Snareville II: Circles by David Youngquist

blackbird sung his distinct melody from a perch above his territory. In the far distance, he heard a dog bark. Just once. No moans. Jessica signaled for several of the other Cock Blockers to come and help. In a half-crouch they walked to the bridge. They swept the area over the top of rifle barrels.
    The pile wasn’t as bad as Henry had thought. Some branches tangled around the structure and one big log. They checked around the bridge. In the weeds to the north side, they found the remains of two people. Nothing to identify them. Both skulls were crushed, as were several of the bigger bones. A butterfly flitted in, landed on one of the skulls and rested its wings. It perched on the bleached white nose, a splash of black and yellow, then flitted away.
    “Okay, we need to move this along,” Henry said. “Someone got caught out in the open, I don’t want to join the group.”
    “What if they come back?” a teenage girl asked.
    Henry poked the pile of bleached bones with the toe of his boot. “These are really old. Probably from year one. I don’t think whatever did this is around, but we still need to move. Let’s get this bridge cleared.”
    The group climbed to the deck. It was a small bridge. The creek didn’t carry much water, but it became a torrent with a lot of rain. Henry slung his rifle across his back. He still didn’t trust these people. With a lot of muscle and sweat, they worked on the pile. He’d give a lot for a chainsaw and tractor. Heck, he’d even settle for a bucksaw and a team of horses like the Mennonites used back at Snareville.
    Slowly, the pile came apart. Pieces were pitched over the rail into the ditch or field. Henry noticed as they worked that more people came off the bus to help. Soon, the whole group was involved. He and Jessica were directing where to pile the brush, which branches to pull at a given time and which ones didn’t need to be bothered with. He checked his watch. An hour and a half had passed. The deck was passable. They glanced around the group, sweaty faces broke into grins as they piled back into the bus. Dale fired the vehicle up and they moved on.
    Five miles down the road, they came to a roadblock. It was an intersection between two state highways. The bus traveled Route 17, which here at German Corners intersected Route 82. Tall chain link fences had been built around the small complex of a half-dozen buildings, which included two houses. Gates were built into the fence on all four sides. They were all manned by armed guards. Dale rolled to a stop.
    One of the guards stepped from behind the fence and approached the bus. His partner and the other six covered his approach. With his free hand, he banged on the bus door. “Papers,” he shouted.
    “We don’t have any papers,” Jessica whispered.
    “Open the door. I’ll talk with them,” Henry said.
    The man banged the door again, this time Dale swung it open. With open hands, Henry stepped from the bus. “I’m the only one has papers, Boss.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, took a small card from inside and handed it to the man.
    The man looked at the card. “You’re a Raider?”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    “Long ways from home. Who’re these people?” He pointed to the bus with the muzzle of his rifle.
    “We’re out on a mission from Snareville, headed to Galesburg. We came across this group of survivors in Galva. Call themselves the Cock Blockers. We’re relocating them to Geneseo.”
    “Cock Blockers? We’ve heard rumors about them. Guess it’s true. They do exist.”
    They spoke a few more minutes before the gate opened. Dale pulled into the compound. Ted, the guard Henry spoke with, invited them in for a meal.
    “It won’t be much. Chicken and dumplings and sandwiches, but you’re welcome all the same. We don’t find many survivors anymore.”
    “Thank you,” Jessica said. “That’s gracious of you.” Tears began to roll from her eyes. “We never realized there were other people out