“In the long history of humankind (and animal kind, too) those who learned to collaborate and improvise most effectively have prevailed.”
-Charles Darwin
They stepped through the doors into the inner courtyard, and were greeted by a most familiar sound. The grunts and groans of people hard at work, greeting the early morning with a round of calisthenics. Braun’s attention became instantly fixed on that noise, the yells of a instructor followed by the obligatory replies of the people being put through it.
A most familiar noise, as was the feeling of stepping out into the warm morning air, the sheltered areas that lay next to the building feeling mercifully cool. At one time, he had been told, the building had been an office park, its horseshoe-shaped edifices holding municipal employees and civil servants. Now, it was an armory, very similar to grounds across town where he had done his basic training.
The thought it all made him both sullen and nostalgic at once. In fact, he became so fixated on his surroundings and the feelings they stirred that he almost forgot about the person walking next to him. As soon as he realized this, he snapped his attention back to them.
“The first bunch came to us a few months ago and we’ve been working on getting them ready ever since. We’ve been running them through the same basic drills for about eight weeks now. Most of the folks who signed up were already in pretty good shape and willing to learn. Some knew how to shoot pretty well too. But the problem remains…”
Braun looked at his companion and nodded as he spoke. About five foot eight, and a little on the heavy side, Deputy Mathis was about the closest thing Braun had seen to a martial personality in months. A police firearms instructor by trade, he was naturally well-suited for the role in which he now found himself. And he spoke like someone who was used to training people in how to deal with deadly force, which was also good.
“…basically we’ve had next to no one who’s had plenty of contact with the Freaks.” He stopped and looked at Braun suddenly. “Uh, that’s sort of the nickname we use whenever we’re talking about them. I understand you army guys have your own term?”
“Yeah…” Braun said, his smile fading. “We called em Whiskey Deltas, Whiskey for short.”
“Right, that’s the one! We thought about borrowing it, but it didn’t seem right. People came here from all over, had a million and one names for them. Somehow, Whiskey just didn’t seem to fit. Plus we figured you guys had some kind of claim to that name. Didn’t want to be imitators, after all.”
Mathis laughed. Braun forced one. Not wanting to linger on the subject of his old profession, he refocused things back to the subject at hand. He looked to the wall on their right and spotted an armed sentry, holding the same basic rifle he had observed many times since coming in.
“I noticed a lot of STENs around here. Did you come across a stockpile or something?”
“Funny story,” Mathis said with a chuckle. “What you’re seeing are in fact Mitchells. At least, that’s what we call them. Named after their inventor, Art Mitchell, man who supplies all our forces with guns.”
Braun frowned, nodded to the man holding one under his arm. “This guy Mitchell… he built those?”
“Yessir. Word is the man was a machinist back in the day, built gun parts for a living before the war began. Word is, as soon as the town was cleared, he went to the city council with a proposal to start making bullets from spent cases and scrap. The town OK’d it, next thing we know, he was turning out bullets by the bucket full for anybody who wanted them. But it wasn’t long before he realized the big problem…”
Braun waited for a second for the big reveal. He finally asked. “What problem was that?”
Mathis looked to him and shrugged. “Too many guns, too many gauges. Plus, the town council quickly figured out that if we were going to organize this city right and get things back to normal, they had to ditch the old laissez-faire paradigm and begin standardizing things. Thenceforth, they ordered Mitchell to start producing standard ammo, and the guns to use them.”
“And the Mitchell was born?”
Mathis nodded uncertainly. “After a fashion. Using twenty-two rounds was his idea. Figured people didn’t need big bullets to take out Freak heads, and they took less material. At first, he had people turn in their non-standardized weapons and began retooling them to fire twenty-two calibers. But eventually he just figured it would easier to start making his own out of all the scrap metal we had lying around. The town also began planning on the formation of civilian militia, so they pulled in every favor they could and got him all the casting, smelting, and metal forms he needed. Gave him a crew and a bunch of orders to fill, and he got to work, mass-producting his design. As the tale goes, he had all kinds of blueprints of old firearms in some war books. Man loved classic guns and always dreamed of making one.”
Braun smirked. “And I’m guessing he had a particular passion for World War Two models.”
“Oh yeah! Never met him, but I hear he’ll talk anyone’s ear off if they’re willing to listen. Went on and on back in the day about how STENs were the perfect design. Simple, very few parts, and designed with shortages in mind. Said the Brits faced the same situation we’re facing now, so we might as well borrow a page from their book.” Finished, Mathis spread his hands before him. “And that’s how the Mitchell was born.”
“You’re right,” said Braun. “That was a long story. But interesting.”
Mathis chuckled and reached to his side. “Then you’ll love this,” he said. Braun’s attention quickly snapped to him as he drew the weapon he had stowed in his holster. He had spotted it earlier and took it for an old .45. Now that it was drawn, he saw that it had been heavily modified.
“This is one of Mitchell’s more recent inventions. After he was finished fashioned a few hundred submachine guns for the militia here, he figured he would make something for everybody else. But of course, us militia folks got first crack, and its become the sidearm of choice around here.” He cocked the weapon and chambered a round, making sure the safety was on. “Forty-five converted to fire twenty-two cal slugs, and a suppressor added for quiet shooting.”
They stopped in the middle of the courtyard and both examined the weapon. Braun looked upon it with keen interest, Mathis with something approaching fatherly pride.
“Now I know he didn’t fashion that himself,” Braun said with a smile.
“Oh no,” replied Mathis. “It just so happened that our gun stocks happened to include a whole lot of old Colts. He figured it would be the ideal platform for compact Freak hunting. Simple weapon, easily broken down and reassembled, and you can fire it thousands of times before service.” Mathis spun the weapon around and extended it Braun. “Wanna handle her?”
