White Wasteland Jeff Kirkham (book series for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

Jason’s voice went husky, his throat tightening. “Do you fat fucks want to know how this story ends? I’ll tell you how the story ended for the last fat fuck who tried to take something from me by force. It ended with a .300 Winchester Mag bullet through the center of his chest while he took in the afternoon air on his front lawn. I know that because I put that particular Fat Fuck down myself.”

The Head of County Services slapped the table with both hands. “Are you admitting to the murder of Tim Masterson?” He shouted and threw his weight over the table. “Are you saying that you murdered a county employee?”

Jason hadn’t meant to admit it, but it was out in the open now. He’d shot Masterson from the top of First Ridge with a rifle when he’d tried to take from the Homestead. Jason hadn’t told anyone until just this moment. He hadn’t meant to say it, ever, but his anger just boiled over.

Jason didn’t know how to respond. He was awash in fury.

“Now you’ve done it, Mister Ross. Arrest this man!” The Head of County Services stood to his feet, his chair tipping over backwards. He jammed his hand into his front trouser pocket and withdrew a revolver.

Then, everything happened very quickly.

Jason Ross, whose Glock was already drawn beneath the table, fired six rounds into the groin of the Head of County Services and fired an errant round into the thigh of the county director sitting to his side. Both men fell sideways to the pavement as Ross flipped the plastic table on its side and knelt behind it, hoping for whatever cover the plastic might provide.

Chad Wade, his rifle up and at the ready before any of the cops had even clicked off their safeties, drilled two of the cops twice apiece in the chest and lunged sideways to avoid the barrel of the third cop, now tracking him.

Bradley, the other SOF veteran, shot the third cop in the chest, dropped to one knee and shot the county man holding the revolver once more in the chest. The other Homestead security men watched with their jaws hanging open, not prepared for the speed of the violence they’d just witnessed.

The County Ombudsman—the last county man standing—stutter-stepped in a circle, like a dancer doing a drowsy pirouette. Then he stumbled away from the carnage and ran across the parking lot, lurching sideways every few steps to see if he was being pursued.

“You can’t let him go.” Jason shouted at Chad, who was already staring down the sights of his rifle at the fleeing man.

“I know.” Chad yelled back and pressed the trigger. His rifle barked and the County Ombudsman dropped to the pavement.

Chad held the rifle on the downed man, prepared to make follow-on shots. Then he safetied his rifle and let it hang on its sling, still glaring at the last man he’d killed. He closed his eyes and hung his head.

Then, he opened his eyes, walked over to Jason Ross, and punched him hard in the mouth.

“What the FUCK is wrong with you?” Chad screamed. Jason tipped woozily, then his two hundred and fifteen pounds hit the asphalt with an audible whap. He rolled onto his side and massaged his mouth, staying put while Chad spent his rage. “Nobody needed to die here, you fucking asshole! This was about money. Nobody needed to die! What the fuck? Why did you tell them that you offed that Masterson prick? Those were cops I shot! Cops!”

Chad kept yelling as he walked toward his motorcycle, “What the fuck is wrong with you? That is the last time! I’m done. I’m gone.” Chad cranked the engine and drowned out anything Jason might say in response. He mashed the throttle and roared down the road while Jason picked himself up off the parking lot.

The County Director moaned. Jason Ross lifted his Glock, checked the chamber, walked over to the county man and shot him in the chest. The moans ceased.

Jason turned to his three remaining men. “We need to collect the bodies and bury them back at the Homestead. It’s important nobody find out what happened here or there might be reprisals against our families. We have to make this look like it never happened.”

Jason holstered his handgun and climbed into one of the OHVs, drove it across the parking lot and dragged the body of the dead ombudsman over to his tailgate.

Ross Homestead

Baskin Ridge

Oakwood, Utah

Jenna Ross’ gloves had soaked through and her hands were so cold they were giving her a headache. She and a group of women and children had climbed the mountainside above the Homestead and now they sorted through snow below the scraggly oaks, looking for acorns.

It was backbreaking work. She knew there must be better ways to do it, but nothing in her life experience prepared her for sifting through dead leaves, dirt and slush. There must’ve been a better way to do it, but she didn’t know where to start—other than to pick through the frozen duff by hand. It was as if she’d been dropped onto Mars and asked to mine sand for Lucky Charms cereal. Where would she even begin? She certainly wasn’t going to ask Jason.

Jason seethed with anger lately—and she wouldn’t tolerate being treated the way he treated her. An accounting would be made, eventually, for how he’d spoken to her. At the same time, he hadn’t been entirely wrong. Nothing had prepared her to be a member of a survival community, and the middle of a famine was a terrible time to learn. Whether he was right or wrong, she wouldn’t just roll over and concede to him being the monster in their home.

She hadn’t pushed back on him at all, and he had to know it wasn’t like her to take an abusive tirade lying down. What he didn’t know was