My Heart’s Home by Kris Michaels

Chapter 4

Cam stood behind the burnt-out trailer and eyed the three packs lined along the side of the trailer. "I've built them identical. You have a compartment inside the bag, here…" Captain Terrell picked one up and shoved items to the side, pulling a small black tag at the bottom. The compartment opened. "Room for a small weapon, your badge, and money. If someone steals this from you, it’s rigged with a microchip. We can hunt it down before it gets too far. This piece of metal on the front and back form the lower back reinforcement, so unless a person is looking for this compartment, they won't find it." Terrell looked them up and down. He nodded at Cam. “Grab a garbage bag, too. It holds an old tent, but they are sturdy and waterproofed. I have no idea what sizes. They came from the Army-Navy resale store in New York. You'll be at the Cottages. You can walk from here. The others will need a ride. Follow Fifth until it crosses Hamilton. Take a right and keep on walking past the onramp. You'll see it."

Cam nodded. "I've got a few extra clothes in my car, and is it okay to leave it parked here?"

"Yes. I know the owner of the building site. They'll keep an eye on your vehicles. If you need a meet with me, it will be here, after dark. You all have cells. You can hide them in the compartment, and for God's sake, turn them off."

The men snickered as they shouldered the packs. Ryker added as he turned away, "I'll be available day or night. You know what needs to happen. Find this guy so we can put that asshole Faber in jail and maybe give the people he stole from some closure."

Cam shouldered the pack and grabbed the first garbage bag before he headed to his new SUV. Well, used, but new to him. He opened the back window and shoved clothes into the pack along with his toothbrush and toothpaste and a comb. He tossed in a couple of bars of soap. He had no idea how to be homeless, which was probably true of most people. He closed and locked his SUV, popped his cell phone out of his pocket, and turned it off. He put its charger and the keys in his hand into the hidden compartment before he unstrapped his weapon from his ankle. He ensured it was on safe and wrapped the elastic band around the holster, shoving the gun between the two pieces of metal. After he zipped it up, he pressed his clothes down a bit and secured his pack. Then, with a resolved huff of determination, he slid his arms through his backpack straps and picked up his garbage bag. The clanking of the items inside fell into a rhythm echoing his strides.

His first glance at the Cardboard Cottages was one he'd never forget. Nestled under a gigantic cloverleaf overpass, the shantytown sprawled down the concrete embankment. He approached it and sat down about four hundred meters from the camp. He tried to make some order of what he was seeing. There were burn barrels scattered throughout the encampment which, given the shelters' material, was dangerous as fuck. People moved around, and small groups gathered and then dispersed. He snapped his eyes to the left. At the edge of the settlement was a group of children playing kick the can. Sweet Jesus, there had to be twenty kids ranging from toddler to teenager. A man walked over and said something to them. They immediately stopped the game and headed to the shelters.

Cam rubbed his chin. Were they afraid of the man? Was he a protector? What caused the game to end so suddenly? His eyes shifted, pinning a movement to his left. A black and white pulled up to the tiny community. Two uniformed officers got out and walked around the area. He couldn't see much from this distance, but it looked like they were searching for someone, tumbling people out of their shelters. They left ten minutes later, and the unsettledness dissipated. The people crawled back into their shelters or wandered off, no longer watching the spectacle the cops’ arrival had made.

That's when he noticed the man that warned the children earlier stood in front of the encampment and stared at him. When the man started walking toward him, Cam lifted and loaded his backpack onto his shoulder, hefted his garbage bag, and met the man halfway.

"New?" The man crossed his arms over his chest. His camo jacket was filthy and had a few holes in it, but the man appeared clean; not freshly washed, but not a junkie. There were no telltale signs of drugs lingering around the man.

Cam nodded. "Yeah." He sighed and looked back at the Cardboard Cottages. "Man, I'm going to get myself together. I just need to catch a break."

"Do you do drugs?" The man's question snapped Cam’s eyes back to him.

"Fuck no. I'm down on my luck, not stupid. If I had that type of money…" Cam let the sentence go.

The man cocked his head. "Military?"

Cam nodded. "Used to be. Air Force"

"Oh, damn, the corporate service, huh? I'm Army, or I was until a roadside bomb took out my hearing. I read lips mostly now, but I can hear more than people think. My name's Bull." The man extended a mutilated hand, missing two fingers and burn scars covering the exposed skin.

"Cam. Where do I…?" Cam made sure to look at Bull when he spoke and shook his head, looking at the jumble of structures. "I don't want trouble for pitching my tent in the wrong place."

