Amsterdam apocalypse, p.12
Amsterdam Apocalypse, page 12
Flanary rode the brakes as they descended a hill, winding around several sharp turns in the road. Out here—beyond the borders of Amsterdam or anything closely resembling civilization—only the headlights of the beat up van and the full moon above provided any form of light. Tall trees stood on either side of the road and the obvious difference between the town they had just passed through and the wild No Man's Land they were entering showed on the faces around him as Jacob looked around.
On the left, a log cabin-like building with a waterwheel came into view. The Old Mill Country Store as it had once been known had been closed since the pandemic and had become Amsterdam's unofficial back door, its overgrown parking lot occasionally serving as a turnaround for patrol vehicles.
Flanary pressed the accelerator as they reached the bottom of the hill, and the terrain began to rise again. The roughly ten-mile stretch of highway between Amsterdam and Patterson Creek was a mostly straight four-lane track past long-abandoned homesteads and horse farms broken up only by the frequent hills and valleys.
“We got company,” Deyerle said, looking ahead. The reflection from a pair of headlights belonging to an oncoming vehicle shined over a set of wires that ran along the road. Moments later, the vehicle crested the hill concealing it, traveling at a high rate of speed. Flanary moved his foot from the brake and looked over his shoulder for instructions.
“Keep going,” Jacob said.
The driver of the oncoming vehicle hit the brakes, illuminating the trees behind him in a reddish hue but didn't stop.
“They've seen us,” Flanary said, the nerves obvious in his voice.
“Keep going.”
Jacob looked across the median as they passed the vehicle—a nineties model Ford truck. He could see the driver looking over, eying them suspiciously. While this was technically No Man's Land, neither Amsterdam nor Patterson Creek were keen on letting unknown parties reach their borders unidentified in the middle of the night.
“If we're lucky, they won't be stopping people from coming through,” Jacob said. “The airport's near the northern boundary of their territory. If they let us keep going, we can take the road leading to the old adventure camp and head north. Hopefully they'll think we were just passing through to the interstate.”
“Roger that.”
“Hate to burst your bubble, bubba, but even if that happens, there's still no way we're gonna get outta here with that plane without drawing their attention. Last time I checked, the top dog lived on the property right next to the runway.”
“I know. And I don't have any intention of trying to sneak in or out,” Jacob said, looking back as the Ford truck made a U-turn. “I'd just like to make it to the boss and avoid dealing with the lackeys if we can.”
He looked at the two long crates behind the seat in the cargo area. Inside were ten thousand rounds of ammunition and two dozen rifles. He was prepared to buy their way in and out if he had to, but that would require making contact with the people in charge.
Nine miles later, Flanary braked and looked into the rearview mirror. The truck had stayed with them, keeping a safe distance as the occupants followed them to be sure they were only passing through. “What do you want to do?”
“We could keep going until they stop following us and then double back,” Dr. Tee said, eying the vehicle behind them. “I used to take this route to the medical center in Allegheny. There's a shortcut on your left a few hundred yards ahead.”
“Tee's right. It's possible,” Deyerle said. “We could keep going to the interstate, exit by the old medical center, and then take the shortcut back. There's a number of roads that cut off and lead down into the hollow. One of them is bound to go to the airport.”
“There's roads that cut all through these hills,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “The chances of finding the right one in the dark are slim, and approaching that way only increases the chances that we'll be shot on sight. We're better off announcing our intentions. The road to the airport is a few hundred yards ahead. Stop there.”
The van rounded a corner and descended a hill. Jacob felt the weight of the van shift as Flanary braked. “Looks like we're stopping here,” he said, pointing to a row of pickup trucks that had blocked the road at the mouth of a concrete bridge.
“Alright, bubba,” Deyerle said, looking at Flanary as he stopped the van fifty yards from the mass of trucks. “Jacob's a known entity here so it's you and me out there with these guys. Our best bet is to make them think we're with Naff. With any luck, that will get us an audience with the big dog and we can make our case from there.”
Flanary nodded, though his face inspired anything but confidence. He let off the brake and allowed the vehicle to roll forward until it was only a few yards from the bridge. Outside, truck doors opened and men moved into the doorways with rifles aimed.
Jacob watched as Deyerle opened the door and exited, holding his hands up in the air. Flanary swallowed a few times and took a deep breath before exiting.
“This is going to sound bad,” Jacob said, looking at Tee, “but try to keep your head down. Naff wasn't exactly known for his tolerance of other races.”
