Black Autumn: A Post Apocalyptic Saga

by Jeff Kirkham

  Tara’s father had spent his adult life as a piano salesman, tinkling the ivory keys for Utah housewives who might like a piano for their home. He had been a concert pianist at one point, then a music teacher, but money had lured him from music to sales. He had provided for his family, as many men had throughout history, by giving up his dreams in exchange for a steady paycheck. His hands, long and lithe, had served him well in his chosen profession.

  The questionable masculinity of a piano salesman, in contrast to his warrior son-in-law, set the stage for conflict. Tara’s father and Jeff had drawn battle lines within a year of the marriage. Conscripts had been recruited from the family. A cold war had settled between them. “Piano player hands” was anything but an innocent comment and the implications of the statement reverberated between Tara and Jeff in the dark of their bed.

  “Why are you mad? I didn’t mean anything by that,” Jeff argued.

  “You meant everything by that,” Tara hissed.

  Jeff couldn’t deny it. He had taken a cheap shot, banked off his son, aimed at his father-in-law—a man who had refused to admit that Jeff was the better man to protect their family. Right now, the old man was hiding in his cabin, maybe dead. The thought made Jeff feel disgusted with himself, but he couldn’t figure out why.

  “And you’re doing it here, Jeff. You’re alienating these people, too.”

  Jeff couldn’t help himself. “I didn’t alienate your father. He’s the one who chose that cabin over his own survival.”

  “Goddamn you, Jeff Kirkham,” Tara swore, keeping her voice low to avoid waking Erik. “You sent my dad away years ago when you made it clear you thought of him as less of a man. You sent him and my mother to that cabin long before the collapse. You make people feel like fools. You’re doing it here, too. A lot of people don’t like you, Jeff. A lot of people feel like you’re running rough-shod over them. A lot of people, especially the women, think you’re taking too much control.”

  “Why do you care? You didn’t want to come here anyway,” Jeff whispered.

  “Don’t you do that. Don’t play CIA mind games with me. We agreed to come here and now you need to make this work.”

  Jeff didn’t think he was playing CIA mind games but apparently Tara did. So he chose his next words carefully. “I don’t know how to make these civilians happy. If I do my job, strangers die. If I don’t do my job, we die.”

  The words hung in the air. Then Tara replied, “That may be so. We may need to fight to survive. But, for a smart guy, you almost always reduce things down to just two options… you do that a lot.”

  Jeff heard her roll over, her signal that the conversation was over.

  Erik stirred in his sleep and Jeff pulled his son closer. Jeff could sense the searing truth of what Tara had said, like a cloud of ozone hanging over their bed. At the same time, he had absolutely no idea what to do with the information.

  11

  [Collapse Plus Ten - Friday, Sept. 29th]

  Shortwave Radio 7150kHz 2:00 am

  “JT TAYLOR, HERE, BRINGING YOU news of a world gone mad. It’s two a.m. in the morning and I have no idea how so many of you are doing this thing sober. What’s wrong with you people?

  “Just heard from Kelley Barracks in Stuttgart, Germany. They’re barricaded in and taking fire from Muslim forces. I still don’t understand where Muslim forces came from. Where’d they get the guns? Inquiring minds want to know.

  In case you were wondering, it looks as though the United States Army has decided to let me keep my Humvee and my trailer. Thank you gents. You only tried to blow me up twice, so I guess we’re friends now.

  I’m hearing from two ham operators out of 19th Group in Salt Lake City, Utah. Get this: the Mormon Church is calling anyone and everyone to come join their army and defend their big-ass temple. Sounds like 19th Group Special Forces―or what’s left of them―might send some boys to whack a bunch of gangbangers…”

  The Avenues

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  Crudo handed Francisco a pair of binoculars. The lenses kept collecting tiny droplets of water from the early morning dew. Francisco used his shirttail to wipe the moisture away. They had slipped into the back of a house on Virginia Street to observe an enemy army. Overnight, the Los Latigos advance in the Avenues met serious resistance, and Francisco had no idea who they were.

