Re-Establishment

Brownsburg was nothing more than a tiny dot on the map, 75 miles north of any inhabited city. The last census before the war listed a population of 3,000 for the town, hardly enough to warrant much interest. Still, in accordance with the government’s “3 S Plan,” it had to be Scouted, Surveyed, and Secured.

The President had proposed that all cities, towns, and settlements would be reconnected within six years of the end of the war. Carrying out the “3 S Plan” was the job of the newly created Department of Re-Establishment. Not only did the department generate thousands of new jobs, but it gave people hope in an otherwise bleak world. The Department employed hundreds of scouts, whose job it was to make contact with a town, and report its status. Riding into town on sleek black motorcycles, these scouts were viewed as saviors to many townspeople.

I had been a scout for the Department for a little over a year. Before the war I had been in college, enjoying my freedom and working towards a degree in education. The bombs had changed all of that.

I sat on my motorcycle, a highly modified streetbike, and looked out over the miles of highway stretching before me. Seven years ago, it would have been packed with vehicles. Now there was just me. The landscape was the same as it had been; trees clustered together in groups, flat farmland stretching out on either side of the road. But there was an overpowering sense of quiet. A rest area, white limestone shining in the afternoon sunlight, sat empty. I thought about riding over to see if the vending machines had anything worth while, but I could see the broken glass twinkling on the ground in front of them. Would have been nice to grab a bag of Doritos.

With a sigh, I put my visor down and fired up my bike. It made a high-pitch winding noise as the hydrogen converter kicked on. A small mixture of oil and gas were needed as a catalyst for the hydrogen, but just one ounce of the priceless fuel could power a hydrogen motorcycle for five hundred miles. I carried a canister of the mix in a secure pouch tucked inside my backpack.

I glanced at the watch sewn to wrist of my riding leathers: Eleven fifteen. I could be in Brownsburg by noon if I pushed it. And, if all went well, I could be back home before nightfall. Small towns were usually easier to scout, the inhabitants much more inviting of representatives from the government.

The town came into view as I crested a small hill. A sign off to the side of the road, once welcoming visitors, had faded and peeled. Beyond lay the main stretch of Brownsburg. The town was bisected by the road, buildings and houses on either side. A large open parking lot sprawled out to the west, obviously a former shopping center. In the middle of town stood an old brick building with white pillars, likely the town hall. Nothing moved down there, no animals, no people. I began to wonder if Brownsburg was just another ghost town, I had come across quite a few. Still, I was required to search the town and make note of anything important. I shifted my bike into gear and headed down the road.

As I got in to town, I began to notice that the buildings and houses still had their windows intact, their doors still on the hinges. In other ghost towns, houses stood wide open, store windows smashed. But not here. It looked like the town was untouched by looters or squatters.

I rode down the main street slowly, two and three-story buildings flanking me on either side. Still nothing moved. I was coming up on the town hall when I noticed something round in the middle of the road. Slowing my bike, I pulled up to the object. It was a football. Curious, I stopped beside it. The white stripes were pretty scratched and the laces looked worn from use. A strange thing to be lying in the middle of a deserted town, I thought. I leaned over to pick the ball up, figuring I’d take it home.

A loud crack split the air of the quiet town. Beside me a cloud of dirt and concrete kicked up from the road. Suddenly I realized what had happened. My heart leapt into my throat. I quickly realized how exposed I was there in the middle of the road.

I sat back up on my bike, twisted the throttle and spun around. The front end came off the ground as the bike accelerated. I crouched as low as I could on the fuel tank, hoping to make a smaller target. Buildings blurred by me, the air rushing over my windshield and across my body. My teeth were clenched, every muscle in my body tensed.

It wasn’t until I sped past the peeled welcoming sign that I eased off the throttle. At the top of the hill I wheeled my bike around and faced Brownsburg. As I watched, people began entering the street from the buildings. They formed up in lines several men deep that stretched from one side of the street to the other. Some carried guns, others carried bats or clubs.

One man stepped forward from the crowd, a large hunting rifle held at his side. From this distance it was difficult to make out much of his features, but he appeared to be a large man, a red flannel jacket stretched tightly over his frame. For several moments I sat there, staring down the road at the man. I could feel the eyes of everyone in that crowd on me.

A sudden cheer erupted from the town, carrying up the road. The men raised their weapons, shouting in a wild display of intimidation.

I thought about the report I would give when I returned. My department would contact one of their military contractors who would quickly move in on the town. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it had to be done for the security of the country. With a grin, invisible to the people down below, I yanked back on the throttle. The engine responded with a loud growl, the rpms redlining. I hoped the sound would carry down the road.

It did.

As I watched, the man in front raised his rifle in a slow, deliberate, motion. I knew I was well out of range and sat tall on my bike. He’s just trying to scare me, I thought.

A bright flash leapt from the barrel of the gun. Beside me, one of the supports for the welcoming sign exploded in a shower of splintered wood. The sign itself shook from the impact, wavering back and forth, before the second support gave way. With a dull thump, the sign fell in a cloud of dust. The cheering in the town ceased, replaced with a silence more menacing than any shouts.

I’d had enough. I kicked my bike into gear and spun it around. My back tire left a long black streak on the pavement as I peeled out. The road sped by under me quickly at 180mph. As the wind whipped by, I thought about how long it would take for the military contractors to clear the town. Probably be over in a couple of hours, then Brownsburg really would become a ghost town.

I looked down at my watch. Not bad, I’d be home before two.

*Author’s note: With this story, I wanted to write something short (for me) but with a point. I didn’t want to fill it with all kinds of feeling, emotion, description, etc. I wanted it to be stripped down, to the point, no frills…much like I’d imagine the world following such an apocalyptic event. Hope it worked. Thanks for reading!