Dr. Tee frowned, but nodded. It was true and she knew it. Along with his other charming traits, Naff had also been an old school bigot.
“I'm not sure if the people in Patterson Creek are the same or not, but they’re undoubtedly familiar with Naff's feelings on the matter.”
“Say no more.” She drew the camouflage cap on her head down over her brow and placed her elbows on her knees, making her profile in the back of the van as low as possible.
“We don't mean any harm or want any trouble,” Deyerle said from outside, his arms still raised above his head. There had yet to be a vocal response from the men in front of them. They were just sitting in the middle of the road with their headlights illuminating it in either direction. Were the drivers waiting for someone else? The truck that had been following them came to a stop only feet away, its headlights shining into the back of the van.
Jacob squinted and turned his attention to what was near them. On one side of the road, a sheer, rock-faced cliff rose into the darkness. On the other side, the earth fell away steeply, the tops of tall trees visible on the riverbank below. There was no immediate cover. At best, they'd have a dive down a steep hill for protection if a run for it became necessary.
“We don't mean any harm,” Deyerle repeated. “Someone talk to us.”
Jacob watched, an ill feeling settling in his stomach. There were no signs of movement from the men. What was going on? He reached for the latch below one of the back windows and turned it, allowing the window to pop out a few inches to see if he could hear any of the men talking amongst themselves, but they weren't. Only an intense silence and steely glares met their arrival.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jacob looked around sharply as the sound of a bolt-action rifle being chambered came from somewhere nearby. Deyerle and Flanary stood against the side of the van with their arms held up.
“Everyone out!” a voice shouted from the darkness. “All of you. Now!”
Jacob looked at Dr. Tee and nodded. They didn't have a choice. Even if they could see the rifleman, they'd still have little chance of fighting back without sacrificing Deyerle and Flanary in the process.
“Alright! We're coming out. We're unarmed.”
Jacob removed the Glock 9mm from the holster on his belt and set it on the floor before reaching up and pulling the door handle. The cargo door opened with a thunk and Jacob pushed it back, rolling out of the van with his palms open and his hands up. Dr. Tee followed, crawling out on her knees and raising her hands in the air as she stood from the van.
Jacob moved his eyes around, looking for the man who had spoken. The sound of boots against a smooth surface drew his attention to the bridge. A lone man with a bolt-action rifle held at low ready approached.
“We're with Naff,” Deyerle said. “Don't shoot us.”
“What's your business here?”
“Naff sent us to see the big man.”
Jacob watched the face of the rifleman. Did they know Naff was dead? How could they? Without cell phones or working landlines, the news couldn't have traveled very far in so short amount of time.
“Naff, huh?” the rifleman said. “Haven't seen him around here in quite awhile.”
“We need to see your dad, Robbie,” Flanary said. “He and I have a deal. He's storing a plane for me. Has been for a few years now.”
Robert Cahoon, known as “Bob” to most, was the unofficial leader of the Patterson Creek community. Having made a considerable fortune in the construction business, he was easily the wealthiest resident of the area and had used that wealth to build a private airport, several hangars, and a large house. The position of the property on top of a nearby mountain made it easy to defend and a logical spot for emergency preparations.
The rifleman—apparently Cahoon's son—looked them up and down as they stood in a row beside the van. “He doesn't see anyone unannounced.”
“So announce us.”
The rifleman laughed. “Why should I? You're here in the middle of the night during a crisis.”
“That crisis is why we're here. And the timing couldn't be helped.”
“We're prepared to pay our way if we have to,” Jacob said. He hadn't told the others what the weapons and ammo were for and they hadn't asked, assuming that they were for their protection.
The rifleman stared at him for a long moment. “You are, huh?”
Jacob stared back.
“Wait here,” the man said, removing a two-way radio from his back pocket and walking away.
Jacob could hear the static of the radio as the man spoke to someone but couldn't tell what was being said. After several transmissions, the man returned.
“You're in luck. You appealed to his business sense, but it'd better be good.”
Jacob lowered his hands. Deyerle, Tee, and Flanary followed suit.
“All of you in the back of the truck. I'll drive your van up.”
“Keys are in the ignition,” Jacob said, turning and walking toward the line of trucks still parked in the middle of the road. A man standing in the passenger door of one of the trucks kept his pistol aimed at them as the driver left the doorway and opened the tailgate.
