by G. R. Carter
“It’s the law, Phil. It’s what people voted for.”
“Ah the hell they did,” Phil spat back. “There’s about a million pages of laws in this country. Judges and bureaucrats write ‘em. There’s no way the average American’s vote can make a difference. Heck, even when we do finally get a law passed, it’s got to get through multiple judges. Then who chooses to enforce it? You know as well as I do insiders don’t have to follow the same rules we do.”
“I really don’t need one of your Constitution rants,” Olsen said, not looking away.
“Right, right. Wouldn’t want that to get in the way of our fat paychecks and lifelong pensions for public servants. After all, you’re just doing your job, huh?”
“I was elected, not hired.”
Phil laughed a little too loud. “Elected, sure. By people like Cornin? Let me ask you, Sheriff, who ran against you? Or better yet, who had the money to be able to run against you? How much did people like Cornin donate to your campaign?”
Olsen’s face was turning red. Phil could see movement in the rear view mirror. Someone from one of the other trucks was on their way up to find out why they’d stopped. Having his co-op members close by made him bolder. “Am I hitting too close to home? Speaking of home, am I supposed to believe it’s a coincidence that Cornin donates to your campaign, then gets to profit off the properties you seize?”
“Enough!” the lawman hollered. He pulled the truck’s door handle and flung open the door. He left it rocking back and forth as he stomped off the road into the ditch, looking out over the meadow just past an old barbed wire fence. A red-tailed hawk circled overhead, unconcerned about the worries of men. Phil watched Olsen stand there for moment, then remembered Paul in the backseat. He had his face in his hands, leaving Phil to wonder what he should say.
“What’s going on, Phil?” Trace Watson asked as he walked up to the driver’s side window. He leaned in, watching Olsen carefully.
“I think the sheriff just needed some fresh air,” Phil replied, loud so that Olsen could hear the offer out loud.
Olsen took the cue. He turned and gave his best smile. “That’s right. I think the cooking oil fumes coming out of that engine got the best of me.”
Trace and Phil forced a smile of their own, then made eye contact. Phil gave a nod and Trace headed back to his truck. When Olsen plopped into the passenger’s seat he slammed the door. The fake smile was gone. “Let’s get going. I want to get the info I need and get back.”
Phil shook his head in disgust. “Yes sir, Sheriff.”
*****
The final leg of the trip took an eternity. The closer they got to Decatur, the more stalled cars they encountered. When they finally made the outskirts of Decatur, they came upon the Decatur National Guard armory, with sandbags piled high outside the main entrance, making it look like something out of a war zone.
Two men in police uniforms were standing in front of the gate, yelling at another group decked out in camouflage and holding rifles across their chests.
Olsen waved for Phil to stop the vehicle, and the big lawman was out of his seat and walking up to the argument before the truck stopped moving. Olsen’s hand went instinctively to the weapon he carried on his hip. Phil glanced into the backseat to make sure his shotgun was there. Paul stayed silent, but at least he was up now, paying attention, cradling the weapon, watching the argument.
Olsen nodded and said something to both groups, then he walked back towards them.
“I’m gonna stay here and see if I can help make some sense of all this,” Olsen said. “You all go on and get the supplies we need. These guys,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the cops and guardsmen, “both agree it should be safe enough if you hurry and stay on this side of town.” Olsen didn’t provide any other information before turning back towards the argument, which seemed to have heated back up while he was gone. He stopped a few steps away and turned back. “One other thing. If you see a building tagged, you know spray painted, with a star and the initials G.S., steer clear. Get back here as soon as you can.”
Phil cringed. He stole a glance into the rear-view mirror. Whatever courage Paul had gathered by holding the shotgun disappeared with Olsen’s words. There was nothing to be done about it, he’d have to risk it to get the needed supplies.
The streets of town were a surreal ghost town. None of the big commercial box stores were open. No electricity meant no computer check outs, so they couldn’t do any transactions. So far, all of them were dark, with barely a car in the parking lot.
