"He was just ordinary looking," Ogle said. "There wasn't nothin about him to catch the eye."
The story spread rapidly that Albert was lurking in the surrounding woods, waiting for an opportunity to return. They sent search teams out for more than a mile radius around his house, covering more than a thousand acres of mixed bush but other than the bodies of a family that had died of exposure after taking shelter in an abandoned barn, they found nothing of importance. Tracking dogs had followed his scent across the pasture to the old Ellis Homestead site. The windmill, once a harbinger of progress and now a visage of obsolescence, was silent this morning. The dogs alerted near the rubble but when the handlers pulled some of the rotted boards and timbers away, they found a couple of dead cats serving as a smorgasbord to a rodent family.
"Now ain't that a turn-around," the taller of the two said.
"Shit. Ain't no place to hide out here."
But the tall man wasn't so sure. He had been tracking people for the State Police and Sheriff's Department for twenty years. This was his fourth dog and she was young and made mistakes, but he was still suspicious, sensing that she had alerted to something more than the dead cats. Besides: What were two dead cats doin underneath a pile of boards like that? The timing didn't look right. He pegged them for a red herring but didn't say so.
"Come on. Maybe we'll light on some of that gold he's supposed to have buried around here."
Their voices faded as they walked into the woods, pulled along by the dogs. They alerted again and their calling drifted over the empty field, muffled by the trees. They had picked up Albert's scent over the ridge heading towards Gunter Magneson's farm. The dogs dug up a recent fire pit and several empty cans and then bolted across the corn stubble, howling. But eventually they lost the trail and the team was picked up at the edge of the highway, a mile west of Albert's property.
The DHS swept Albert's house again, this time with the aid of a U.S. Army bomb squad and found nothing. The soldiers packed back into their Humvee and drove away leaving two DHS investigators and Mr. FEMA behind.
The power grid was on again, for a while, anyway, and they sat in Albert's living room. Mr. FEMA was going over the inventory of preserved food they had uncovered. The two DHS agents watched him for a while, with that half threatening, half worried expression that trained law enforcement uses to unsettle their prospects.
Mr. FEMA glanced up at them and paused. The name GONZALEZ was emblazoned on his jacket.
"Can I get your names? I have to submit this to-"
"I am Smith and this is Jones," the blond one said.
Gonzalez looked to see if they were joking but they were not.
"Who you kidding?" Gonzalez said. "FEMA has complete jurisdiction here and-"
"Save it for the fuckin newspapers," Smith said. "What are you going to do with this place?"
"Do?"
"Ya, what are you going to do here?" Jones piped up. "As in headquarters, relocation of administration. You know...stuff like that."
Gonzalez didn't quite understand because he had no orders or instructions that covered this question and therefore he was fundamentally unable to respond.
"This is a sweet layout," Smith said. "It's already set up for electricity and heat and all the rest. This fuckin guy, Smythe, was no slouch," he noted, producing Albert's bottle of Stagg. "Want a shot?"
"That liquor is the property of-"
"Ya, I know. Now listen to me, Gonzo: You don't mind if I call you Gonzo, do ya?" Jones asked, but he continued without an answer. "You need to set up a little headquarters here for our guys - you too, if you like."
"I'm sorry, but-"
"That may be," Jones continued, "but you'll get over it. You leave the food here, everything. You park your asshole right here and you keep your fucking eye on things. That's your job."
Smith took the bottle from Jones and tilted it, tasting the high-powered contents.
"Wow."
"I told you this guy was smart."
"We will be transiting through here on occasion and that's nothing for you to worry about," Smith said. "Just keep your people under control. If the fucking trailer trash show up here looking for food or whatever you run 'em off. This is going to be our base for this area and we don't want anybody coming around here except who we say. Understand?"
Gonzalez stared at them but could not speak. He had no idea what he might say. He had been trained to obey, to follow instructions and these two were obviously a pay grade above him and issuing instructions.
"A couple of our guys will show up here this afternoon for security purposes. You just let them do their job and you won't have any problems."
"You sure you don't want a swig?" Jones asked.