A few minutes later, the truck bounced along a dirt road with the Volkswagen van close behind. Tall trees enclosed the road on either side, giving it a tunnel-like appearance as the vehicles wound around several tight turns, climbing the mountain. Jacob looked over the roof of the truck they were in. A well-lit section of road was ahead of them and he could make out a sign off to the side. As they drew closer, the tree cover ended and the sign became visible in the light of the full moon.
MISTY HOLLOW AIRPORT had once been painted on it, but now only traces of the lettering could be seen on the badly weathered wood. The truck turned sharply and came to an abrupt stop. Ahead of them, the dirt road turned to two lanes of smooth pavement, stretching past a large hangar and several storage buildings.
“Out!” the rifleman yelled, stopping the van. “You!” he said, pointing to Jacob as he exited the van. “Go and talk to Cahoon. Now.”
Jacob looked around. Why him?
Deyerle stepped forward. “He's not the one in charge here I—”
“Save it. Cahoon wants to see the good reverend. Now.” The man adjusted the bolt-action rifle in his grip.
Deyerle stepped back and looked at Jacob. “So much for not being recognized,” he said under his breath.
Jacob looked around. “Well, where is he?”
“Follow the pavement to the house. He'll meet you out front.”
Jacob made eye contact with everyone with him. Their ruse hadn't worked. Now all he could do was hope the rifles and ammunition he'd brought would be enough to secure at least a temporary peace with the leader of Patterson Creek.
“I need him,” he said, pointing to Flanary. “We want to trade for his plane and he's the only one who's going to know whether the deal we're getting is any good.”
The rifleman raised his rifle and drove the stock into Flanary's stomach. “Who said we're doing any deals?” Flanary wretched in pain. Deyerle grabbed him and lowered him to his knees where he gasped for air.
Jacob stared. A few hours earlier it had been them calling the shots to a surprised and scared group of men. Now the roles had reversed. Had coming to Patterson Creek been a mistake? It was beginning to seem that way.
He took a another look at the others with him and walked down the yellow line separating the two lanes of pavement. Junk cars, boats, and airplane bodies littered the sides of the drive and the spaces between the row of metal buildings. He swept his eyes in both directions continuously. The place didn't seem to be the hub of emergency preparations he'd thought it would be. Had Patterson Creek been successful in surviving on their own or had the community collapsed in the years since they'd fought Amsterdam? If it had, what were the men patrolling the roads protecting?
He reached the last building and the end of the paved road. In front of him, an even larger paved surface began and stretched out of sight into the darkness. White lines, reflectors, and numbers painted on the surface signified something to people who flew aircraft, but Jacob had no idea what they meant. He kept walking, a sense of dread closing in on him as the house loomed in the distance.
In the middle of a clearing a thousand feet later, he stopped and looked at the multistory brick house with brass lighting fixtures and wrought iron fencing. A half-moon drive jutted off the runway, providing parking for several late model trucks and cars. On the opposite side of the runway, a row of single engine planes sat, orange and black chocks holding their wheels in place.
“That's far enough,” someone said from behind one of the vehicles as he crossed from the runway into the small front yard. He stopped and held his hands out.
“Reverend Jacob Craft,” the voice said as a man stepped around the side of a pick up truck and rested his hand on its bed rail. “My son said it was you, but I expected him to have been mistaken. The apple fell quite a distance from the tree, unfortunately.”
“Cahoon,” Jacob said, unconsciously narrowing his eyes. He recognized the man, though time and the struggle to survive had changed him quite a bit. He was an old man now. “We're here for a plane you're storing. The pilot—Rob Flanary—said it's here.”
“Flanary,” Cahoon said with a small smile. “Don't know any Flanary. All of these planes are mine, but like anything—they've got a price and you told my boy you were looking to buy.”
Jacob frowned. Had Flanary lied? Since the pandemic, people's motivations never seemed to be pure. Instead they seemed to always be measuring each other—looking for an advantage that could help them regardless of what it cost their fellow man. Had Flanary been relying on the rocky history between Amsterdam and Patterson Creek to save him? Had they walked right into a trap? It was possible. But Flanary's family was in Amsterdam and the man's interactions with them had been legitimate. He was a caring father and loyal husband, nothing like Naff's men. After observing the man on the journey from the heliport and while the pilfered supplies were unloaded, Jacob was sure of it.
“People's property is still their own even if the world's hit another speed bump.”