“Let’s hit the salvage yards,” Paul finally suggested. “I bet we find guys willing to make a deal there.”
Paul had the right of it; the salvage yards were gold mines of their own. They found almost everything off their list by the third stop. It was only as they walked out of that building when they noticed a black star spray painted on a garage wall across the street.
Phil fought the urge to yell, then panic gripped at him. He wasn’t even sure why, just Olsen’s demeanor when he spoke about getting away from whatever that symbol represented.
They waved to the other two trucks to follow. The overloaded trucks rumbled down the gravel driveway towards the main entrance. Their escape was cut off just as they tried to turn onto the street by a black sedan. Phil jumped on the brakes and slid towards the car, barely stopping in time.
Paul was fumbling for the shotgun when he heard someone yell out. When he looked up, Olsen was standing with both hands in the air, his face a mixture of concern and irritation.
“I got worried about you being gone so long,” he yelled over the roof of the car. “The Chief was nice enough to help me find you. I told you to stay out of this area.”
Phil noticed the Chief, or whoever the driver of the sedan was, didn’t get out the car. The man sat with a pistol in one hand on top of the steering wheel, looking back and forth through the front window down the street ahead.
“We need to get out of here as soon as we can,” Olsen told them as he walked around the back of the car toward the truck. He nervously glanced over his shoulder. “The Chief thinks the National Guard is planning to take over his police station any time.”
“What’s the point of that?” asked Phil, “Shouldn’t they be helping the police keep order?”
“Turns out the Major here at the National Guard base thinks he should be in charge since the Feds declared martial law. He’s given the mayor and the police chief a formal notice, but it’s on National Guard letterhead and signed by some Colonel out of Champaign. No one else.”
Phil must have looked unconvinced, because Olsen replied defensively, “Look, I’m just telling you what the Chief said. He’s really spooked by something. I don’t think he’s telling me everything he knows, but something is definitely up.”
“All right, I believe you. No sense in taking any chances, anyway. I can’t believe it, it feels like we’re in another country just sixty miles from home. Our own state for crying out loud!” Phil said, exasperated at the thought.
Olsen’s look and tone softened. “This didn’t just happen overnight. Trouble’s been brewing all over for years now. Just waiting for a spark to catch the whole country on fire.”
“I just said that a few hours ago and you looked at me like I was a freakin’ radical,” Phil said.
“I know, I know. When you all started that cooperative, I thought it was some kind of militia group. Like you all were anti-government. Homeland Security sent out a bunch of bulletins on people like you…like what to look for,” Olsen replied.
“Domestic terrorists, right?”
Olsen nodded. “That’s exactly what they called it. Well, I was busy enough with other stuff I didn’t pay much attention to it. But when Homeland said you were stashing money and weapons…”
“Weapons? What weapons?”
“They thought those biofuel stills of yours could be brewing some sort of chemical weapons.”
“This is absurd! I’m tur
ning soybeans into diesel fuel!”
“They don’t understand that in DC, Phil. In their mind, why would anyone really go to all the trouble to do that? What was the legitimate purpose?”
Phil pounded the worn old steering wheel. “To live our own lives, not depending on others. We didn’t want to wait for handouts. Not just out of pride, but because we knew those handouts would quit coming someday.”
Olsen stared down at his weathered hands. “Yeah, well. I’m starting to think you were right all along. You’re about to find out what cultures all around the world have known for thousands of years. People will do anything to survive the next day. If it means taking from others, they will in a heartbeat. All the things I’ve seen as a small county sheriff will pale in comparison to what we’re about to see around here. From what I just heard, the death and destruction already happening in the big cities is beyond what anyone can comprehend.” He looked up and waved his hand towards the silent buildings and empty streets. “It’s starting here, too.”
