“How’s about one crisis at a time, hey?” said Paul, as they approached Watchtower Two.
Lucy recognized the outpost from her arrival the day before, this time having experienced the town in reverse order. Her own ‘insider’ status here was dubious at best, but she felt a pang of defensiveness when she saw the strangers stood at the threshold to the town; she didn’t want them in. Maybe it had something to do with the orange jumpsuits both of them were wearing, or the fact that each held an assault rifle.
Paul slowed the car to a stop and got out, Lucy following.
“Good afternoon gentlemen, my name’s Paul,” he began, striking a formal tone but stopping short of a handshake.
The two men eyed him up suspiciously. They were big guys, the kind of guys who spent their entire prison sentence working out. And judging by the size of their triceps, they’d been behind bars for a while.
The shorter of the two convicts spoke first. He had a thick handlebar moustache, Caucasian skin, and a shaven head. Tattoos crept above the neckline of his jumpsuit, licking at the base of his skull.
“You in charge round here?” he demanded.
“I am,” replied Paul.
To the side of Paul stood Matty and Rich, each holding a weapon of their own – Matty a revolver, Rich a shotgun. Neither moved, neither blinked, both stared, cold as day. It was clear to Lucy why they’d been selected for watch duty.
“My friend here and me would be most grateful if you could extend us your hospitality and allow us to shelter here with y’all,” continued the tattooed man.
“That can be discussed,” said Paul, “but not at gunpoint. Lower your weapons and we’ll talk about it.”
“Much as I’d like to do that,” replied the mustachioed skinhead, “you can see why, from where I’m standing, that would be a very dumb move on our parts. What’s to say you’re not gonna blow off our heads soon as we do?”
“Rich?” said Paul, as he put a hand to Rich’s shotgun, lowering the barrel away from the tall convict’s chest. “You may enter here, if you abide by our rules. It’s as simple as that,” said Paul, addressing the convicts once again.
“Boss, they’re convicts!” cried Matty, incredulously, his gun still trained on the pair. “They don’t give a shit about rules, they’ve already broken the law!”
“Hey, hey, hey!” protested the smaller man. “Call your boy off!”
“After you’ve lowered your weapons,” Paul replied.
The skinhead considered for a moment, then slowly lowered his gun, raising his spare hand in a peaceful gesture. After a pause, the barrel-chested guy behind him did the same. Both convicts stood, their orange jumpsuits the brightest things on the entire horizon, a rifle hanging by each man’s side, and an arm uplifted in surrender.
“Lower your rifles to the ground, please, so that Matty here can collect them,” instructed Paul.
“How come he ain’t lowered his weapon?” protested the tattooed skinhead.
“If we were gonna shoot you, we’d have done it already,” said Paul. “Relax. We’re gonna take your weapons is all. Then we’ll see about getting you fellas some water. Now put your rifles on the ground, please.”
The two convicts slowly complied.
“Back up. Back up a few paces more!” barked Matty as he edged towards the abandoned guns.
Rich stood stony-faced as his colleague retrieved the weapons, poised to shoot should either of the convicts move too quickly.
“OK, I think we have an understanding. Welcome to Wilson, gentlemen,” declared Paul, without a smile this time.
“I need water,” declared the barrel-chested man, his deep voice complementing the dark cornrows adorning his head. “Sir,” he added, resentfully, after a dig in the ribs from his companion.
“I’m sure you could both use some food and drink; that can be arranged,” replied Paul. “We will need to keep you in cuffs until the council has had a chance to meet and discuss the level of freedom we can grant you, but I see no reason why, if we can gain mutual trust, the two of you cannot become contributors to the safety and survival of this town.”
There was a stunned silence on both sides. The two men stood and gawped at what Paul was saying, the message of being recuffed sticking in their throats. Along from them, Rich’s stony face was now practically cracked in two, his jaw hanging wide open as his leader offered two escaped convicts room, board, and possibly a free rein in their town.