“You haven't changed a bit, have you?” Cahoon sneered. “Did you really come all the way out here to my property to tell me what to do with the things in my possession? Yesterday's deals were made in yesterday's world. As of five o'clock this morning, these planes are mine and don't give me that look, reverend. I seem to recall you not being so inclined to give up the things in your possession last time around.”
“Is that what you think happened? It looked a little different from my point of view, I guess. I could have sworn Buddy Naff and his crew—backed up by you and whoever else lives around here—rolled into town and started telling people what to do with the things in their possession at the point of a gun. And it didn't go over so well.”
Cahoon bristled.
“Now, I'm not here to take anything that belongs to you,” Jacob continued. “Flanary says he's been paying you to store his plane. He's with us now and we could make good use of it. But you're right—yesterday's deals were made in yesterday’s world. Ten thousand rounds of 7.62 ammo and two dozen AKM rifles are what I have—easily worth the $20-$25k value of a mid-seventies model Cessna. And from the looks of the guns your men are carrying—just what you need.”
“And it's all here with you?”
Jacob nodded. “In the van we arrived in.”
Cahoon chuckled and shook his head. “Then what's to stop me from just taking it all and burying you in the woods?”
“You could. But Amsterdam would retaliate and I don't think either of us wants another war. We already took out Naff and his men earlier this evening, but be my guest if you want to go next.”
“Naff's dead?”
Jacob nodded. “He attacked us. We fought back. He lost.”
Cahoon raised a hand to his face and stroked his unkempt goatee.
“So whatever arrangement the two of you had is gone,” Jacob continued. “Amsterdam's your closest and best bet if you need friends. And anyone who thinks he doesn't these days is a fool.”
Cahoon stood silently, glancing between Jacob and the ground.
“Not interested? Fine.” Jacob turned away. “We'll leave.”
“Wait—just wait. I'm interested, but I want more.”
Jacob stopped and looked back. The look on Cahoon's face was a look he recognized—it was a look he'd seen on his own face as he stared into the mirror earlier in the day—the look of a leader who had no idea if he could summon the strength needed to see his community through the next few hours, let alone the next few months or even years.
“I'm not going to lie to you, reverend. We're in trouble. I've got three dozen men of fighting age patrolling eight thousand acres between the James Street Bridge and the Glen Wilton Bridge and we've got farms planted on every flat spot of earth in between. But the weather's not been friendly this year. We've had two floods since last winter and at least half of what we've grown is gone. So if you want my plane, I need more than weapons.”
On the left, a log cabin-like building with a waterwheel came into view. The Old Mill Country Store as it had once been known had been closed since the pandemic and had become Amsterdam's unofficial back door, its overgrown parking lot occasionally serving as a turnaround for patrol vehicles.
Flanary pressed the accelerator as they reached the bottom of the hill, and the terrain began to rise again. The roughly ten-mile stretch of highway between Amsterdam and Patterson Creek was a mostly straight four-lane track past long-abandoned homesteads and horse farms broken up only by the frequent hills and valleys.
“We got company,” Deyerle said, looking ahead. The reflection from a pair of headlights belonging to an oncoming vehicle shined over a set of wires that ran along the road. Moments later, the vehicle crested the hill concealing it, traveling at a high rate of speed. Flanary moved his foot from the brake and looked over his shoulder for instructions.
“Keep going,” Jacob said.
The driver of the oncoming vehicle hit the brakes, illuminating the trees behind him in a reddish hue but didn't stop.
“They've seen us,” Flanary said, the nerves obvious in his voice.
“Keep going.”
Jacob looked across the median as they passed the vehicle—a nineties model Ford truck. He could see the driver looking over, eying them suspiciously. While this was technically No Man's Land, neither Amsterdam nor Patterson Creek were keen on letting unknown parties reach their borders unidentified in the middle of the night.
“If we're lucky, they won't be stopping people from coming through,” Jacob said. “The airport's near the northern boundary of their territory. If they let us keep going, we can take the road leading to the old adventure camp and head north. Hopefully they'll think we were just passing through to the interstate.”
“Roger that.”
“Hate to burst your bubble, bubba, but even if that happens, there's still no way we're gonna get outta here with that plane without drawing their attention. Last time I checked, the top dog lived on the property right next to the runway.”
“I know. And I don't have any intention of trying to sneak in or out,” Jacob said, looking back as the Ford truck made a U-turn. “I'd just like to make it to the boss and avoid dealing with the lackeys if we can.”
