I was dreaming of cute, screaming girls and waste facility plants when the jets woke me. Dave was already outside by the time I shambled out of the lean-to.
He told me that they were F-17’s, and something about a sortie. I had no idea what he meant, but the answer became clear enough when the ground began to shake, and rippling, bassy booms of explosives ripped through the air.
Dave whooped- actually jumping off the ground. He slapped my back and whooped again. “Rock and roll steals the show! I ever tell you I was on the ground during the Rolling Thunder? That was a damn righteous act, don’t care what anyone says. God Bless the Air Force!”
After the explosions (and Daisy) died down, I got the old man to explain his enthusiasm to me. He impatiently explained that, since the blockade was to the north of us, and that’s where the jets had gone, the picket line must be advancing to retake the city. “Don’t you watch History Channel, Mikey? Close air support’s like God himself taking your side. Always want it when you’re taking back an area.”
This lumber yard is right next to the northern picket of the quarantine. We only need to sit tight and make sure that the advancing lines don’t mistake us for Dead Ed’s compadres. Should tell Dave about the Mr. Matteson's suicidal goal, but not now. Don't want to kill his buzz.
The new guy isn’t up yet. Hope that fall didn’t scramble his brains permanently. Would hate to tell his girlfriend he made it to the doorstep but tripped on the welcome mat. 'Course, she’s probably more interested in eating his gray matter, scrambled or not.
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