Reaper by Craig Buckhout Page A

going, for him.  He said he’d be willing to make a trade …ammunition for a spot.”
    Max thought about it for a second because you could never have enough ammunition, and asked, “Is this guy a friend of yours?  I mean, how well do you know him?”
    “I wouldn’t say were best buds or anything, but we’ve shared a few beers.  Yeah, why?”
    “I’ll be blunt; you said he’s a vet, okay, I can get behind that, you are too, but just because he’s a vet doesn’t mean he’s not going to be a problem.  I guess what I’m asking is, does he get along with people?  Does he argue about stuff?  Is he going to fit in or is he going to be someone we’re going to have to deal with?  If so, the trade ain’t worth it.”
    “Like I say, he’s a nice guy.”
    “Okay, well, let me put it this way.  If you were me, what’d you do?  You know him, I don’t.  Should I make the trade?  You can always tell him I was the one who said no if you think it’s a bad idea.”
    “I think he’ll fit in fine, and I think he has a point about the way things are going.  We might need the ammo.”
    “Yeah, okay, make the deal but only if he can supply 5.56 or .223, 12 gauge number four buck or bigger, and 9mm.  And I don’t want just a few hundred rounds either.  I want as much as he can bring.  Tell him we’ll tag it as his, store it in the arms room, and return it to him afterwards if it’s not used.  I’ve got mine in there.  Also, all the other rules apply.  He’s got to supply his own personal stuff, help out, and kick down for food.”
    “Thanks.  I’ll call him and let you know if there’s a problem.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Larson.  Frank Larson.”
    As Max drove on toward the substation itself, he wondered if maybe he was thinking about this whole thing all wrong.  All along he’d thought in terms of a few days, a couple of weeks at the most.  But what if it went longer?  What if it went on for a month or two?  Longer than that?  Naw, no way.  I’m being paranoid, he told himself.  But despite his words, he had doubts.  He sensed a momentum here, a downward spiral.  The bottom wasn’t in sight yet.
    Another thought; I have something people want — a sense of safety.  Fear’s a big motivator, safety a basic human need.  And I’ve already traded safety for goods and services three times now — Will Mason in exchange for building maintenance.  Myra in exchange for medical services, well, maybe a few other services as well.  Jeeze, why did I think that?  It’s not that way.  Well, maybe a little.  And now this guy Frank Larson, in exchange for bullets.  What if I use fear to get other things we need — weapons, additional medical, cooking, electronics expertise, ah, what else …I don’t know yet.
    Safety, that’s the thing.  I need to beef it up.  Put on a show of it.  People need to see that there are others who stand between them and the boogeyman at the gate.
    He stopped the truck, turned to Myra, and took her hand.  “What are your feelings on all this?”
    “What do you mean?” she asked in return.
    “I guess I’m asking, you know, not about your thoughts, but about your feelings.”  He turned his free hand palm up, “…ah, I don’t know how else …your feelings.  You’re gut.”
    “I don’t know,” …she dropped her head and raised it back up. “I mean I guess I’m scared.  Feelings.  …My job …traffic accidents, heart attacks, the homeless guy who, you know, turns his liver to mush, a stabbing or shooting here and there, I can cope with that.  But all this, …a couple of guys walking into a mall and blowing themselves up, you getting, well, you know, the convention center and all the people killed and contaminated, everyone so angry about everything, cops pointing guns at other cops, people getting shot while just having a cup of coffee, Raha, her husband.  It’s like, I don’t know, it’s like everyone has gone completely off