fence, what could only be described as the inner wall to the township. More sentries stood there, these ones armed similar to the ones they had passed already. Dressed in their best leathers and slacks, and carrying hunting rifles and shotguns. These ones gave off more of a Marlboro feel, and judging from their smells, that’s precisely what they had been smoking before they pulled up.

“You know where the town hall is?” the one asked.

“Yep, yep,” said Whitman, slapping the wheel. “You guys got any liqour and whores?”

The sentry darkened. Whitman smiled nervously, hoping they might succumb to his unique brand of charm. Eventually, he cracked a slight smile and waved them on. When they began moving again, Whitman caught Saunders looking at him sideways.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, and went back to looking at the street ahead. People were out and about now, men, women and children going about their daily business. Most stopped and waved, pleased, if not entirely overjoyed to see them. Down south, the welcomes they got were arguably more festive. But then again, she realized, that probably had something to do with the more urbane nature of those folks. They depended more heavily on the Rattlesnakes to keep them safe, whereas towns like this one only asked that they do housekeeping in the countryside from time to time.

If recruiting did come up, no doubt the town Elders might raise the fact that they were planning on conducting their own patrols soon enough. They had the men and the guns, all they needed was some vehicles and enough fuel to make it a regular occurrence. A dangerous prospect, but she knew they were up to the challenge. Most of the people, women and youth included, looked like they had seen enough action to make a go of it themselves.

We appreciate your presence, but we don’t depend on it too much…

That seemed to be what they were saying with those greetings.

At least they were still hospitable to visitors; and as such, they could look forward to some food and a little R and R.