He looked at the two long crates behind the seat in the cargo area. Inside were ten thousand rounds of ammunition and two dozen rifles. He was prepared to buy their way in and out if he had to, but that would require making contact with the people in charge.
Nine miles later, Flanary braked and looked into the rearview mirror. The truck had stayed with them, keeping a safe distance as the occupants followed them to be sure they were only passing through. “What do you want to do?”
“We could keep going until they stop following us and then double back,” Dr. Tee said, eying the vehicle behind them. “I used to take this route to the medical center in Allegheny. There's a shortcut on your left a few hundred yards ahead.”
“Tee's right. It's possible,” Deyerle said. “We could keep going to the interstate, exit by the old medical center, and then take the shortcut back. There's a number of roads that cut off and lead down into the hollow. One of them is bound to go to the airport.”
“There's roads that cut all through these hills,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “The chances of finding the right one in the dark are slim, and approaching that way only increases the chances that we'll be shot on sight. We're better off announcing our intentions. The road to the airport is a few hundred yards ahead. Stop there.”
The van rounded a corner and descended a hill. Jacob felt the weight of the van shift as Flanary braked. “Looks like we're stopping here,” he said, pointing to a row of pickup trucks that had blocked the road at the mouth of a concrete bridge.
“Alright, bubba,” Deyerle said, looking at Flanary as he stopped the van fifty yards from the mass of trucks. “Jacob's a known entity here so it's you and me out there with these guys. Our best bet is to make them think we're with Naff. With any luck, that will get us an audience with the big dog and we can make our case from there.”
Flanary nodded, though his face inspired anything but confidence. He let off the brake and allowed the vehicle to roll forward until it was only a few yards from the bridge. Outside, truck doors opened and men moved into the doorways with rifles aimed.
Jacob watched as Deyerle opened the door and exited, holding his hands up in the air. Flanary swallowed a few times and took a deep breath before exiting.
“This is going to sound bad,” Jacob said, looking at Tee, “but try to keep your head down. Naff wasn't exactly known for his tolerance of other races.”
Dr. Tee frowned, but nodded. It was true and she knew it. Along with his other charming traits, Naff had also been an old school bigot.
“I'm not sure if the people in Patterson Creek are the same or not, but they’re undoubtedly familiar with Naff's feelings on the matter.”
“Say no more.” She drew the camouflage cap on her head down over her brow and placed her elbows on her knees, making her profile in the back of the van as low as possible.
“We don't mean any harm or want any trouble,” Deyerle said from outside, his arms still raised above his head. There had yet to be a vocal response from the men in front of them. They were just sitting in the middle of the road with their headlights illuminating it in either direction. Were the drivers waiting for someone else? The truck that had been following them came to a stop only feet away, its headlights shining into the back of the van.
Jacob squinted and turned his attention to what was near them. On one side of the road, a sheer, rock-faced cliff rose into the darkness. On the other side, the earth fell away steeply, the tops of tall trees visible on the riverbank below. There was no immediate cover. At best, they'd have a dive down a steep hill for protection if a run for it became necessary.
“We don't mean any harm,” Deyerle repeated. “Someone talk to us.”
Jacob watched, an ill feeling settling in his stomach. There were no signs of movement from the men. What was going on? He reached for the latch below one of the back windows and turned it, allowing the window to pop out a few inches to see if he could hear any of the men talking amongst themselves, but they weren't. Only an intense silence and steely glares met their arrival.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jacob looked around sharply as the sound of a bolt-action rifle being chambered came from somewhere nearby. Deyerle and Flanary stood against the side of the van with their arms held up.
“Everyone out!” a voice shouted from the darkness. “All of you. Now!”
Jacob looked at Dr. Tee and nodded. They didn't have a choice. Even if they could see the rifleman, they'd still have little chance of fighting back without sacrificing Deyerle and Flanary in the process.
“Alright! We're coming out. We're unarmed.”
Jacob removed the Glock 9mm from the holster on his belt and set it on the floor before reaching up and pulling the door handle. The cargo door opened with a thunk and Jacob pushed it back, rolling out of the van with his palms open and his hands up. Dr. Tee followed, crawling out on her knees and raising her hands in the air as she stood from the van.
Jacob moved his eyes around, looking for the man who had spoken. The sound of boots against a smooth surface drew his attention to the bridge. A lone man with a bolt-action rifle held at low ready approached.
“We're with Naff,” Deyerle said. “Don't shoot us.”