  The two gangsters belly-crawled up to the window and peered through the slit between the curtains and the windowsill. Snipers hiding in the houses across Virginia Street had already killed a dozen of his men this morning. Even taking a look posed a risk.

  At a glance, Francisco could see twenty or thirty men, which meant there were probably a hundred fifty men dug in. His men could overrun that many men and absorb acceptable losses.

  The opposing force was spread up and down the entire length of Virginia Street, hiding behind vehicles, tucked behind hedges, and peeking out from windows. They weren’t in uniform, though he could see men in military camouflage, police uniforms and even hunting camo.

  Two things concerned him. For one thing, the opposing force had made a coordinated stand. It wasn’t dumb luck that they held Virginia Street. Somebody in command had made that decision, and the men involved had enough discipline to hold the line. A fighting force taking orders from someone would be ten times as threatening as a gang of men with guns.

  The second thing he noticed sent a chill down his spine. Barely visible down 3rd Avenue was an armored vehicle, one of the kind employed by police. The vehicle itself didn’t concern Francisco so much. He had faced such vehicles before, and they were nothing more than transportation. The men inside eventually had to come out and fight.

  What concerned him flapped in the breeze over the vehicle—a blue, square flag. He took his time inspecting the flag: blue square with a yellow figure in the center, blowing a long trumpet.

  Whenever asked, Francisco would call himself Catholic, though he had never taken much interest in religion. But he lived in Utah long enough to recognize the emblem on the flag. It was the same gold angel blowing a horn that Mormons placed on top of their temples.

  The Mormon Church had fielded its own army, and that army had come together in a matter of two days to block his army. The only force stronger than pride, so far as Francisco knew, was faith. If the Mormon Church requested fighting men from the surrounding neighborhoods, and if the church provided coordination, the thousand men of Los Latigos could be chewed up and spit out by day’s end.

  Men fighting for faith and for the protection of their families would be ferocious opponents. The days of mowing through white people, at least in the Avenues, had come to an end.

  As he thought through the implications, Francisco pictured the map of the Avenues they had laid out on the picnic bench in Rose Park two days ago. To their east, they had come against this line of Mormon fighters and, so far, any attempt to cross Virginia Street had been met with instant death.

  To their north, the mountains rose above them, blocking attack or retreat. One exception might be Tellers Canyon, with its road curving deep into the mountains. That road might become a trail up and over the ridge, but only for men on foot. He didn’t think there was a road going over that ridge.

  To their south, downtown Salt Lake City opened before them with twenty or more wide streets that would be difficult for an enemy to blockade unless they had thousands of men. Even so, the streets of downtown didn’t offer him much in the way of pillage. The downtown area had degraded over the years into a series of old tenements, and the forage opportunities wouldn’t be worth the risk.

  To the west, they faced the Mormon temple, along with the church’s corporate offices and meeting centers. He guessed the Mormons had fortified their temple and only afterward had sent men to stop his eastward advance. Having a strong force to his rear made Francisco uneasy. His mama, as well as the families of his men, had settled in homes that would be the first to fall if the Mormons pushed his west flank from their temple.

/>   Profound disappointment washed over Francisco. All this progress, all this promise, and it would amount to nothing. There was only one reasonable course: retreat. That meant removing his mama and the families they had already given homes. Leaving them in place put everyone at risk. This Mormon army would only grow in strength if he continued this push, and then everything would be lost.

  He had captured an enormous store of food, guns and prescription drugs. They could retreat to the fairgrounds and claim victory. They could feed their people for weeks and attract more fighters with drugs and supplies.

  “We retreat,” Francisco finally said out loud.

  “Sí. I agree.” Crudo had reached the same conclusion.

  “¡Pinche madre!” Francisco swore.

  “Before we go, I need to tell you about something from last night.”