“You see that building up ahead?” said Paul, pointing down the straight road leading into town. “That’s the town hall. I’ll meet you there in about twenty-five minutes – that’s how long it should take you to walk. There, you’ll find food and water.”
“Why can’t we get a ride in your car?” chimed the skinhead, pointing at Lucy.
“Like I said, it’s not a long walk and we’ll see you there, gentlemen,” said Paul, as Matty loaded their confiscated weapons into the trunk.
Paul chucked Matty a pair of heavy-duty cable ties then climbed back behind the wheel.
“Get ’em to put the cuffs on each other,” he said, leaning back out of the window. “Then check they’re tight.”
“You got it,” said Matty.
Lucy clipped in her seat belt as they did a U-turn and headed back towards the center.
“Will they be alright?” she said, nervously, looking back at Rich and Matty with the two convicts in the rear-view mirror.
“Those two can handle themselves, don’t you worry about that. Rich served in Iraq. We have a meeting to organize, though. The council will need to vote on what we do with those two convicts. Which is a pain, because it means I’ve gotta pull a bunch of people off their day stations.”
They collected a couple of the councilors on route and arrived to find the rest waiting at the town hall, where there was a great deal of commotion; word of the new arrivals had spread fast. Paul and the other collected councilors made their way into the private meeting room, with Lucy in tow, leaving behind the inquisitive, gossiping congregation.
The council entered a small side room and took its seats. Two archaic windows at opposing ends of the room were the only sources of illumination. The two shafts of pale light met across the large oval table that dominated the inadequate space.
Paul took his seat at the head of the table and gestured to Lucy to sit immediately by him. It wasn’t until the rest of the council had taken their places that she realized she was literally at his right-hand side.
The man opposite Lucy, on Paul’s left, was evidently the scribe, being the only one bearing pen and paper. Neighboring him was a rotund, stern-looking woman in her fifties, and an ageing, mostly toothless man in dungarees.
To Lucy’s immediate right was a red-haired man, who was followed by another fifty-something white woman and a Latino woman in her forties. Thanks to Lucy’s presence, her side of the table now numbered four instead of three.
The seven councilors ranged in age from their mid-thirties through to their early seventies. There were four men and three women. Plus Lucy.
“Before we begin,” said the rotund woman diagonally opposite Lucy, “I want to know who she is and why she’s allowed in here?”
Her objection earned murmurs of approval from other councilors.
“This is Lucy,” replied Paul. “She is a national scientific expert and was on the West Coast evac train. She’s not here to vote. Once we’ve discussed the prisoners’ fates, she will be briefing us.”
“Briefing us?” spluttered the mostly toothless septuagenarian from behind his dungarees.
“Yes, Jerry,” sighed Paul. “She knows things we don’t. And in order for us to all stay alive and beat those … creatures … we’re gonna need to suck up our pride and actually listen for once.”
Jerry leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, casting Lucy the filthiest of looks. Lucy swallowed, nervously, as more raised eyebrows and suspicious mutterings proliferated around the small room.
“Turning
to the matter at hand,” continued Paul from the head of the table, “I will now restate the situation for the record.”
The slightly plump, goatee-wearing scribe began to scribble as Paul spoke.
“Two escaped convicts arrived at our town this afternoon asking for food, water, and shelter. They were disarmed peacefully, and agreed to wear cable-tie cuffs until they reach the hall, where they will be fed. This extraordinary meeting of the council has been called by Council Leader Paul Tillerman so that a decision may be reached as to the status and future of these two men in Wilson.”
He paused, waiting for the scribe to catch up.
“Can you repeat that last bit?” pleaded the chubby clerk.
Paul groaned, slumping back in his chair. “We need to vote on what to do with the prisoners. Fiona, I imagine you’ve got an opinion on this?” he said, addressing the rotund objector diagonally opposite Lucy.
“You’re damned right I do. They’re not staying here, that’s for sure,” she retorted, glaring around the table, daring someone to challenge her. “They’re a danger to the whole community. We’d have to feed them, obviously, and why the hell should we do that? Heaven knows what they did to escape prison.”