Gonzalez sat in his shiny black SUV for quite a while after they had driven off. He didn't know what to make of it all. He had been issued instructions from FEMA to oversee the collection of food and anything else of value from the population and have it stored until military vehicles arrived to pick it up or he received orders to distribute it. Proper receipts were to be signed and provided to everyone and Gonzalez knew he would be responsible for the accuracy of those claims when things got back to normal. The government would deliver enough MREs for everyone but under no circumstances was he to allow hoarding of food or fuel or distribute anything without direct orders from someone more important than himself. As a last resort he was to destroy the food rather than allow the population to get their hands on it. It was for the public good. If individuals were allowed to hoard food, some people would be better off than others and that could - would - create envy and trouble. This way, everyone got the same rations and there would be nothing to fight about. It had been explained time and time again: It's all about keeping the masses of people from panicking and losing control in dangerous situation. The greatest threat to American security and public safety was the American people and the government was here to make sure they were kept safely away from themselves and out of their own hands. But don't think for a moment that there aren't individuals out there with the certain intent of overthrowing the government and taking charge of the civilian population for their own evil-doer ends.
"Remember this: Our founding fathers - your founding fathers - were terrorists. They assassinated British officers," one of their instructors explained.
"The Al Quida terrorist can hurt us. He can kill us and blow up our buildings and shoot down planes; but the American lone wolf is the real danger because he looks like us, he lives amongst us hoarding food in his cellar and burying guns and ammunition in secret hiding places. And we believe he is an American, just like us!
He remembered almost every detail of that seminar.
"If you see someone with a so-called patriot bumper sticker, you should be suspicious. You are the only patriots. Patriots support their government and their country; they work for the common good, not for some wild notion of individual license to do what ever you want. Who do you think is voting for Ron Paul and Bob Barr?: Patriots or agents of terror? And these guys coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan and elsewhere with their so-called disillusionment, they're ripe for the pickings. Just because you served doesn't mean you're a patriot. A purple heart and a case of PTSD does not make you a patriot! Every man and woman here today working for FEMA is just as much or more patriotic than any soldier. Never forget, ladies and gentlemen, the enemy is more likely to be your neighbor John Smith with his American flag and his cabinet full of weapons than is some poor, underprivileged, innocent, peace-loving Muslim fighting to save his family from starvation no matter how misdirected his anger may be..."
The entire room stood up and cheered and applauded, Gonzalez among them. The blacks gave fisted power salutes and the Pakistanis shook their hands and yelled and the Mexicans nodded solemnly and exchanged determined, comradely stares. And the white guys and gals, blushed and smiled awkwardly, yearning for that ethnic solidarity blossoming all around them. "Down with Whitey," they chanted, louder than all the o
thers. "Time for Change," they shouted and "Yo," and "Brothers!" and "Thomas Jefferson was a damned slave-owner-rapist-imperialist-warmongering-isolationist-colonial-stooge..." etcetera, etcetera, etcetera....
Gonzalez started his truck and surveyed Albert's property as he slowly turned around in the driveway. No question about it, he thought. This guy Smythe proved everything they said was true. He had killed two cops and a federal agent - and his own best friend, apparently - without even skipping a breath. Damn rights he'd secure this place for the people of Provost. America did not need guys like Albert Smythe. They had to be smoked out of their holes and rounded up and...well, taken out of circulation. Racist-mother-fucking-maddog-killers with their God damned militias and... He didn't have the vocabulary, even in his native Spanish to describe his fury and hatred for Albert Smythe and everyone like him. The sun glanced off his window as he started down the driveway.
Hector (Gonzalez) explained to the ruling council that had gathered at town hall that he would be occupying Albert's old place and running things from there along with Homeland Security. It was already Albert's old place.
"Did they catch that crazy A-rab bastard yet?" the dog catcher asked. "I aweez knew he had a screw loose."
"Oh, we'll get him, "Deputy Allsop answered. "We'll get that bastard, believe you me."
"I heard he's already cleared out, disappeared."