  “Okay, let’s get out of here first.”

  The men crawled out of the room and went out the back door, climbing over the fence to get clear of the battlefront.

  As they walked away from Virginia Street, Crudo reported. “Last night, the old man with the radio picked up some gringos talking. He thought they were chatting back and forth at the top of Tellers Canyon, maybe above Oakwood. Francisco, I slept at the radio garage last night and listened to some of their radio talk. It sounded like they were organized, well-supplied.”

  Francisco had a lot to think about. He would extract his men from the Avenues. After that… he didn’t know yet. Momentum was important, especially while the gringos reacted slowly to his attacks. He needed to make the most of this opportunity.

  But he couldn’t commit a large force in one direction without understanding the risks and the rewards. He needed to know what he would be facing. He didn’t want to lead Los Latigos into another dead end.

  He should have known the Mormon Church would respond so quickly to protect its temple. It hadn’t crossed his mind while planning his attack on the Avenues, and the slip-up frightened Francisco. He had started to believe that fate guaranteed their success. That thought first came to him when the prison fell, and the feeling had grown stronger since. Trusting fate wasn’t a plan. It was superstition.

  No more fate, he reminded himself. They would either succeed or fail based on his decisions, his intelligence. He needed to think.

  “Send ten men up that canyon with radios. Have them take a look and radio back what they see. I want to know what’s happening up in the haciendas there above Oakwood. Send them right now. They are to look only, not fight.”

  “Sí, Jefe.” Crudo started to walk away.

  “Hold up.” Francisco held up his hand. “Make sure every piece of that old man’s equipment makes it back to the fairgrounds with us, comprende?”

  “Sí, Jefe.”

  • • •

  Ross Homestead

  Oakwood, Utah

  One of Jason’s business mentors was fond of saying, “You can be right or you can get what you want. Pick one.”

  As he watched the bishopric walk up the driveway, Jason ached to be right. He wanted to crush Masterson. The man had lied, and he had done it for control, no matter who got hurt in the process. Worse yet, Masterson had been too stupid to know how destructive it would be for him to get his way. And, by the time he figured it out, there would be scores of dead.

  Masterson had twisted the words of the stake president in an attempt to gain control of the resources of the Homestead. Jason could embarrass Masterson with that information, make him look like a liar in front of the bishop. Even as his blood boiled, Jason knew he wouldn’t do that, at least not directly.

  You can be right or you can get what you want.

  Too many lives depended on Jason for him to indulge his need to crush Masterson in front of the bishopric. In any case, the bishop already knew Masterson had twisted the stake president’s words. Soft-pedaling Masterson might increase Jason’s credibility with the bishop and his counselors. Downplaying Masterson’s lie would build bridges instead of burn them.

  But Jason hated the game. It exacted a stiff price. Verbal smash-mouth was more his natural groove and, God knew, Masterson had it coming.

  “Good morning, brothers.” Go big or go home. Jason smiled to himself, despising every minute of his duplicity. Jeff joined them, exchanged handshakes, then slumping down in his chair like a bag of bowling balls.

  Masterson took control of the meeting right out of the gate. “Have you considered President Beckstead’s request that we come together as a neighborhood?”

  Jason swallowed hard.

  “I can’t help feeling this is a huge decision, and I’m not getting any clear answer through prayer.” It was an outright lie on Jason’s part. He hadn’t prayed about Masterson’s plan. Jason had prayed about how to approach this meeting, but there was never a moment when he had actually considered putting Masterson in charge. He had put enough stupid questions before God to know that God didn’t like playing “Magic Eight Ball” when common sense could do the job.

  But bringing up prayer would resonate with the men of the bishopric. The Mormon faith promoted reliance on personal revelation, and going to God for a decision, or indecision, would be seen as a valid response. Appealing to prayer would put a full stop to Masterson’s drive for an immediate decision.

