Hard Rain Falling (Walking in the Rain Book 3) Read Online Free
Author: William Allen
Tags: Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure, Science Fiction & Fantasy, post apocalyptic
my part, but she needed to know. Know what kind of man to which she was committing herself. Amy took the news in stride, having already figured out some of it from my fight with Gary Keller, and what others let slip about the shootouts at Saw Creek.
As I went to sleep wrapped around Amy that night, I wondered how much of my humanity remained.
Then I awoke in the dark with my finger tightening on the trigger, preparing to squeeze a round into the melon of Lori as she jumped down from her bunk to visit the latrine. I didn’t fire, drawing back at the last possible second. So I must have a little bit of myself left in the tank for the time being.
Good thing Amy didn’t snore, though.
CHAPTER THREE
Every morning, our little group made use of the old bathroom facilities we shared with a growing crowd of people, and then headed out to join the volunteer labor pool after a quick breakfast in the small dining hall. The base had several housing facilities scattered about the main complex and I heard some of the barracks dated back to the Second World War. The same source, a talkative younger teen who sat near us in the breakfast service, explained that Fort Chaffee used to be a major Army base. The military reservation used to train thousands of soldiers before being turned over to the Arkansas National Guard and the Army Reserve.
We were picked for different projects each day, all somehow related to maintaining the base or bringing unused sections back into service. I learned that the base was actually a military reservation covering over 65,000 acres, so what we saw was only one small part. Much of the infrastructure and many of the service facilities had been mothballed by the Arkansas National Guard, but now Colonel Hotchkins wanted to see what could be salvaged. As I saw it, the man wanted options.
The ladies split their time between working in the kitchens and assisting the supply personnel, apparently helping to inventory old, unused warehouses. Summer and Lori seemed to prefer kitchen duty but I could tell Amy enjoyed working with the supply people. I couldn’t tell if it was because she liked counting things, or if she enjoyed hunting for treasure. I guessed just about anything could be buried in on those old concrete bunker-style storage buildings. Maybe she liked both.
Nothing was said, but I knew they were sticking close together, including those times when they trekked off for their restroom breaks. The base was full of unfamiliar faces, and newcomers continued to arrive every day. They’d all three had enough of dangerous strangers.
I usually ended up volunteering for the motor pool, mostly helping resurrect old trucks referred to as ‘five tons’ by the more knowledgeable mechanics. These trucks appeared to have been mothballed, and early tests showed the older vehicles were very resistant to the EMP-like effects of the pulse. Not much was computerized on trucks that were last used by the U.S. Army at the end of the Vietnam War.
Some of the newer vehicles still worked, but it was random that way. Since, as the stories suggested, the National Guard units did receive the Regular Army’s castoff—or at least, outdated—equipment, the mechanics were proud to say their stuff might be old, but more of it still worked than what might be found at a Regular Army base.
However, with the brisk operations tempo—a phrase I learned from Master Sergeant Warnecke—the Guard was also saddled with newer, cooler systems that just did not work now.
“I thought this stuff was supposed to be hardened against Electromagnetic Pulse,” I complained to the master sergeant. We were sweating buckets in the confined spaces of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. Warnecke grunted and used a pair of needle nosed pliers to remove a fused circuit board from the open control panel. I couldn’t be certain whether the damage was related to the pulse or not, but the carbon singed chunk of electronics looked barely suitable to serve as
As I went to sleep wrapped around Amy that night, I wondered how much of my humanity remained.
Then I awoke in the dark with my finger tightening on the trigger, preparing to squeeze a round into the melon of Lori as she jumped down from her bunk to visit the latrine. I didn’t fire, drawing back at the last possible second. So I must have a little bit of myself left in the tank for the time being.
Good thing Amy didn’t snore, though.
CHAPTER THREE
Every morning, our little group made use of the old bathroom facilities we shared with a growing crowd of people, and then headed out to join the volunteer labor pool after a quick breakfast in the small dining hall. The base had several housing facilities scattered about the main complex and I heard some of the barracks dated back to the Second World War. The same source, a talkative younger teen who sat near us in the breakfast service, explained that Fort Chaffee used to be a major Army base. The military reservation used to train thousands of soldiers before being turned over to the Arkansas National Guard and the Army Reserve.
We were picked for different projects each day, all somehow related to maintaining the base or bringing unused sections back into service. I learned that the base was actually a military reservation covering over 65,000 acres, so what we saw was only one small part. Much of the infrastructure and many of the service facilities had been mothballed by the Arkansas National Guard, but now Colonel Hotchkins wanted to see what could be salvaged. As I saw it, the man wanted options.
The ladies split their time between working in the kitchens and assisting the supply personnel, apparently helping to inventory old, unused warehouses. Summer and Lori seemed to prefer kitchen duty but I could tell Amy enjoyed working with the supply people. I couldn’t tell if it was because she liked counting things, or if she enjoyed hunting for treasure. I guessed just about anything could be buried in on those old concrete bunker-style storage buildings. Maybe she liked both.
Nothing was said, but I knew they were sticking close together, including those times when they trekked off for their restroom breaks. The base was full of unfamiliar faces, and newcomers continued to arrive every day. They’d all three had enough of dangerous strangers.
I usually ended up volunteering for the motor pool, mostly helping resurrect old trucks referred to as ‘five tons’ by the more knowledgeable mechanics. These trucks appeared to have been mothballed, and early tests showed the older vehicles were very resistant to the EMP-like effects of the pulse. Not much was computerized on trucks that were last used by the U.S. Army at the end of the Vietnam War.
Some of the newer vehicles still worked, but it was random that way. Since, as the stories suggested, the National Guard units did receive the Regular Army’s castoff—or at least, outdated—equipment, the mechanics were proud to say their stuff might be old, but more of it still worked than what might be found at a Regular Army base.
However, with the brisk operations tempo—a phrase I learned from Master Sergeant Warnecke—the Guard was also saddled with newer, cooler systems that just did not work now.
“I thought this stuff was supposed to be hardened against Electromagnetic Pulse,” I complained to the master sergeant. We were sweating buckets in the confined spaces of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. Warnecke grunted and used a pair of needle nosed pliers to remove a fused circuit board from the open control panel. I couldn’t be certain whether the damage was related to the pulse or not, but the carbon singed chunk of electronics looked barely suitable to serve as
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