That peace dissipated as they approached what a sign told them should be the town of Winnabow. Only debris remained of that place.
First, she saw a flattened U-Haul rental center where the propane tanks appeared to have exploded. Another-or perhaps the same-conflagration consumed dozens of forested acres, isolated houses, and mobile homes to either side of the highway, leaving behind charred trees and vacant foundations as well as dozens of cars, some overturned, others twisted together in piles.
In her years of fighting against the invaders, Cassy came upon all manner of apocalyptic destruction left over from those first months. This particular carnage felt a little different from most. She tried to understand why and as they trotted through, she realized the difference: no human bones, and no extraterrestrial bodies.
Her patrol continued onward, leaving behind the ruins.
The wilderness crept in on either side of Rt. 17. The forest grew thick, fed by swamps.
After a spell, that forest retreated again and gave way to a golden, grassy field that descended a long, soft embankment. At the bottom of that embankment, straddling Route 17, stood a town.
At a half-mile’s distance, Cassy Simms spied wood and brick buildings, even a large structure reminding her of something like a Greek amphitheater.
Cassy raised her binoculars and surveyed the sight. She saw two and three story buildings, what appeared to be barns, as well as small homes grouped together.
To her surprise, the entire town appeared to be made of new construction. Many of the wood beams remained unpainted and bright white mortar held together brick walls, suggesting recent completion. No graying paint, all fresh colors. No litter.
That golden field bordered the town on the north and east, providing a buffer between the village and dense woodlands.
Through her field glasses, she followed Route 17 as it continued through the center of town and to the south beyond. There she saw more destroyed buildings and debris, yet this debris appeared to have been cleared and organized, resembling something more like a monument than the leftovers of a calamity.
“Captain…” one of her soldiers called for her attention.
A group of four persons approached the patrol. They walked along the road at a casual pace but Cassy saw rifles slung over their shoulders.
Captain Simms waved her team forward at a non-threatening trot. This would not be the first time she made “first contact” with a band of survivors. Certainly, they would be suspicious. They might fear that Cassy led a band of marauders. They would be defensive and uneasy. She reminded herself to keep her temper in check and her dual pistols in their shoulder holsters.
As the gap closed, Cassy dismounted and approached the group of three men and one woman.
One of the men-a big man with broad shoulders and a freckled face-carried himself as if in charge. His appearance would have screamed ‘red neck’ if not for the soft, hand-woven tunic and primitive but skillfully crafted sandals he wore.
Perhaps he’s a redneck / beatnik hybrid, she thought. I wonder if the redneck in him will have a problem talking to a black woman.
“Hi, um, we mean you no harm,” she did her best to smile, something not naturally in her character. “My name is Captain Cassy Simms and I’ve got good news. Consider your town liberated.”
The redneck/beatnik hybrid cringed as if he bit into a sour apple.
“Liberated? What the hell does that mean?”
“I know; there are only four of us. We’re a scouting party for the 1 ^ st Mechanized Division. We’re part of a human army that’s been retaking the entire region. Why, we control everything all the way up to Pennsylvania.”
The leader spoke again, this time with less sour-face.
“And why would I care about that?”
This caught Cassy off guard. Usually she received one of two responses. The first response might be disbelief, either in shock, or in fear of deception.
The second response was normally a flood of questions or requests such as “do you have food?” or “we need medicine” or even “help us, there’s a horned monster with glowing red eyes that keeps stealing the town’s women.”
Occasionally they would stumble upon warlords running a colony of slaves, usually with a three to one female to male ratio. In such instances, bullets met scouting parties.
This response-one of indifference-came as a surprise.
Cassy eyed this man a little closer, trying to see beyond the redneck physique and the beatnik clothing.
No malnutrition, clean grooming, and his teeth appeared in decent shape. This was not a struggling survivor.
However, she followed the first contact playbook and said, “Why would you care? Well, because we can get you food, medicine, and all sorts of supplies. If there are any hostiles around here bugging you, we’ll hunt them down and wipe them out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I know we don’t look like much but there are a couple thousand soldiers, vehicles, and big guns that’ll be here before the day is out. You’ll see. You’ll be impressed.”
A different man said, “I don’t think so.”
This older man sported gray and white hair around a balding scalp. He stepped to the front of the group. As he did, the redneck told him, “She says she’s a Captain in some army. I think they’re thieves or something, Chief. We should run them out of town with buckshot in their behinds.”
Cassy’s mind raced as she realized she had completely misunderstood the situation. Her thoughts turned to shooting and she decided the redneck would get an extra shot in the face just for talking tough.
The older man, however, quickly diffused the situation.
“Calm down,” he told the redneck/beatnik hybrid. “I don’t believe a fight is in anyone’s interest.”
“No, it’s not,” Cassy jumped in. “We’re not here to fight. We’re here to help. Honest. If you don’t believe me, just wait and the rest of my formation will be here in a few hours.”
“Oh, I believe you, Captain.” the Chief said. “I believe every word you’ve said. Especially the part about your soldiers coming along this road later.”
“I’m sure General Shepherd will be happy to discuss all of the benefits to your town that we will provide,” and she realized her words came out jumbled and silly sounding, the result of befuddlement at the townspeople’s disposition.
“I do look forward to speaking with this General Shepherd,” the elder told her. “In fact, if you would not mind, please see if he will join us as soon as he is able. And please, ask him to leave his army behind.”
Shepherd walked amidst the buildings of the town and found himself impressed both with the place and with his guide, Robert Parsons, Chief of the New Winnabow Council.
The structures stood close together, packed in tight along narrow stone streets except for Rt. 17, which drove directly through the middle of it all. Those structures included a community arena that was surprisingly large for something built after the fall of civilization without the benefit of the most modern construction tools.
They called the area surrounding the arena The Commons, and it included ‘public’ buildings such as the council chambers, a school, and what Parsons called a necessary evil, the armory.
During their thirty-minute tour of “New Winnabow”, Shepherd learned that five hundred residents lived here, mainly in rebuilt homes within the town’s borders or in the temporary housing of a trailer park to the southwest.
The swamps to the north and west harbored many dangers, but also provided a cornucopia of natural medicines and food. The coastal plains to the east were deserted, almost entirely free of people or monsters.
Within the limits of ‘New Winnabow,” Shep observed old and young, families and single adults, and residents from just about every “race” (if that term meant anything anymore).
At the same time, utopia remained out of reach. He saw sick and injured in the small hospital, some dying from simple infections that the town’s meager medical supplies could not control. In a corner graveyard, he read tombstones for those lost to predatory alien animals as well as markers for children who never grew up because