Olsen was built like a mix between a Viking warrior and a bear. He was well over six foot five and 260 pounds and carried himself with a confidence that most people longed for. But now this grizzly was beginning to well with tears. “Phil, you just don’t understand what’s coming for all of us. Even if everything returned to normal right now, it will take us years to get any semblance of our past lives back.”
“People don’t know how to take care of themselves, they don’t have years to relearn!” Phil said.
“They don’t even have weeks,” Olsen replied. “Most people got what, maybe a few days’ worth of food at home? A little more if they scrounge and ration. And what happens when they run out of that? Are they going to grow their own?”
Olsen pointed at the salvage yard behind him. “This guy here is smart. A survivor, probably. But even though he’s smart enough to know that digital money is now worthless, he still hasn’t taken the next step in his mind. What good is silver when you’re hungry? If your kid is starving, would you trade your last can of food for a metal coin?”
Phil glanced in the rearview mirror where Paul still cradled the shotgun in his lap. The man looked nauseous. Just as the sheriff’s confidence was contagious, now too was his concern.
Bangs and pops echoed off the surrounding buildings.
“That sounded really close. Who would be shooting off fireworks now?” Paul stammered.
“Those weren’t fireworks,” Olsen replied as he headed toward the vehicle and jumped in the backseat. “We need to go NOW!”
The idling police sedan in front of them squalled its back tires and lurched down the street ahead. Phil turned the truck to follow but Olsen shouted, “No! Other way!” loud enough to hurt his ear. The street turned into a cul de sac ahead. “Don’t stop!” Olsen shouted again. “Go through the side yard and out into the field!”
Phil didn’t question, even as the truck lurched over the curb and barreled through an old metal swing set. The heavy load banged against the truck’s frame and for a moment Phil feared it might come apart. A bean field opened up behind the chain link fence along the property line. The truck bounced again under the weight of its cargo and the bumpy yard, then it was through the flimsy chain link fence and into the recently harvested field. They felt the truck bog down slightly in the soft dirt, but the engine revved and pulled them through. “Keep going,” Olsen said, a little calmer now. He looked back to make sure the other two trucks were still behind them.
Phil finally got an idea of where they were at. He angled the truck towards a large green sign set along a state highway. He stopped briefly at the edge of the field, checked on the rest of his little convoy, then instinctively looked both ways before turning onto the crumbling pavement. Still not thinking, he put on the turn signal and turned left without another moving car in sight. When they realized what he’d done Paul and Olsen chuckled with nervous laughter. Phil kept his head turned as much as he could while still able to see the road ahead, he didn’t want the other men to see the terror etched on his face.
Western Illinois Correctional Center
The Fourth Day
Red Morton’s little two-truck convoy pulled up next to the fuel tanks of the FS Station like they had the day before. Jeremiah got a glimpse of their arrival and met them before the trucks were even stopped.
“Hey, Red,” Jeremiah said in his typically friendly manner. He looked at Red’s truck and then at the one behind.
“What’s with the second truck?” he asked.
“Just figured I’d grab two days’ worth. Maybe save me a trip tomorrow,” Morton replied. “Is that okay?”
Jeremiah wiped his greasy hands on a shop towel. He was deep in thought about something. Another moment and he wiped some sweat from his forehead, leaving a black streak across his skin. “I been limiting everyone to just a tankful. That’s my regular payin’ customers, too.” He kicked a rock. “Kinda took your advice yesterday.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I figure if I’m not gettin’ any deliveries in, like you said, I better make sure what I got lasts.”
Morton thought about arguing with him, then decided against it. “It’s okay, Jeremiah. No trouble, these guys were happy to get out and see the sun, anyway,” he said, pointing to the two men in the second truck.
Together they filled the big tank in the bed of Morton’s truck, each man tanking a turn at the hand pump. After they were complete, Morton once again filled out the paperwork and signed for the purchase.
“Any word yet?” Jeremiah asked.
Morton fought the urge to gossip like a high-schooler. He liked Jeremiah, always liked his family too. He decided not to lie by not saying anything. He just shook his head.
Morton could see the disappointment on Jeremiah’s face. All Jeremiah wanted to do was his job, go home and have a beer, play with his kids, watch some screen or cast a line, then hit the rack. Repeat the same thing tomorrow and every day until they buried him in the local cemetery. A perfectly ordinary life for a man perfectly content with such a notion. Disruptions like the last couple days were hard on such a man.
“How about you?” Morton asked to lighten the tone.
Jeremiah shook his head. “Just the regulars. Had a funny guy in here with the Bradshaws a little earlier. An Australian. He tried to buy up everything with a credit card.” Then he looked pained again. “Bad deal, though, they had a guest die out at the lodge overnight. Can’t find Sheriff Moore, I guess he went into Jacksonville to see if anyone there knew what was happening.”
“Heard back from him yet?”
“No. I figured he stopped at the prison to check in on you guys.”
“I didn’t talk to him.” Morton smiled. “But I don’t get out much.”
“Well you just keep those critters you got locked up behind them bars. Can’t imagine what you all go through each day, working with those types,” Jeremiah said. Morton thought he might have shivered a little when he said it.
Morton started to climb in but Jeremiah stopped him. “Hey, Red, one more thing. What was them Army trucks doing at the Dot Foods warehouse earlier today?”
Morton looked at McCoy in the front seat of his truck. He shrugged back at his questioning look. “I didn’t know anything about it. They must have been around back when we came by.”
“Oh, okay. Well if you find out will you let me know? Folks here were hoping it was National Guard come to help out.”
“Jeremiah, you know the closest National Guard post is in Springfield now. It’ll be a long time before they work their way out here. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Morton and his men made their way back to the prison, glancing over at Dot Foods while driving past. There was no sign of any activity. But as they pulled back into the prison drive, four drab-colored trucks on six wheels each sat just outside the gates.
Morton pulled the truck down the service driveway and to the generator’s fuel tank. He jumped out and started trotting to
ward the front office, leaving McCoy and the other two to unload.
He stepped from the sunshine into the manmade lights, letting his eyes adjust to men in digital tan camouflage BDUs. Morton nearly choked; one of the soldiers looked exactly like his son in the last picture ever taken of him. He stopped and turned back around, breathing and coughing and sniffling all at the same time to hide sudden tears.
Everyone turned to look at him: soldiers, Captain Lewis, and the warden herself. “Alright there, Sergeant Morton?” Lewis called out.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just got some diesel in my eyes. Terrible stuff,” Morton said while trying to wipe away the wetness on his face.
He sucked up a breath and walked towards the group. The warden made a face, her look challenging his right to be included in the conversation. Lewis didn’t seem to mind, though, and Morton took his orders from him. She accepted it and turned back to the uniformed man closest to her.
“So Lieutenant, you were saying?”
“Yes, ma’am, our orders are to take you back to Jacksonville for a meeting.”
“May I ask what kind of meeting?”
“Not fully briefed on that, ma’am. Here’s the paper we were ordered to hand over to you.” He passed her a sealed envelope with crisp precision.
She examined the outside, read the logo embossment, and tore it open. She scanned it for a moment, then appeared to read it again, a little slower this time.
As she passed the letter to Lewis to read, she asked the lieutenant, “Have you already secured the rations from Dot Foods?”
“Yes, ma’am, the first batch. We’re to retrieve more when we bring you back tomorrow,” he told her.
Marduk looked at Lewis, then at Morton, then back to Lewis. “You think both of us leaving for an entire day is a good idea?”
Lewis looked stern. “Yeah, I think it'll be okay. Sergeant Morton can handle the place for a little while. Right, Sergeant?”
Morton tried not to choke. “Yes, sir. You’ve trained us well. We’ll be okay for that short a time.”
