He was shocked at the devastation. It seemed as if everything that could be broken was broken, and everything loose was on the floor. Dishes, books, lamps, pieces of computer equipment, food. Even the stovepipe had been knocked loose, and greasy black soot had fallen all over the mess. A few papers rustled forlornly in the breeze from the open door. But he gave the scene in the front room only a glance. Sick with apprehension, he stepped quickly over the piles of debris and through the open side door into the spare room. The storage boxes there were dumped and things were thrown around, but the floor seemed unbroken. With a huge sigh of relief, he pushed aside an overturned box and flipped an almost invisible catch that released an almost invisible hatch cover in the floor… Thank God they hadn’t found the guns!
Later, after he’d tacked up plastic sheeting over the broken door and windows, unearthed his futon from the mess to sleep on, and found enough food still intact for a cold supper, Santee was still shaking, but hot rage had turned into simmering anger. If I knew who did this I’d kill ’em—with my bare hands! Stealing his stuff would have been bad enough; trashing it was pure malice. But if the culprits had been a party of Germans, as seemed likely from their tracks, killing them bare-handed was a tall order for a little guy in his fifties with shrapnel in his hip. If they decided to come back, he’d have a tough time with them even if he was well armed, even if they didn’t bring any friends along. And he’d have to stay up nights pulling his own sentry duty. And eat what? Most of his food stores had been trashed. They hadn’t found his Jeep, but there were no roads he could take now to replenish any supplies…
Suddenly he realized just how alone he really was. He shook his head, almost in despair. He’d been wondering if he really needed to get involved with the people in Grantville. Obviously the choice had been made for him. Goddamn it.
* * *
Santee found Frank Jackson again the next day, in the office that had been created for him in one of downtown Grantville’s vacant buildings. “I told you I’d bring you a list of the guns I could spare for the army,” Santee said, “but I’ve got a problem. Two problems.”
“Shoot,” Frank said.
Santee told him what had happened to his cabin.
“Oh, God,” Frank said. “I was afraid that kind of thing might start happening. Single isolated cabins are just too tempting a target. Can we send a squad out to help you chase them down? We can spare…”
“No need,” Santee interrupted, rather bitterly. “Much as I hate to have the decision made for me, I’ve decided I can’t live out there any more. Not just dangerous; no way to get supplied. Got to move.”
Frank looked sympathetic. “Shit. I’m sorry. Do you want me to see about finding you a place to stay here in town?” Santee nodded. “And will you have a lot of stuff to move?”
Santee fidgeted. “Well, that’s the other problem. The personal stuff that I can salvage probably won’t amount to much—two or three backpack loads ought to do it. But then there’s the guns…” He fished out a rather crumpled handwritten list and handed it to Frank.
Frank quickly scanned the list. “Pretty impressive looking. I don’t know half these names, though.” He looked up at Santee. “You mean you’re donating these to the army?”
“What the hell else am I going to do with ’em? Can’t sell ’em, can’t shoot ’em all myself, sure as hell can’t eat ’em. Maybe your guys will go out and kill the bastards who trashed my cabin with ’em.”
“This is quite a list. They’re going to be a big help…” He stopped, seeing Santee’s sardonic expression. “But first we’ve got to get them here, right?”
“Yep.”
“How long do you think we have before the Germans find them first?”
“Oh, they’re pretty well hidden. If the bastards didn’t find them when they tromped all through the cabin, I doubt if they’re going to find them now. Unless we advertise they’re there by making constant little trips carrying two guns at a time.”