Dan and the Bottle Ch. 21

John and Jim both grabbed M-16s; but Mike had a different idea of 'firepower'.

An aging, poorly kept old Chevy pick up pulled up, five men in the back. The driver jumped out, an Uzi machine pistol in his hands.

"Well, well.... lookie here, boys... these fine gentlemen done brought us two new trucks and a couple of guns!"

John stepped forward, replying coldly, "I don't think so... you'd best get on down the road, before you get hurt."

The leader of the bandits, for that's what they were, sneered. "I guess you can't count, boy.... we done got you outnumbered... and outgunned."

Big Mike stepped around the back of the Hummer, revealing the .223 personal minigun strapped to his left side. "Let me assure you.... you'll die first."

The bandit leader took one look at the minigun and froze. One of his people, though, raised his old pistol, taking a bead on Big Mike, who immediately shifted his aim, squeezing the trigger for the big machine gun, nearly cutting the man in half.

"Anyone else?" he asked, in a calm voice.

The bandit leader looked on in horror.... one of his best men had just had his midsection chopped into bite sized chunks, and the three traders hadn't so much as flinched. His own people, on the other hand, had dropped to knees or flat on the ground, covering their ears at the hellish noise made by the big gun.

John reached to his belt, plucking away a grenade and pulled the pin, saying, "I'll give you one thing... catch!"

Flipping away the spoon, he tossed the fragmentation grenade to the bandit leader, who reached up and caught it instinctively. He was just bringing it down to eye level, not sure what he'd caught, when it exploded, turning his hand, forearm, and part of his face into something resembling cat food. At this point the rest of his crew jumped up and ran like hell. Three of them dropped their weapons, not stopping to grab them before taking to their heels.

John chuckled as he and Jim walked over, picking up two rifles, an old shotgun, and an equally old revolver, and walked over to check out the old pick up. It sat low on one corner, and the odometer rested at a reading of just under a hundred thousand miles.... it wasn't worth wasting the fuel to get it back to the Cave; still, leaving it as it was, so the bandits could come back and reclaim it, wasn't really an option, either. The two of them looked at each other, nodding in silent agreement, and Jim reached into an outside pocket of his backpack, while John pulled off the gas cap, then stuffed the small packet into the mouth of the fuel filler pipe.

They were a bit over six hundred feet away when two of the bandits came out of the woods, and they'd nearly reached the old truck when Jim pushed the button on the old remote.

The detonator worked perfectly, and the ancient military grade C-4 did what it was supposed to do, turning most of the truck into shrapnel.

Jim looked over at John... "See? I told you two ounce packets would be big enough."

John grinned back, nodding sheepishly. He was man enough to admit when he was wrong. He'd thought it would require at least twice that amount.

They went due north from there, crossing into Michigan right around nine o'clock that night, making camp about thirty miles into the state, in a cabin in an old state park.

John shook the other two awake, holding a finger to his lips, and silently pointed outside, where the growl of what sounded like a big engine idling could be heard. Jim waddled to the window in a crouch, peeking out past the edge carefully.

A young man was looking over their two Hummers, then looked towards the old log cabin, apparently taking note of the smoke coming from the chimney. He wore a pistol at his hip, but didn't appear to be aggressive; what's more, he was clean cut and clean shaven. and his big Ford pick up was obviously well cared for. He stepped around in between the Hummers and the cabin, shouting 'Hello, the house!"

Mike stepped to the door, opening it a crack. "What do you want?"

"Well, if you're friendly, I'd trade with you."

Jim nodded at Mike, who swung the door open. "In that case, c'mon in."

They stood, looking each other over, until Jerry stuck his hand out. "Jerry Duncan."

John took the proferred hand, shaking it once. "John Davidson... Jim Fulton and big Mike." he replied, with nods of his head to his two companions.

"Where are you fellas from?"

"We came from west o' here.... just doing a bit of scavenging and exploring, finding out who-all's still alive out this way. Tangled with some bandits yesterday, but other than that, it's been mostly farming communities. We barter a lot."

"Same here. There's a lot of small towns around the state that still have people in them. Mostly farming communities, although there's a few that are back into manufacturing. I ran across one old man, a few days ago, who's doing a fair bit of chemistry... antibiotics and such."

"Cool.... what have you got to trade?"

Jerry nodded towards the door and headed outside, opening up the tailgate and the upswinging door to the cap on his old truck.

In the bed were a dozen old toolboxes, several dozen smaller cardboard boxes marked as different types of alternators, and ten more, filled with replacement fuel injection units. Several milk crates and storage tubs were full of jars and silver foil packets full of preserved foods. Four gun cases and three ammo cans rounded out the load.

Davidson eyed the guncases for a moment. "What kind of guns?"

Jerry smiled... guns were always the first things to go. "Two Springfields, an M1 Carbine, and an old .460 Weatherby.... that one isn't for sale, by the way."

John nodded. He could well understand that... the Weatherby was a fine weapon. The man had good taste.

"Well.... we could use a few of those alternators. I'll trade you.... an M-16, ten spare thirty round magazines, and two hundred rounds of regular ball ammunition for four of them."

