The Winter War

Chapter 2

Hardesty, Oklahoma

 

            As usual in times of crisis there will always be those who try to take advantage of the weak. Before it was whoever was strongest or well fed but these days it was who had guns and was deranged enough to use them on anything other than the invaders. However, in Hardesty that was not the case.

            Ann sat on the back of the O’Donnell’s pick-up truck and watched a group of twenty or so raiders be marched in a single file line to the court house by a band of the militia that popped up shortly after things went south. Most had a red mark spray painted on their foreheads which meant they would be executed before nightfall while the rest only had a blue mark denoting them for slave labor until their sentence is complete.

            “That’s what happens when you try to raid a town that has the most experienced veterans in all of Oklahoma,” Gregory said next to her. He pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders in an effort to fight the chill that was settling too early in the year.

            Ann couldn’t take her eyes off of the prisoners though; one was just a kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with the red on his head. He looked terrified. But then she stopped herself from feeling sorry for him as she had no way to know how many girls he raped or how many people he killed.

            Thankfully, she was distracted by a man who was at least still forty pounds overweight wearing overalls and sported a long, thick beard that was beginning to grey.

            “Eggs?” He asked, pointing to the multiple baskets of eggs they had in the truck with them with one hand while scratching his beard with the other.

            “Two pounds of meat per dozen,” She answered. “They’re from the O’Donnell’s farm.”

            He reached down into a canvas sack and pulled out a bundle of meat wrapped in reused butcher’s paper. “Salt pork alright?”

            “That’s fine,” Gregory replied as he counted out twelve eggs and placed them in a carton before handing them to the man.

            The man nodded his thanks before wandering off to the next stall  while Ann mimicked Gregory and pulled her own blanket tighter as well. “If this keeps up,” She said. “We’ll lose the crops.”

            “Maybe. But then again it’s close enough to harvest time that we might be able to fudge it a little,” Gregory replied.

            Now it was her turn to say, “Maybe.”

            The sights and sounds and smells of the farmers market held in the center of town every Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday filled the air. Across from them a pair of women weaved blankets from wool traded from the sheep farmer a few stalls down. The people next to them were taking advantage of the fact that people need to eat and were selling hot soup and sandwiches, while on the opposite side a farmer and his two eldest sons sold bags of potatoes. If you could grow it or make it, it was here. There was firewood already chopped for a fee, milk, butter, cheese, meat, produce, manufactured goods like the blankets, and even handmade furniture. The currency was “Whatever is useful” and was asked about prior to purchase. Sure people tried to haggle and occasionally they succeeded but no one tried very hard; it was too easy to go and trade what you have for something the people you’re buying from wants.