  Jason continued. “One of our other committee members and I sought counsel from President Beckstead yesterday.” Masterson’s eyes widened. He hadn’t anticipated they would close the loop with Beckstead, and the flush on his face belied his fear of being caught putting words in his stake president’s mouth. It would certainly affect future callings of leadership if President Beckstead felt Masterson had abused his priesthood authority.

  Jason said, “President Beckstead counseled making a prayerful decision about our group and the ward, especially since the Lord blessed us with professional military leadership.” As the words left his mouth, Jason knew this was both a masterful piece of diplomatic gerrymandering and a load of horse shit.

  In one swoop, he had distanced Masterson from the decision-making process, and made it clear the stake president knew about their Green Beret trainers. Jason had been working on that one sentence in his mind for almost twenty-four hours. It was critical that he not make Masterson’s rookie mistake of attributing orders to the stake president that he hadn’t given.

  Masterson looked like he could barely control his anger. The men of the bishopric received the response as entirely appropriate. They had undoubtedly been a little uncomfortable with Masterson’s overreach the day before, knowing he had exaggerated. They were more than happy to let Jason push back on the aggressive man’s agenda.

  Jason made no mention of pooling resources, kicking that issue down the road for now. He figured, if he delayed a decision long enough, it often decided itself.

  “Bishop,” Jason turned to Bishop Decker, “would you let us know if the neighborhood decides to pool their food?”

  “Ah, yes. I will do that. We’re not sure what to do right now.”

  Excellent, Jason thought. He’s admitting the ward isn’t pooling food.

  It tore the guts out of Masterson’s plan. The bishop hadn’t yet decided that sharing was the right thing to do. The truth was now in the open and understood by all: Masterson’s plan had been a ham-handed attempt to get his mitts on the Homestead’s resources.

  Communism actually had historic roots in the Mormon Church. During a fifty-year period in the eighteen hundreds, the Church practiced the “Law of Consecration.” All members pledged everything to the Church while bishops redistributed property as needed. Like so many other collectives in history, the Law of Consecration eventually collapsed under the weight of selfishness. But buried in deep doctrine ran a vein of prophetic utterances calling for outright collectivism.

  In a confusing contrast, all the twentieth century prophets had defended the virtues of American constitutionalism and capitalism. Most Mormons voted straight red, Republicans to the core. Liberalism ran almost synonym
ous with falling away from the Mormon Church. Despite the fact that the Law of Consecration could have been authored by Karl Marx, modern Mormons were also capitalists to the core.

  Any suggestion that a ward pool resources would be met with powerful opposition from some members who had their own food storage. Many members would resent anything smacking of mandatory socialism, but hunger was a powerful motivator. The need to feed their families might drive many others to reconsider the Law of Consecration.

  In this red letter moment in the history of the Church, during the Apocalypse that just might herald the second coming of Jesus, just about every Mormon ward would be split; people who had food storage and people who didn’t. Both groups would have differing viewpoints on the path of righteousness.

  But Masterson wasn’t carrying water for Mormon theology. He wanted power, and his gambit to control the neighborhood, for the time being, had been blunted.

  Jeff saw this as an opportunity to push the envelope. “Gentlemen, I’d like to propose that we move the barricades down to the foot of the mountain so we can protect more homes and give ourselves more room in case of a large-scale attack.”

  Bishop Decker looked dubious. “Surely it won’t come to that. Who would attack us?”

  “I don’t know,” Jeff admitted. “But, if I did know, it’d be too late.”

  Jason jumped in, wary of Jeff’s diplomatic skills but eager to achieve the same goal. “If we move the barricades down to the bottom of the hill, we can blockade fewer roads and get a better result. The mountain would do most of our defensive work for us. Would you be offended if we moved the barricades?”

  “No, we wouldn’t be offended,” Bishop Decker said.

  “As I mentioned in our first meeting,” Jason said, “we need more men from the neighborhood. Right now, we’re offering bread to men camping outside the barricade to train them for our defense forces.”