“What's your business here?”
“Naff sent us to see the big man.”
Jacob watched the face of the rifleman. Did they know Naff was dead? How could they? Without cell phones or working landlines, the news couldn't have traveled very far in so short amount of time.
“Naff, huh?” the rifleman said. “Haven't seen him around here in quite awhile.”
“We need to see your dad, Robbie,” Flanary said. “He and I have a deal. He's storing a plane for me. Has been for a few years now.”
Robert Cahoon, known as “Bob” to most, was the unofficial leader of the Patterson Creek community. Having made a considerable fortune in the construction business, he was easily the wealthiest resident of the area and had used that wealth to build a private airport, several hangars, and a large house. The position of the property on top of a nearby mountain made it easy to defend and a logical spot for emergency preparations.
The rifleman—apparently Cahoon's son—looked them up and down as they stood in a row beside the van. “He doesn't see anyone unannounced.”
“So announce us.”
The rifleman laughed. “Why should I? You're here in the middle of the night during a crisis.”
“That crisis is why we're here. And the timing couldn't be helped.”
“We're prepared to pay our way if we have to,” Jacob said. He hadn't told the others what the weapons and ammo were for and they hadn't asked, assuming that they were for their protection.
The rifleman stared at him for a long moment. “You are, huh?”
Jacob stared back.
“Wait here,” the man said, removing a two-way radio from his back pocket and walking away.
Jacob could hear the static of the radio as the man spoke to someone but couldn't tell what was being said. After several transmissions, the man returned.
“You're in luck. You appealed to his business sense, but it'd better be good.”
Jacob lowered his hands. Deyerle, Tee, and Flanary followed suit.
“All of you in the back of the truck. I'll drive your van up.”
“Keys are in the ignition,” Jacob said, turning and walking toward the line of trucks still parked in the middle of the road. A man standing in the passenger door of one of the trucks kept his pistol aimed at them as the driver left the doorway and opened the tailgate.
A few minutes later, the truck bounced along a dirt road with the Volkswagen van close behind. Tall trees enclosed the road on either side, giving it a tunnel-like appearance as the vehicles wound around several tight turns, climbing the mountain. Jacob looked over the roof of the truck they were in. A well-lit section of road was ahead of them and he could make out a sign off to the side. As they drew closer, the tree cover ended and the sign became visible in the light of the full moon.
MISTY HOLLOW AIRPORT had once been painted on it, but now only traces of the lettering could be seen on the badly weathered wood. The truck turned sharply and came to an abrupt stop. Ahead of them, the dirt road turned to two lanes of smooth pavement, stretching past a large hangar and several storage buildings.
“Out!” the rifleman yelled, stopping the van. “You!” he said, pointing to Jacob as he exited the van. “Go and talk to Cahoon. Now.”
Jacob looked around. Why him?
Deyerle stepped forward. “He's not the one in charge here I—”
“Save it. Cahoon wants to see the good reverend. Now.” The man adjusted the bolt-action rifle in his grip.
Deyerle stepped back and looked at Jacob. “So much for not being recognized,” he said under his breath.
Jacob looked around. “Well, where is he?”
“Follow the pavement to the house. He'll meet you out front.”
Jacob made eye contact with everyone with him. Their ruse hadn't worked. Now all he could do was hope the rifles and ammunition he'd brought would be enough to secure at least a temporary peace with the leader of Patterson Creek.
“I need him,” he said, pointing to Flanary. “We want to trade for his plane and he's the only one who's going to know whether the deal we're getting is any good.”
The rifleman raised his rifle and drove the stock into Flanary's stomach. “Who said we're doing any deals?” Flanary wretched in pain. Deyerle grabbed him and lowered him to his knees where he gasped for air.
Jacob stared. A few hours earlier it had been them calling the shots to a surprised and scared group of men. Now the roles had reversed. Had coming to Patterson Creek been a mistake? It was beginning to seem that way.
He took a another look at the others with him and walked down the yellow line separating the two lanes of pavement. Junk cars, boats, and airplane bodies littered the sides of the drive and the spaces between the row of metal buildings. He swept his eyes in both directions continuously. The place didn't seem to be the hub of emergency preparations he'd thought it would be. Had Patterson Creek been successful in surviving on their own or had the community collapsed in the years since they'd fought Amsterdam? If it had, what were the men patrolling the roads protecting?