"Done. Hey, have you guys found any coffee, by any chance?"

John smiled and nodded. Reaching into the old truck, he pulled four of the alternator boxes to the edge of the tailgate, picking up one in each hand, nodding towards the other two, and replied ''Follow me."

They walked over to one of the Hummer pick ups, and Jim was there ahead of them, swinging down the tailgate. He pulled one of the gun crates back, opening it to reveal three of the promised automatic rifles. Opening another, he pulled out another, still in it's protective plastic bag, and transferred it into the half empty crate at his feet, then reached for an ammo can.

Jerry was startled to see that the rifles were equipped with grenade launchers.

Jim brought out another can, counting out twenty of the ten round stripper clips, and then looked at the rifles again, and pulled out a bandolier of twenty grenade rounds. Holding up the long belt, he caught Jerry's eye.

"One of those fuel injector units?"

Jerry just nodded, not quite trusting his voice. He'd never had access to this kind of firepower before.

Jim looked over to Big Mike and nodded.

Mike nodded back, going to the Ford and grabbing out one of the fuel injection units, opening the box briefly to confirm the contents.

Jim reached back into the Hummer, pulling a smaller, square wooden crate towards him, and pulled out two big coffee cans, the labels long since ripped away. Peeling back the lids, he checked to see that they were both full.

Jerry could smell the strong aroma of the coffee from five feet away.

"Wow.... smells pretty strong... what kind is that?"

"Hawaiian.... we've been growing it at our base since before the war."

"Damn.... sounds like your ancestors were somethin' like mine."

At Jim's lifted eyebrow, he spoke one word. "Preppers."

Jim grinned and nodded, thinking 'If you only knew.' "Yeah.... I grew up in a bunker. Our founders kinda went all-out on it."

Jerry grinned back. "Sounds like my great grandpa. Our place was just big enough for about fifty people... just enough to keep the inbreeding to a minimum."

Jim nodded. Holding out the two cans, he said "Here.... one prepper to another."

"Dude! I can't let you do that!"

"Oh, hell, don't worry about it.... we've got a dozen more cans back there. "

Jerry nodded but walked to his truck, reaching inside and pulling out a wooden box with a hinged lid. Lifting the lid, he revealed the contents to be several dozen eggs, in individual compartments. "Then at least let me provide breakfast."

Jim grinned and nodded with his head towards the small cabin.

"I never turned down free food... and I ain't about to start now. C'mon in.... we'll get the fire going. Hang on, let me grab a skillet and spatula out've the truck."

Big Mike, hearing this, walked back to the front porch, grabbing a few sticks and small logs from the rack of firewood by the door, and was busily stacking them in the firebox of the old woodstove, pouring a bit of whiskey on them from his pocket flask. Tossing in a match, he watched for a minute as the alcohol-soaked wood went up with a whoosh! and waited to see if it would go out. The dry tinder caught well, though, and he leaned the door almost shut, nodding to Jim as he sat down on the old couch.

After breakfast, Jerry dug out his old road map, pointing out the areas around the state that weren't safe, of which there were many.

"Detroit is still too hot, in most areas, although the rad count is way down from what it used to be... Ann Arbor's pretty much clean... I don't think it took more than one 'r two nukes, and small ones, at that. Flint got hit pretty hard... it was a major manufacturing area. Avoid it, if you can. There were rumors, there, about some kind of 'mutants', but I've never seen any.... here, here, and... about here are small towns to avoid.... if you pull into town, they'll try to rob you. Buncha damned deadbeats, want something for nothing. Dearborn, well.... it's overrun by Muslims, and those assholes are trying to impose their ridiculous 'Sharia law'. Women can't drive, or get educations, stonings, beheadings, honor killings, the works. Christians are killed if they refuse to convert. Bastards will rape any woman they want... claim it isn't really rape, because the women are 'non-believers'."

Jim nodded as he studied the map. "Have you heard much from the south, or out west?"

"Just rumors, mostly... something about an 'American Militia' giving the Chinese fits. Down south, it's Cubans and Mexicans and whatnot, although I hear there's a few groups fighting them. Not real big, or organized, but from the sound of things, they're workin' at it. I catch 'em on the shortwave, every once in a while."

Big Mike smiled from behind them, where Jerry couldn't see him.

Jim grinned... "We know about the militia group out west... they've taken half a dozen states back from the Chinese. Good people.... they're doing a lot of good. Heard about a bunch of Kentucky moonshiners who are trying to set up a militia of their own... we were thinking of heading that way next. You'd be welcome to join us."

Jerry shook his head. "I've a woman waiting for me, at home, and I'm already overdue. Would've been home yesterday, but I heard of the old chemist and wanted to check it out before I headed for home. My girl's dad is a doctor... a few jars of antibiotic ointment would have him jumpin' for joy."

They talked for a while longer as they let the food settle, then said their goodbyes, and the militia traders got another few hours sleep, and headed south.... it didn't sound like the Detroit area held much promise at the moment.

And they wanted to meet these 'Kentucky moonshiners' for themselves.