“Or what they did to get there in the first place,” whistled the tooth-deprived Jerry.
“Precisely!” rattled Fiona. “We don’t know who’ve they hurt, or killed even. We can’t let them roam freely around our town, around our children!”
Murmurs of approval and nods passed around the room.
“But where do we send them?” asked the Latino woman at the far end of Lucy’s row.
“Back the way they came, Andrea!” retorted Fiona, defiantly.
“Or we could put them on the road to another town?” suggested the chubby scribe to Paul’s left, peering up from his frantic jotting. “Give them some food and water for the journey. That would get rid of them?”
“This is madness!” interjected the red-haired man on Lucy’s immediate right. “What town? Where are they going to go? You know as well as I do that if you send them away on foot, you might as well go right ahead and sign their death warrants. If the creatures don’t get them, then exposure will, or dehydration.” He thumped the table with his fist. “There’s nowhere left round here, and you know it.”
“I hate to break it to you, Don, but this is what they deserve,” retorted Fiona, vehemently. “They chose to break the law, after all, and now this is part of the punishment.”
“I couldn’t disagree with you more.” Don’s curly red hair flailed as he emphatically shook his head. “This is a chance to reintegrate them; to rehabilitate them. It’s the civilized thing to do.”
“Don has a point,” said the thin-faced white woman next to him, speaking for the first time. “Those men are strong, they could be useful. I mean, we need more hands for hauling timber, right? And we’re already behind on our winter fuel schedule.”
“But how can we trust them?” wheezed Jerry. “Are you really telling me, Monica, that you’d be happy letting two escaped prisoners wander around town? Be around your kids? Sleep in the same room as all of us?”
“Maybe we could arrange some sort of supervision of them?” Monica countered, her shoulders hunching together. Andrea and Don nodded either side of her, muttering their approval.
“In that case you might as well build a new prison for them here,” countered the scribe, nervously twiddling his goatee. “I mean, that’s basically what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
“I’m saying,” replied Monica, her voice laced with exasperation, “I don’t want to just exile these men to the wilderness. They’re human beings! But I get the concerns the others are raising,” she conceded, flopping back into her seat dejectedly.
“Oh shove it, Monica! That is such a load of bull!” said Fiona, losing her cool.
“It is not bu–”
“Just say what you actually mean – those men have no place here!” thundered Fiona.
“Woah, woah, let’s keep it civil, people!” intervened Paul. “We’ve gotta reach a decision. I understand the concerns around the table. I don’t believe we have the resources to monitor the two men if we keep them here. So as I see it, it’s between accepting them as equal citizens and integrating them into our town – treating them as an asset, not a threat, as Monica originally suggested. Or, and I think it would be barbaric of us to go down this route myself, the alternative option, which is to exile them. Time to put it to the vote: exile or integrate. All in favor of exiling the men, raise your hand.”
Fiona and Jerry’s hands went up without hesitation, meekly followed by a reluctant third vote from the goateed scribe.
“And all in favor of integrating the prisoners, raise your hand.”
Paul surveyed the room again. Four hands went up immediately this time, including his own. With their hands held high, Don, Monica, and Andrea glared across the table at their three ideological adversaries. Lucy didn’t move.
“The motion is passed,” said Paul. “The men will be reintegrated with immediate effect, and will no longer be referred to as prisoners,” he said, conclusively.
Two gunshots rang out from within the main hall, followed by screams and stampeding footsteps.
The councilors rushed out of the meeting room and into the near-deserted hall. Lucy stuck close to Paul in the midst of the commotion, while the last of the congregants fled to the street.
At the side of the hall, the two convicts lay crumpled on the floor in front of a bench. Each lay cuffed with a bullet in his head. A shared pool of blood seeped into the stone beneath. Above them stood Matty, trembling.
“Christ, Matty, what have you done?” cried Paul, aghast.
Mingling with the blood were the remains of the prisoners’ meals, which had fallen to the ground.