He reached the last building and the end of the paved road. In front of him, an even larger paved surface began and stretched out of sight into the darkness. White lines, reflectors, and numbers painted on the surface signified something to people who flew aircraft, but Jacob had no idea what they meant. He kept walking, a sense of dread closing in on him as the house loomed in the distance.
In the middle of a clearing a thousand feet later, he stopped and looked at the multistory brick house with brass lighting fixtures and wrought iron fencing. A half-moon drive jutted off the runway, providing parking for several late model trucks and cars. On the opposite side of the runway, a row of single engine planes sat, orange and black chocks holding their wheels in place.
“That's far enough,” someone said from behind one of the vehicles as he crossed from the runway into the small front yard. He stopped and held his hands out.
“Reverend Jacob Craft,” the voice said as a man stepped around the side of a pick up truck and rested his hand on its bed rail. “My son said it was you, but I expected him to have been mistaken. The apple fell quite a distance from the tree, unfortunately.”
“Cahoon,” Jacob said, unconsciously narrowing his eyes. He recognized the man, though time and the struggle to survive had changed him quite a bit. He was an old man now. “We're here for a plane you're storing. The pilot—Rob Flanary—said it's here.”
“Flanary,” Cahoon said with a small smile. “Don't know any Flanary. All of these planes are mine, but like anything—they've got a price and you told my boy you were looking to buy.”
Jacob frowned. Had Flanary lied? Since the pandemic, people's motivations never seemed to be pure. Instead they seemed to always be measuring each other—looking for an advantage that could help them regardless of what it cost their fellow man. Had Flanary been relying on the rocky history between Amsterdam and Patterson Creek to save him? Had they walked right into a trap? It was possible. But Flanary's family was in Amsterdam and the man's interactions with them had been legitimate. He was a caring father and loyal husband, nothing like Naff's men. After observing the man on the journey from the heliport and while the pilfered supplies were unloaded, Jacob was sure of it.
“People's property is still their own even if the world's hit another speed bump.”
“You haven't changed a bit, have you?” Cahoon sneered. “Did you really come all the way out here to my property to tell me what to do with the things in my possession? Yesterday's deals were made in yesterday's world. As of five o'clock this morning, these planes are mine and don't give me that look, reverend. I seem to recall you not being so inclined to give up the things in your possession last time around.”
“Is that what you think happened? It looked a little different from my point of view, I guess. I could have sworn Buddy Naff and his crew—backed up by you and whoever else lives around here—rolled into town and started telling people what to do with the things in their possession at the point of a gun. And it didn't go over so well.”
Cahoon bristled.
“Now, I'm not here to take anything that belongs to you,” Jacob continued. “Flanary says he's been paying you to store his plane. He's with us now and we could make good use of it. But you're right—yesterday's deals were made in yesterday’s world. Ten thousand rounds of 7.62 ammo and two dozen AKM rifles are what I have—easily worth the $20-$25k value of a mid-seventies model Cessna. And from the looks of the guns your men are carrying—just what you need.”
“And it's all here with you?”
Jacob nodded. “In the van we arrived in.”
Cahoon chuckled and shook his head. “Then what's to stop me from just taking it all and burying you in the woods?”
“You could. But Amsterdam would retaliate and I don't think either of us wants another war. We already took out Naff and his men earlier this evening, but be my guest if you want to go next.”
“Naff's dead?”
Jacob nodded. “He attacked us. We fought back. He lost.”
Cahoon raised a hand to his face and stroked his unkempt goatee.
“So whatever arrangement the two of you had is gone,” Jacob continued. “Amsterdam's your closest and best bet if you need friends. And anyone who thinks he doesn't these days is a fool.”
Cahoon stood silently, glancing between Jacob and the ground.
“Not interested? Fine.” Jacob turned away. “We'll leave.”
“Wait—just wait. I'm interested, but I want more.”
Jacob stopped and looked back. The look on Cahoon's face was a look he recognized—it was a look he'd seen on his own face as he stared into the mirror earlier in the day—the look of a leader who had no idea if he could summon the strength needed to see his community through the next few hours, let alone the next few months or even years.
“I'm not going to lie to you, reverend. We're in trouble. I've got three dozen men of fighting age patrolling eight thousand acres between the James Street Bridge and the Glen Wilton Bridge and we've got farms planted on every flat spot of earth in between. But the weather's not been friendly this year. We've had two floods since last winter and at least half of what we've grown is gone. So if you want my plane, I need more than weapons.”
