Quite the dream.

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Post some sort of war or event.  No longer was it even discussed.  Past the first and worst of the events to follow.  It wasn't all over, nor would it probably ever be over.  I had become a part of a small group of men, a soldiery of sort, though quite independent and highly mobile.  We weren't uniformed.  We had a mission, no real handlers or orders.  We traveled, looking for problems to solve.  Sometimes we were together, sometimes, in order to blanket more widely we would separate.

In this case I was on my own.  Somewhere in the SouthWest I entered a medium sized city.  A bit spooky, as if there are trouble spots it is often from areas like this on to the massive metros, which we only enter as a group... if we enter them.  and when we enter, it was often to eliminate a major threat to the area.  My instincts and a few other measures and sources all indicated that this city was worth a risk.

The city had shrunk a good deal, leaving the outskirts empty.  The interior wasn't full of life, not human life, though people could be spotted doing simple labor.  None approached so I didn't approach.  I was about to go back the way I came.  My task was not to interfere or cause threat.  Then I saw a large park that seemed to be a gathering place.  That seemed a place to investigate.

As I entered the park, I noticed blacks.  Though not just those.  There was a mix of races.  If races were completely separate, that was a sign to get out... if you weren't of that race.  I didn't often see the races mix.  Perhaps very small portions of one or several races might be together.  This was a bit unusual.  The blacks I saw immediately were not hostile, nor the Mexicans next.  Friendly, in a general way.  Looking white, that is what one is in this new world.

Then I met a man I was almost sure I knew.  He had the features of a grown up, if Mexican, Charley Brown.  I approached.  He seemed to be someone with whom the others deferred.  Not as a slave master or war lord, but as a wise man or such.  Double the reason to approach.  At first he did not recognize me, so I couldn't be sure.  Then, after dropping the name of a certain city and roughly the year, his face brightened up.  Doom?!?  He had been my teacher in, I think, sixth grade.  I couldn't remember his name, but I was right about his face.  Far too many teachers.  Oh, and he had a beautiful daughter in my class-age.  Now, he had always said he was Spaniard.  Let me tell you now, he wasn't.  I'd bring that up with him later, for a chuckle, not a stab.  Back in the day, I was considered the Mexican, he the Spaniard, obviously all... politics of a bygone time.

Things went well here, and I saw that the risk was worth the cost on nerves.  I ended up creating a place to pull back, for myself and my cohorts, should all else fail.  As well, I learned of their problems.  Even at their size, raiding parties were a constant threat.  Sometimes my crew could remove a thorn, sometimes the best we could do is create a secondary reactionary force, work with that for a while to dampen the impact and reduce the assaulting force through attrition favorable to the locals.  A good deal of recon, probably the whole group, and definitely some training of the locals, had to occur first.  I wasn't sure which this would be.  Depended on the numbers of attackers, how solid their resources and reserves were, and such.

I let them know what I, or we, could do.  I explained that the price was putting us up, following training, and see us refit when we were ready to go.  Though we would leave comms instructions should a major event become imminent.  Or I could leave, never calling my crew, and we leave them to status quo.  It really depended on what they wanted.  There would be losses either way.  More over time, one way... less, but more immediate, should they decide to train to resist.  Every town or settlement had to decide.  Some exist no more, after years of mild or no resistance, or leaving only the very old and sick to live out the hard part of the last of their lives alone.  Though, too, sometimes if resistance was to a small band with a larger affiliate, the larger group would come in and do the same thing.  Usually, though, little resistance groups disappeared into the criminal bands and resistant groups survived, even started to thrive as the population enlarged.

This group, as it turns out, wanted to be trained.  I let them know, from the outstart, that we could not turn chickens into war dogs... no offense but it just isn't doable and probably wouldn't be wise anyway.  We could turn fowl into smart fowl, teach them what to do, where to go, how to resist and where and when.  Much of what we planned to teach a group, unless it's natural talents or resources for defense and some offense lied elsewhere, was a covered retreat, cacheing, and some other techniques.  Lives were the, immediate term, most valuable asset.  And there were lives that were more valuable, if none were to be surrendered lightly.  A short term food and water supply was next, then a long term supply of essentials were next.  Though seed and water topped any list save life.   Of course, some life may have to be lost in the process.

I sent a summons to my group, then while waiting, I began assessing the arms and abilities of the group.  Some, many actually, were fairly good with their firearms.  Few marksmen, though the potential was there.  All that was really needed was enough ammunition, and the right calibers, plus time and teaching.  The basic skills were there.  Some had learned to scout, just as a means of survival.  Those scouts could be taught enhanced skills, how to work as a group, and with a sniper corps there would be added protection, and a falling back line of it, for those men.  There really is nothing half so beautiful, after stirring a hornets nest of hateful hounds of hell, to have a couple lead dogs go down and so that the rest of the pack decides a siesta might be a better thing.  These men, and some women, were willing and already able.  It was just a matter of aligning, organizing, informing a bit more surely, and helping them just as long as needed to give them the upper hand and a psychological advantage.  Once the enemy has the fear of God instilled, one lost bandit at a time... without any real gain on their side or loss on the other side, the battle takes a new face.  For my part, I then have a place, another place, to call home.  Especially if, for the most part, I make my visits cheap.

And so it went.  They were trained.  They were shown how to resist unless the band was far to large.  At that point, a tactical retreat was put in play.  Food and the vulnerable out first, sniper "towers" covering a rolling ground retreat, with much of the food and necessary items cached away from the area, or hidden too well to be found, with scouts usually in place to know who or what was arriving well before a war party arrived.  Beautiful.  Some groups just get it, have a will to live.

Of course, when you teach a man war, sometimes he becomes the one you must concern yourself regarding.  War, often, seems easier than work.  Taking another man's labor, slowly and quickly killing him... or the other geese that lay the golden egg, to some, just means finding another.  Always a worry.  This group was better than could be hoped.  Not only did they not war, they went on to teach other groups what we had taught them, to create pacts of mutual assistance, and to share out members of their teams to create a more unified group of defenders.  A force multiplier that multiplies is a wonder to behold, especially when they do it professionally, civilly, and as free men... and women.

My teacher eventually died, peacefully, in the city.  I continued to travel on through my 80's, maybe early 90's.  I stopped teaching defense, just acting as a traveling judge toward my end, for cases the locals... had difficulty mitigating yet wanted done fairly.  The land had become peaceable, most of the criminal bands killed off or driven off.  It was still, and would remain, somewhat rough.  Life being hard, tech being simple and a product of hard labor.  Finally, toward my last years, it was a land worth living in, again, though.  Heck, I traveled in horse-drawn buggy!  People were learning to farm, bank, blacksmith, animal husbandry the old way, trade, and such, all over again.

So few remained, really.  Thankfully, in most areas, there were no lasting scars or poisons on the land.  A few, but they were being poisoned long before the war.  And some areas were naturally poisonous, tech had kept that in place.  Even with few, just with some things so well advanced, and remnants such as calculus books, and tables for civil and mechanical engineering, among other things, life was beginning to make sense again.
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