“Sure,” said Braun, taking the gun in hand. He noted some additional featured as well now that it was in his hands. Things like the extended clip, and the letters stamped on the suppressor’s side in crude font.
Freak Killer 2.0
They began walking again as Braun fiddled with the weapon, popping the magazine, testing the sights and inspecting the suppressor. The additional parts were certainly crafted by Mitchell, but the gun itself looked to be a century old. He knew at that moment he would need to talk to their arms manufacturer at some point, see what else he could get him to fashion…
“In any case, we’re looking for someone to give these raw recruits the benefit of their experience,” Mathis went on. “Someone who’s faced down the enemy, knows how they think, can anticipate them and teach people how to deal with that sense of fear once they are confronted with them. I don’t need to tell you that seeing them up close is a rather unsettling experience.”
“No, sir, you most certainly don’t,” Braun said, handing his sidearm back to him.
They came at last to the corner of the courtyard where a group of assembled trainees were standing in line. Each one was wearing a set of plain khaki shorts and a white tee shirt. Braun counted about two dozen, the equivalent of a small-sized platoon, and began cataloging their faces for later reference.
None appeared to be older than their mid-twenties from the looks of them, though it was hard to tell. After a good eighteen months of dealing with the war and all its fallout, people just didn’t’ look their age anymore. But then again, such judgments were always highly subjective. And with all the signs of stress and fatigue that had become the norm, what people used to consider youthful was pretty much gone.
Still, he could see a certain vitality in them as the instructor ran them through a series of plyometrics, jumping jacks and burpies. Every face was shining, many of them turning red from the exertion.
“These would be the latest recruits,” said Mathis. “I believe this is what you in the armed forces would call PT?”
Braun forced another smile. “Yes… that’s the designation.”
He watched for a moment. As soon as they were given a breather, he noticed some of them looking up to see him and Mathis. The latter they recognized, but Braun they chose to scrutinize for as long as they could.
He scanned each set of eyes, looking for the telltale signs. Another thing that had faded from most people’s faces in the past eighteen months was the look of blithe innocence that had once characterized them. Before the war, only rare individuals possessed the strange, telltale look of someone who had come close to death and lived to tell about it. Nowadays, just about everyone had the burden of it in their eyes.
Braun couldn’t be entirely sure about the recruits before him. Most looked away quickly, not wanting to get yelled at by the instructor. But some had that feral knowledge in their faces. These were the ones who had seen loved ones or neighbors torn apart, no doubt. Who had looked death in the face and managed to slip away without any overt, physical scars.
“You alluded to some of your people having faced off against the, uh, Freaks before. Could you elaborate?”
Mathis looked at him surprised, but answered all the same. “Ah, well, just about everyone here has witnessed a Freak attack at one time or another. But next to none have any experience in fighting them. Keep in mind, most of the people who came here as part of the resettlement had been original residents. They were around when the city fell, and the army pulled out.”
Mathis quickly tried to correct himself, but Braun cut him off. “I know what you mean. It’s okay. I was around when it happened. And believe me, there wasn’t a soldier alive that didn’t feel like a total asshole on that day. Especially our commanding officer.”
“Right,” Mathis said, delicately. He cleared his throat before adding: “I, uh, heard about that. My apologies.”
“Well… he aint dead yet,” Braun replied, though he was slightly less than confident in that answer. What little access to had to the grapevine had been rather stingy of late. But until indicated otherwise, that was the story he continued to go with.
“And of course, you boys were the ones who gave us our city back. We haven’t forgotten that.” Mathis looked back to the recruits, who formed up and began moving out to run laps around the yard. The instructor waved to him as they all passed by. Once again, Braun caught several people looking at him, expressions of suspicion mingling with faint curiosity.
No, Braun thought. You haven’t forgotten. Whereas people in the old world had trusted easily and responded to newcomers genially, people of the new world trusted little and only responded favorably to the ones they knew. Everyone else was suspect, to be regarded as a possible threat until they proved otherwise.
It was something he forgot, being around his own for so long. All the while, they had been fighting to get things back to normal. It was only when one looked at the people they were fighting for that it really hit home. Things had changed, maybe forever.
Which is why they were training here. It was also why he had managed to snag a position with them after finding his way back to town and had been reassigned by the city council. Like Mathis had said, things were standardized now, no single person allowed complete control over their own destiny.
And given Braun’s experience, it was obvious where they would put him. In fact, they had seemed rather excited that a combat veteran was available to help them train their new armed forces. And their aims in using his expertise were could not have been more clear to him at the time. Whereas most of the reconstruction was motivated by the desire to get things rebuild and running again, the creation of the militia was motivated by a far more singular purpose.
What had happened before was not to happen again. If and when the hordes returned, the people would be armed, prepared, and educated on how to fight them. They would not be beholden to armed forces that were just as tied up and confused as they were. They would not be dependent on someone else to do their fighting for them.
He was fortunate to have them. And they him. Perhaps he would be able to make something of a life here after all. At least, until things changed elsewhere…
“So…” said Mathis. “Shall I show you to your office quarters?”
“Office quarters?” said Braun. “I wasn’t aware I got one.”
Mathis chuckled again. “Just one of the many perks of being a senior instructor,” he said. “When you’re not teaching them how to shoot and brain a Freak, we want you comfortably rested and billeted. Not to mention fed. I imagine you’re tired of eating rations?”
Braun began to laugh, for real this time. “Fresh food was a bit of a rarity, I’ll admit. I swore that if I saw too many more K rations, I’d kill somebody.”
Mathis slapped him on the shoulder, gestured with his other hand to nearest door. “Follow me inside. I’ll show you around. I’m sure the recruits will be eager to meet you.”