Bull turned and pointed. "Avoid the eastside. That's where the hardcore addicts are. Needles and shit over there, so don't go on a sightseeing tour if you know what I mean. A lot of mental health issues, too. Rough crowd. They'll roll you in a heartbeat. Those boots you have on your feet would buy them a couple of days’ worth of highs."

Cam looked down at his hiking boots. They were sturdy and well-used, his worst pair, but watertight and warm. That's why he'd picked them. "Noted." He'd keep his eyes peeled.

"Over to the west is better. We work to keep it as clean as possible."

"We?" Cam eyed the camp and recognized the divide now. It wasn't obvious, but after Bull pointed it out, he could see the difference between the tents and the huts. The burn barrels on the west side were placed in the center of a group of shelters whereas the barrels on the east were haphazardly placed.

Bull jabbed his thumb in the direction he'd come. "Vets roll through here until they can get hooked up with the VA or other programs; at least, those who aren't addicted or those with major mental issues usually do. Lately, it's been me and Enzo and Punt keeping things square. They don't do drugs or drink. Punt has issues, but he's the kind of crazy that keeps the assholes over there from looting what little we have. Of course, we take an interest in keeping them from the kids and the women. There are families, and those with men help out, too."

"Sounds like it could work." Cam adjusted his pack on his back.

"It does for the most part. We can't be everywhere, so we focus on the kids. Keep them safe. It’s our mission." The man nodded to himself.

"The kids go to school?"

"Some of them do. You'll see more on weekends. Others are too young or dragged around with whatever adult is shuffling around the city. Some don't because they need to stay under the radar. School kids get breakfast and lunch. They're lucky."

"Any place near the vets I can pitch a tent?" Cam lifted his garbage bag.

"Damn straight, but fair warning, you get high or get drunk, and we're going to do worse than those waste of sperm over there." Bull's injured hand pointed to the east.

He trudged alongside Bull, heading toward the small area where the kids were once again playing. Due to Bull's injuries, he didn't try to hold a conversation with the man. Instead, his eyes consumed the sight before him.

Three hours and one hell of a lot of sweat later, he'd constructed a passing resemblance of a tent. Bull laughed at him several times and jabbed at him about being Air Force, used to hotels and room service, not pitching a tent. Which was true, so Cam took the ribbing good-naturedly.

"Big tent." Bull squatted down at the entrance.

Cam made eye contact with him. "Two rooms. It was all they had at Goodwill." A flap separated the tent into two compartments. The thing smelled like must and mildew, but it would keep the cold wind off him and hopefully the snow and rain mixture that was supposed to be on its way to the northeast.

"Smaller is better. Takes less to keep warm." Bull nodded to the burn barrel. "Coldest nights we gather shit to burn in that. Some won't make it through the winter. Those without enough to eat usually get sick first."

Cam's eyes swung around to the small patch of dirt where the children were. Bull's lips pulled tight. "There's some that come by and help. Others come by and leave blankets and such. We know where food is given or thrown out, and we bring what we can back to them." Bull's eyes flicked to the children, too.

Cam watched the kids for a moment and then scanned the small village he'd entered. No running water, no bathrooms, and little help. When he was in the Air Force, he'd donated time to the food pantries in the local community, given toys at Christmas time using tags from the Angel Tree in the BX foyer, and he'd designated his charitable contributions to the Air Force Assistance Fund to programs for the homeless. Still, in his wildest dreams, he never would imagine this.

"Survival." The word came out of his mouth unbidden.

"At its most basic, my man." Bull nodded. "Water, food, shelter. You got the shelter. Keep anything important on you. Don't leave it here. We keep an eye out, but don't leave it if you don't want to lose it. Never flash money or food. Get a big-ass water jug, milk jugs. You can find them behind some businesses. And keep it full. Several gas stations let us fill up with their outside spigots. The one over on Seventh lets the women and kids clean up on Sundays. The owner hands out fruit sometimes. He's cool, but he won't tolerate anyone begging or bothering his customers."

"Why aren't they in shelters?" He dipped his head in the children's direction while facing Bull so the man could read his lips.

The man shrugged. "Full or other reasons of their own. I got to jet—last word of advice. Don't turn your back on people you don't know. Those boots look warm, and so does your coat. People get killed for less."

Cam stood up and extended his hand. "I want to help with them." He'd keep an eye out for Mitchell, too, but if the man was living with the homeless, he knew not to be on the east side of this camp. Keeping an eye on the women and children would give him an excuse to examine everyone.

Bull narrowed his eyes. "Worry about yourself right now. This life ain't corporate easy, Mr. Air Force."

Cam chuckled. "I'm tougher than the average Fly Boy."

Bull snorted. "God, I hope so."