Chapter 1: Doglegs
July 9th, 2030
1300 hours
85F, 80% humidity
Wind 9mph out of the south
The sun rises into a clear sky, the first in nearly a week. Arkansas' been ungently handled by the tailings of yet another Gulf hurricane landfall- like others since late 2027, unnamed except in its victims' bitter curses. A week of heavy rains and high winds temporarily forgotten in the sense of relief and hope that comes with an unoccluded sunrise. Memories of the storm are nearly everywhere, though- in the moisture-darkened, freshly-chuckholed asphalt, the heavy green smell of rain-dampened vegetation, the fallen limbs and old telephone poles that occasionally intrude on the road.
It's been about two weeks since STAR Team Sierra (STS or just Sierra, for short) was assembled- a week of briefings, PT, gathering supplies, zeroing and test firing weapons, checking coms, and practicing immediate action drills (both mounted and dismounted). The unexpected storm- these days, in the absence of radar and weather satellites, most storms are unexpected, the only reliable warning a stark drop in barometric pressure not long before arrival- delayed departure by about a week, giving the team plenty of down time in soggy Little Rock. The first leg of the journey, from the state capital south to Pine Bluff, was routine and uneventful, the interstitial between cities relatively stable and secure.
The three-vehicle ASDF convoy rolls out of Pine Bluff shortly before noon. State Route 65 stretches out, wide open, in front of them. For the time being, the convoy has the road all to itself. The only other vehicles visible are long-abandoned, a pathetic honor guard of derelict cars and trucks, stripped and resting forlorn on either shoulder. Coincidentally, VOAR's Hot Lunch show plays Rhianna's 2007 hit, Shut Up and Drive.
Just outside the city, State Route 65 shadows the line of the Arkansas River, both bearing roughly southeast until they almost reach the convergence of the Arkansas-Mississippi-Louisiana state lines. The river is bordered by mile after mile of farm fields, some fallow, others active. In the latter, large swaths of crops pressed down by the past few days of unrelenting rain. A few of the fields are alive with motion, dotted with swarming workers- like pent-up ants emerging after the rain- bent at the waste trying to rescue spinach, beans, alfalfa.
There's an irony there, one not lost on most of the team. Many of these fields used to be worked by migrant farm hands, refugees fleeing abject poverty and gang violence in Mexico and Central America, doing jobs that very few native-born American citizens would deign to accept, often for pennies on the dollar. Today, these fields are being worked by many of those same citizens, now refugees themselves, some originally from out of state, others from the cities, their store shelves long-bare. Lawyers, accountants, and regional managers, now tending crops for room and board, a new generation of Oakies, modern-day Ma and Pa Joads. Some of them probably now call the refugee camp set up around the Arkansas DOT District 2 facility just east of the city home; others have been taken in by sympathetic locals, farm families with soft hearts and/or an urgent need for labor.
The convoy rolls through several small towns, some barely dots on the map- Glenlake, Linwood, Moscow (some wit had spray-painted "Please don't nuke" in white below the town marker), and Tamo, until reaching their first planned stop, the farming village of Grady, pre-war population: 550. It's grown (refugees) and shrunk (dysentery) since the war began. At the moment, the population has achieved a sort of equilibrium, hovering around 550 souls.
The convoy exits on Business 65, then turns south on to Main, before pulling into the parking lot of the Grady Police Station- a white building the shape and size of a modest single-family home. An officer, middle-aged, somehow still carrying a bit of paunch, steps out to meet the visitors.
"Welcome to Grady. Name's Franks. How was the ride down? Y'all get hit pretty hard up north too?"
Captain Franks is a chatty fellow. He probably hasn't had a whole lot to do around town for the past week or so.
"We don't get too many visitors down from the state capital, these days."
The members of STAR Team Sierra dismount, stretch their legs, starting developing a pit-stop routine. Kabua unloads a banker's box labelled 'Grady' from Ace Hardware's cargo bed and carries it towards the station.
"Thank ya kindly, soldier. I got a few letters for y'all inside. I can offer y'all some coffee- not the real thing, o' course- chicory. It's not half bad, though."
Another officer, a younger man, mid-to-late twenties maybe, short, prematurely thinning hair, wearing thick prescription lenses set in over-sized frames, emerges from the station. His nametag reads 'LT. OFFUTT'.
"Hey, y'all." he says, by way of greeting. His glasses make his eyes appear cartoonishly large. "What else ya got in that truck there?" he asks, hooking his thumbs in his duty belt.
Your Turn.
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This message was last edited by the GM at 02:59, Thu 26 July 2018.
