Honor Road Jason Ross (any book recommendations .TXT) 📖

Mat crammed the watery-gut sensation down and interrupted Science Guy, "Whether we call them refugees or rats, we need to admit that the camps pose an existential threat to McKenzie. Deputy Smith lost an eye on a milk run, and that run will only become more dangerous. The shit heads in those camps will be eating pork tonight, and that’s a serious problem for us. Today’s ambush will sound like Washington crossing the Delaware to people eating pork for the first time in two months. And, we failed to complete the supply mission. With all due respect, Sheriff, calling them ‘rats’ is a love letter compared to the words my security team uses to describe them. The rats are the enemy.” Mat pointed out a window of the sheriff’s office in the direction of the strand of road between McKenzie and Henry. “I don't know if bio-chem weapons are the right idea, though. Can we even control a biological weapon this close to the town?" Mat recalled the holy fear of bio-chem put into him by the Army. Poison gas and viruses killed indiscriminately; like how botulism killed Caroline. She’d scraped the deadly bacteria off the asphalt in a motorcycle crash. Letting something that vicious off the leash should terrify them. But after what he’d seen in the killing fields that day, he wasn’t crossing anything off the list.

“...which is precisely why we’re discussing food-borne botulin toxin instead of anthrax,” Jensen explained. He leaned forward, apparently getting ready to restart his monologue.

Mat held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll keep an open mind until Science Guy here does his presentation to the committee.”

“Jim,” Jensen corrected.

“Right.” Mat wasn’t in a big hurry to accept that kind of responsibility. The committee might even be worth something, if they could off-load the guilt of poisoning a bunch of women and children.

Mat hated the idea of botulism, but one of his men was just killed and another blinded. A damned stadium-load of people had just come at him like an Egyptian plague. If not for the pigs to distract them, those fuckers would probably be cooking Mat’s corpse over a campfire right about now.

Sheriff Morgan sat back and observed the two men, probably assessing them in his “own, small town way.” He lurched forward and stood. "Very well, Jim. We’ll hear you out at Thursday's meeting. Sergeant Best, would you mind staying for a minute?"

Jim Jensen left the office with awkward handshakes. The sheriff returned to his seat and sipped from a coffee mug with a government seal on the side. Mat wasn't sure what made a good sheriff at the end of the world, but he thought the big man was probably dead-center in the middle of the target.

"How are you and William settling in?" the sheriff asked.

"Good. The house you loaned us is perfect. I appreciate it.”

“Good. And how are you two getting along with the town?"

Mat shifted in his chair. "No problems."

“Is this home yet?”

“Our house or McKenzie?” Mat stalled.

Morgan held Mat’s gaze for a few seconds. “Mat, you said I’ve got a job to finish. Before.”

Mat raised his eyebrows.

“That's what you said a few minutes ago. ‘I've got a job to finish.’ What’s the job and how will you know when it's finished?”

Mat scooted forward in his chair. “You asked me to protect this town, to reinforce it, to defend against invasion and that's what I'm doing. The eighteen full-time and reserve officers are insufficient to protect the town. Now, we have 150 men and women on the security force. I haven't had time for much training, but we've got checkpoints on every ingress and egress point. We have patrols and we have perimeter guards. We're stretched thin between here and Henry, but we'll add another hundred security personnel over the next few weeks. I’m considering candidates for a quick reaction force. We could’ve used a QRF today.”

The sheriff held up a hand to pause Mat’s report. “If I was a fancy therapist, I'd wait for you to see this on your own, but I’m just a cop, and we don't have time to do this the slow way. So, hear me out.”

“Okay, Sheriff,” Mat said.

“Son, I don't know what you believe about God, but I believe you’re here for a reason. We're grateful an expert on warfare came right when we needed him. You saved us, I believe. At the same time, this town can save you. But you have to let it.”

Mat's jaws clenched so tight it took effort to move his mouth. “You mean like the town saved Caroline?”

Mat hated these kinds of conversations—the “let’s talk about all the feelings you’re not seeing,” kinds of conversations. People were on high alert for PTSD in a combat veteran—like a Where’s Waldo of amateur psychology: where’s the PTSD? Let’s probe around until we find it.

Sheriff Morgan didn’t match Mat’s sudden tension. Instead, his voice went soft. “I am sorry for your grief.” There was heartbreak in his voice, not as fresh and violent as Mat’s, but true empathy.

Morgan continued, “I’m talking about how this town saved a miserable, divorced, alcoholic patrolman from Louisville. Like how it took him in, gave him a home, a family, and a path back to his creator. This town saved me, but I had to let it in first. I had to open myself up.”

“Sheriff, I don't…”

Morgan raised a hand. “You've been here two months. How many of your neighbors can you name? Aside from today's team on convoy duty, how many of your security guys can you name? I mean proper names, not Fat Dude, Toothpick or Science Guy. How many of their wives’ names do you know? People want to trust you, Mat, but you have to trust them, too. They can smell it when you don't. They can smell it when you're not all in.”

Mat stood up. His face felt hard. “I've got to make my rounds to the checkpoints. Anything else, Sheriff?”

“Just this, and I'll let it be: