Collapse

by M B Wood

  "This is better," Fred said. "Now I know what I'm doing."

  "No more of that dig a hole, fill a hole shit," Stolz said.

  "You really want to develop the 'Lower Hill,' don't you?" Fred pointed to the land adjacent to the Hill.

  Stolz pointed to the drawing. "This is where we'll put a sewage treatment plant." It was the land next to the marsh. "We need this if we want to keep eating fish from the river.”

  "Yeah," Fred said. "We gotta get something done, and soon. The place is starting to smell."

  #

  The mud that Jim Higgins had excavated with so much difficulty from the old riverbed dried out. It was now a gently sloping four-foot high mound that followed the inner bank of the old river course. On top sat an eight-foot high wall made from rock-filled gabions to completely enclose the Lower Hill district. A similar wall encircled the top of the Hill. Taylor was sure they were now safe.

  Chapter 19

  Autumn's Harvest

  Chilled, Taylor got up from his chair and put on a jacket. Late summer and early autumn had been busy, he thought. Good thing Stolz's crews had installed sewers on the Hill. He hoped those septic tanks cleaned up the sewerage now discharged into the marsh. Ted Callioux says he’s positive the cattails and water lilies will purify the water before it drains into the Rocky River. So far, the swamp’s thriving and the river seems cleaner.

  As the light faded, Taylor lit several candles. The gray, weathered plywood walls of his office reflected light poorly. Days are getting short and I really miss electricity, he thought.

  He picked up another report, squinted his eyes and began to read. John Wylie and a group from Edgepark have built more large crossbows. Good, he thought. That adds to the four catapults they made from heavy lumber and automotive coil springs.

  He picked up another report. Harvest is over, he thought, but Franny's calculations show hungry times could still lie ahead. Even though our people worked long hours drying and canning vegetables, and smoking and salting fish from the river, we’ll have to find more sources of food.

  #

  "Taylor, look at this." Franny pointed to five partially chewed rats in a bucket. "Ol' Puddinhead brought them to me.”

  "Who?" Taylor put his pencil down.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Y'know, he’s the big, old tabby who hangs around the food storage warehouse.”

  Taylor glanced at the ceiling of his office. Now what?

  "The point is," Franny said. "There're too many rats around here for one cat. We’re losing food."

  "So, get more cats."

  "I asked Albert to catch cats for me." Franny paused. "He believes hunting for game is more important."

  Taylor waited for her to continue.

  "Would you talk to Albert?" Franny reached out with her hand as though to touch him. "Please, Taylor, as a favor for..." She hesitated. "For the Clan.”

  "Why would a feral cat stick around?" Taylor frowned. "Especially after being trapped. Wouldn't it run away as soon as it was released?"

  "Oh, no.” Franny's face brightened. "You bring them to me. They'll stick around, trust me.”

  "Maybe I can get Sam Wylie to build a trap." There was something familiar about Franny. No, she doesn't look like her.

  #

  Chris barged into Taylor’s office. “It was a gang attack,” she said. “They killed the men guarding the group gathering berries south of the Oxbow. They kidnapped six workers. They left one behind with a demand for a truckload of food for their release." A fierce frown knitted her forehead.

  "Damn," Taylor said. "They kill our people and hold others for ransom. We can't afford the food, or let them start blackmailing us. Stall them. We're going after them."

  #

  Weitzman, Phelps and Chris gathered around the table in the plywood shack that served as Taylor’s office.

  Chris was pale. "We found five bodies at the south gate."

  Taylor swore. "Who were they?"

  "It was the men in the foraging party," Chris said. "They had their, their-" She gulped. "...Cut-off. They were mutilated.”

  "Oh, God, what else?"

  "There was a message carved on one of the militia’s body. They now want two truck loads of food for Kristy Becker," she said. “Our scouts tracked them to the old National Guard Armory in Berea. That’s where one of them got killed. It’s a gang called the Deacons, a bunch of ex-motorcycle thugs. They’re holding Kristy there.”

  "Look, either we pay tribute, and keep paying, or we fight." Taylor's voice rose. "I say we fight."

  "Isn't there's another way?" Weitzman wrung his hands. "We lost so many fine young people last time.”

  "Well," Taylor said. "What's the alternative? Give them our food?”

  Weitzman said nothing.

  "All in favor of rescuing Kristy Becker, say 'aye'."

  Only Weitzman abstained.

  #

  On the edge of the ravine, Chris peered through binoculars. The National Guard armory lay on the north side of the former business district in Berea. It was perched above the West Branch of the Rocky River, which flowed through a heavily wooded ravine. The three-story brick building had a large central hall that had originally been a garage. All the openings on the ground floor, except for the front and rear entrances, were boarded up.

  A six foot-tall chain link fence surrounded the armory complex with a gate directly in front of the main door. Four guards hung around the main door, talking. A lookout on the roof was smoking a brown-paper cigarette. Empty beer containers and a scattering of wind-blown paper littered the weed-filled drive running along the side of the building.

  The aroma of food and the absence of people convinced Chris the Deacons had started their evening meal. She waved to her platoon. All of the camouflaged fighters crawled out of the ravine one by one. They assembled, crouched in the long grass at the edge of the road opposite the armory's entrance.

  Chris raised her hand and pointed first at the doorway, then at the roof of the armory. A dozen crossbows rose, cocked and ready.

  She dropped her hand.

  Feathered bolts streaked through the air, thin, silent and fast. Four bolts struck the man on the roof. He staggered, coughed out his cigarette, slumped and fell thirty feet to the driveway. He landed with the sound like a watermelon smashing. His body jerked and then lay still.

  At the door to the Armory, two Deacons slumped, feathered bolts quivering in their chests. They started screaming.

  "Go," Chris yelled.

  The platoon rose as a unit. Another cloud of bolts whistled into the Armory's entrance as the two remaining guards raised their rifles and fired wildly.

  Two of the Clan militia collapsed. The rest of the platoon reached the building's entrance. They paused to hook the crossbows to their belts and then unslung their AR 15’s, burst through the Armory door, firing.

  #

  At the sound of gunfire, Phelps leaned out of the lead truck, raised his hand and pointed.

  Two big tri-axle trucks rumbled into life and rolled down the tree-lined street. In the back, militiamen readied their rifles. Above the cab of the leading truck, two men crouched over a catapult designed to throw Molotov cocktails. The catapult was an Edgepark invention made from automobile coil springs and a lever arm that could lob a gallon jug of gasoline almost four hundred yards. They’d practiced with it and were confident of their aim.

  #

  As gunfire echoed through the armory, Skid jumped up from the table. "What the fuck?" He ran for the front door, Knuckles close behind. As he reached the main corridor, more shots rang out and the edge of the door erupted into a shower of splinters.

  "Shit." Skid slid to a halt and reversed direction. "We gotta get outa here." At the rear entrance, he dove through the door and rolled on the ground.

  The Clan’s trucks, armored with heavy planking, entered the driveway at the side of the armory. A volley of gunfire erupted from the back of the trucks.

  Mud splattered around Skid.
"Aw, crap." He scrambled behind the corner of the building just as the militiamen in the lead truck fired their catapult. A gallon jug Molotov cocktail streaked a trail of black, greasy smoke.

  As it struck the ground, a huge ball of fire erupted behind Skid. He felt its sudden heat. He ran to the next building. Once around the corner, he took a quick look.

  The trucks had stopped, but the Clan militia continued firing at the armory.

  "Bastards." Skid retreated around the corner.

  Two Deacons crowded past him and rattled quick shots at the truck. Empty cartridges clattered off the wall, bouncing onto his arm.

  Within the shelter of the door, several Deacons hung back.

  "Stubby," Skid said. "Bring the boys. Tell them to bring ammo, too. Get them here, pronto. Understand?"

  "Here?” Stubby scratched his crotch. “To this building?"

  "Yeah, and move it, move it, move it." Skid felt his face begin to twitch. He licked his lips and bit the corner of his mouth.

  "Okay, Skid, I got it." Stubby scrambled away from the building, ducking and weaving out of the line of fire.

  #

  Inside the Armory, Chris fired at the two shadowy men in black leather who ran toward the rear of the building. She followed with a platoon of militia close behind. As the men leaped out the rear door of the building, Chris saw the Deacons’ colors on their backs. The smaller of the two was the scar-faced man.

  My God, she thought, that's who murdered my father.

  Chris sprinted after him. Shirley O'Connor and half the platoon followed. At the back door, Chris peered out. A bullet whined off the door's metal edge. She pressed against the wall behind her. "Damn, damn," she said, "he's getting away."

  "What's up?" Shirley arrived, breathing hard.

  "Nothing." Chris shook her head. "Search the building for Kristy. If anyone offers resistance, kill them." She replaced the M-16's thirty-round mag and cocked the gun. A truck rumbled past the back door. It was a Clan truck.

  "Hey, Phelps."

  "Yeah?" A face appeared at a vision slot.

  "Get a truck at the front." Chris pointed in the direction from which the truck had come. "We may need to leave in a hurry.”

  "Gotcha." The truck growled, transmission whining as it reversed. From a nearby building came the rattle of automatic weapons. As the truck backed up, its catapult heaved a smoking Molotov at the next building. It struck the building and flame washed down its side. The gunfire paused.

  Upstairs, on a bare, stained mattress, Shirley found Kristy Becker chained to a radiator. She was naked and semiconscious, face swollen and eyes blackened.

  "Bastards." After Shirley cut the chain, she carried Kristy through dim, dirty hallways acrid with gunfire fumes and down the stairs. Shots echoed in the building. Broken glass crunched underfoot. Several militiamen appeared out of the gloom.

  "C'mon, help me get her out of here." Between pants, Shirley lowered Kristy to the floor.

  Two militiamen carried the moaning woman to the front door. "Now what?" The militiamen looked up after placing Kristy on the ground inside the doorway. A militiaman returned with a blanket, which he wrapped around Kristy.

  Chris waved to a truck.

  Moments later, it rumbled around the corner and stopped in front of the building. "Get her on board and let's go."

  "Wait, Chris, there's ammo and medical supplies," said a militiaman who staggered out of the building with a box of ammo.

  “Go get it,” Chris said. “You, cover this side.” She pointed to the rear of the building.

  Within a minute, the militiamen returned with eleven M-16 rifles, four cases of ammunition and a box of medical supplies. “Okay, we’ve cleaned it out. Nothing left worth taking.”

  "What do we do about this place?" someone asked.

  "Burn it," Chris said.

  A Molotov cocktail flew into the building through an upstairs window. A dull thud preceded a ball of flame erupting from the upstairs.

  "We're loaded, time to leave," Chris spoke into her walkie-talkie. It was eight minutes since the first shot had been fired. The second truck rumbled up. "Let's go," she yelled.

  #

  "It's those assholes from the park," Skid said. "They pulled a sneak attack." He pointed at the trucks. "Don't let them get away." He couldn’t stop his face from twitching.

  A fireball exploded at the corner, blazing fuel splashed toward them. "C'mon," Skid yelled and ran.

  Flames blossomed out of the armory’s upstairs’ windows. As the Deacons advanced, they fired continuously. As they rounded the corner of the armory, trucks were pulling out of the gate.

  "You yellow-bellied pricks." Skid shook his fist at the trucks. "I'm gonna kill you. Every damn one of you." He felt spittle run down his chin.

  Flames licked out of every window of the armory. The repetitive bang-bang-bang of ammunition cooking off began.

  "Which dumb-ass let those Clan bastards in?"

  No one looked up. No one said anything.

  "Who was on guard duty tonight?" Skid clacked home a fresh magazine into his rifle and cocked it. "Knuckles. Bring those shitheads to me. This chapter's gonna learn a lesson. No one lets me down an' gets away with it. No one."

  "Uh, Skid," Knuckles said. "They already dead."

  #

  As the Clan trucks pulled out of the gate, slugs slammed into their tailgates. Through the drifting smoke, Chris counted a dozen Deacons on the ground. Eleven more had been left for dead inside the building. Still, her heart was heavy.

  Oh, Daddy, why you? Why did it have to happen to you? I need you, Daddy, but you're not here. She wiped away a tear. I couldn't save you. I swear I'll get him, Daddy. I promise.

  Something within Chris began to grow, something hard and cold.

  #

  "Taylor, we need to get more land under plow." John Phelps looked at his companions. "We've got to get the winter wheat in right away so we'll have food next summer." It was obvious he'd rehearsed his argument.

  "If we don't," Franny said. "We'll be out of food."

  "Okay," Taylor said. "What do you want?"

  "Well, even with rationing, we'll need..." Phelps described their requirements and the land he wanted to use.

  "D’you need all twenty acres?" Taylor asked.

  "Well, yes, we'll need to get at least that much in over the winter." Phelps's face held a frown.

  "Okay, you'll get fuel," Taylor said with a sigh. "I'll notify Chris about your need for guards. Is that all?"

  "Yes, I guess so."

  Taylor guided them out of his office but Franny lingered.

  Taylor's eyebrows rose. "Something else?"

  "Umm, yes." Franny took a deep breath. "Albert brought me a litter of kittens. He said you talked to him. Thanks.”

  "You're welcome."

  She touched his arm briefly. "You'll have to come over and see them. They’re so cute and Puddin-head plays with them.”

  Her touch reminded Taylor of another... No, he thought. It's not the same. "I'll drop in after supper to see them.”

  Franny's face lit up. "I'll expect you.”

  #

  Work continued on the House of Worship. With limited resources, Taylor knew they could build only one place to pray. Already its bare unfinished interior had seen weddings, funerals and far too many funerals.

  As it grew colder, the pace of activities slowed and Taylor realized there were more women than men on the Hill, many of them young and with children. Most were widows from the battles with the gangs. Some of the older couples adopted young widows, providing care for their children while they worked. Men died, women grieved and children wept.

  Taylor felt a terrible sense of failure.

  Chapter 20

  Domestic Tranquillity

  The weather turned colder and the trees became gaunt and gray. As the leaves fell, Taylor felt his mood slowly spiral downward.

  Seeking company, he joined Clan workers harvesting the late fall run of shad. Wh
ile they salted and smoked the fish, he heard someone tell a joke. It was the first time in what seemed like forever he found a reason to smile. It almost hurt to laugh.

  Winter arrived with a lake effect storm dumping a foot of heavy snow overnight. Some believed the snow was due to the smoke in the air from the war; others claimed it was an act of God. Bitter cold followed with more snow. As winter deepened, the Hill became a more closed-in community. People huddled around stoves and fires to soak up precious heat.

  "It's amazing. I now know more people than I ever did. It's like there's no barrier to meeting people," Franny said.

  "Yeah, I guess so." Taylor bent over a tablet of paper in front of the window. "TV and cars were really barriers to meeting people; they were agents of isolation. TV and movies didn't require any mental effort." He kept his face serious. "All you had to do was just lay back and get a mental massage.”

  "Maybe you're right,” Franny said. “I can see how it could limit interaction, erode social skills and produce a breakdown in civilized behavior, which contributed to the Collapse.”

  "You sound just like a sociologist.”

  Now that Franny had come out of her shell, Taylor found he enjoyed her visits. I may have underestimated her.

  #

  Even when the paths were shoveled clean, few went out into the bitter cold. On still days, the blue-gray smoke from the wood stoves hung over bare trees in the valley like a wraith of despair.

  Franny cut the food rations again. Soon, everyone had the foul smell of fasting on their breath. Tempers grew short and occasionally, fights erupted. The rule of no weapons on the Hill prevailed and Chris Kucinski's tight discipline preserved order.

  Young Albert, not so young anymore, won the respect of many with his steady supply of game and fish. He also patrolled the river, making it safe for ice fishing. He'd had no luck hunting deer, so he went to Taylor for advice.

  Taylor welcomed the diversion from the never-ending tasks of administration and decision-making. He had hunted regularly in his previous life and took a day off to go out with Albert.