“They – they were bad men!” said Matty, in a strained, high-pitched voice. He was twitching, imploring, casting his eyes around the horrified faces of the councilors. “Bad men!” he reiterated, weeping now, trembling from head to foot, with the handgun dangling pathetically at his side.
Don, the red-haired councilor, stepped out from the group and made his way over to Matty. Placing a consoling hand on the weeping man’s shoulder, he took the revolver without meeting resistance.
“I’m sorry,” pleaded the distraught Matty, through a mass of tears. “I’m sorry, Don. I didn’t know what else to do. I – I had to protect us,” he choked.
Don led Matty away to the side, where he sat him down in a chair and slid a set of cable ties around the weeping man’s clasped hands. Outside a crowd was gathering, drawn to the commotion. Bystanders’ cries warned people off entering.
The councilors stood, spellbound for a moment, until Paul retook the lead.
“Fiona, organize a clean-up team in here immediately. We need to mop up the blood then bleach the stone. Burn the rags once your team’s done mopping. Don,” he said, turning to the red-haired councilor, “I need you to arrange disposal of the two bodies. We can’t bury them anymore. We need to burn them.”
“I know they were prisoners,” protested Monica, “but that’s unholy, Paul! They’re people; they deserve to be buried.”
“I agree, Monica,” implored the leader, “but in twenty-four hours, their bodies will have degraded into food for the beasts. And what do animals do when they’ve buried food? They come back for it. Maybe days later, maybe months, but they know where to find it. Burning is the only way we can keep ourselves safe.”
“So what, Paul, we gonna dig up all the other bodies we buried in the last three weeks?” cried Fiona, weighing in. “You gonna dig up my momma? You gonna dig up my son?”
Other townspeople were starting to murmur with concern.
“Yes, Fiona, and we’ll have to dig up my wife too,” said Paul, bitterly. “So please don’t give me that. I know exactly what I’m suggesting. We will do what we have to in order to survive. But tonight, our priority is this goddamned mess. Andrea,” he continu
ed, turning to the Latino council woman. “I need you to put together a second clean-up team and follow Don – every drop of blood between here and their cremation needs to be gone, understood?”
Lucy stared at the victims’ bodies; their vivid orange jumpsuits, their useless, bulging muscles.
“Everyone else,” ordered Paul, “get the folk outside back to their work stations. We need to stay on schedule. There will be a lot of rumors spreading, and it is your duty to tell them factually what has happened. I will arrange supervision for Matty. The council will meet again before nightfall and we will discuss his sentence.”
***
The town was split over Matty’s fate. Half regarded him as dangerous, and his actions unforgivable, while others regarded him as a true defender of the town. Paul had been petitioned by people on both sides of the divide throughout the afternoon, and this was continuing as the evening set in. Matty’s supporters were highly vocal in their proclamations that he should be freed immediately. By contrast, the man’s opponents were quieter in their protest, clustering at the sidelines to cast their disapproval. Their cumulative whispers and fearful glances only added to the undercurrent of fear.
The guilty man himself sat in the shadows at the side of the hall, head stooped, mouth hanging open, staring emptily at the floor. Either side of him sat supporters, routinely broadcasting the unequivocal virtue of his actions with an almost jingoistic fervor.
Yesterday the town had seemed like an oasis, a place of sanctuary. But as Lucy looked around the hall now, she saw only a tinderbox on the brink of combustion. One ill-judged comment could spark an outright confrontation that would take every human inside down with it.
As the evening weighed on, Paul eventually announced that the council would be postponing sentencing until the following day.
Lucy watched the hall’s entrance as people continued to trickle in, beckoned by the town’s curfew bell, which two giggling young girls were taking great delight in ringing. Lucy joined the food line, shuffling along until she gratefully received her portion of stew. She sat at the side and watched in amazement as the town peacefully fell into its evening routine, while just a mile away the bodies of two murdered prisoners were still burning.
Convulsive Box Set Page 22