"May be so but he's got to come up for air sometime. He's probably one of them they been lookin for since this thing started."
For the rest of the afternoon the Committee to Rescue All the People of Provost (CRAPP) hammered out some new rules and regulations meant to keep the public from panicking or getting it into its collective head that it should be making decisions about it's own life and death without input from the federal government and the duly constituted local authorities.
"It's important that we don't overstep our authority," Gonzalez explained. "We've been given a lot of power but it's for the good of the people. It's to keep people out of harm's way and we mustn't forget that."
Everyone nodded solemnly and exchanged the teary looks of the apostles.
"The main thing is to make it easy for people to come to us. If someone is doing something illegal, we've got to be able to count on the law-abiding citizens to report it. If someone is hoarding food, or growing a secret garden in his basement-"
"-How's he gonna do that without lights?
"We know how to find that stuff," the police chief said. "We been arresting these home marijuana growers for years. We know what to look for."
"Why can't someone grow a little lettuce to eat?" asked Marilyn Hayden from the medical clinic. "It seems to me that it would be a good thing if people could grow their own food-"
Gonzalez shook his head sternly.
"No. You don't understand. We can't allow that. It will create jealousy among those who don't have it. Unless you can guarantee enough lettuce for everyone, then you have to prevent this sort of thing from happening. Before you know it you'll have people going off in all directions, doing whatever they can think of to improve their own situation without thinking about how that affects the common good."
"Isn't that sort of the American way?"
"There you go," Gonzalez said, smiling painfully. "They told us this would happen. Every time you try and get people to go along, someone shows up wrapped in the flag and tries to create a problem."
"If you suspect someone is hoarding, you don't need a court order to investigate. That's the whole point of these measures. We can't afford to allow the lawyers to determine what is a threat and what is not, no offence to present company. You're the people on the front lines. You're the people who have to keep control of things. So, what we'll do is this: If someone reports a law-breaker, they get something a little extra, you know, a couple of cans of peaches or maybe a jar of jam...something better than the rations. And, of course, their identity must be protected. This way we can keep the people working for the good of the people and not just thinking about themselves."
The room had become strangely silent as Gonzalez spoke.
"I realize this seems a little harsh-"
"I think people should be allowed to do whatever they can to help themselves and we shouldn't be going around informing on each other," Marilyn Hayden said.
"These are my - our - instructions. We can either comply or stand down, but you can't change them or argue about it," Gonzalez said. "It's not about what we think should be done but what must be done to save the country."
Hayden stood up and gathered her papers and stuffed them into a briefcase, not looking at anyone.
"I have a clinic to run," she said. "That's where I'll be."
They watched her leave.
"There's one other thing," Gonzalez said, "before we close up this meeting. This is extremely confidential information and you are not - I repeat, not - to repeat it. In the next few weeks an order will likely come down from Washington to begin confiscating privately held weapons of any and all kinds. You may keep a pistol and a rifle in your possession only after we provide special permits. These permits will be issued only to members of the ruling council and its designates. We don't want people hiding their guns so you've got to keep this quiet."
"Should have done that right off," the police chief said.
"Well, they figured it would cause too much of a reaction if they did that first...you get people used to the idea, like we have with the food and gardens and such. Now they're kind of trained to the idea and we'll collect the guns and ammunition and anything else that could be used to attack the government. We've got to keep this stuff out of the hands of terrorists, especially domestic and the only way to do that is to take everything and make it so only the police and the bad guys have guns. This way we'll know that anyone with a weapon is a terrorist and the ordinary people will be safe."
It was dark when Gonzalez climbed out of his SUV in Albert's old driveway. He took a few steps into an enfilade of motion detectors and search lights. He was blinded by the assault.
"Hey-"
A man stepped out and held an M16 on Gonzalez as his partner patted him down.
What the hell is going on?" Gonzalez demanded.
"You Hector Gonzalez?"
"Yes. Who the hell are you?"
"We're your security sir. Are you armed?"
"No."
"Well, you should be."
Gonzalez was struck by the unusual accent in the man's speech. It sounded South African. The man was black, of no particular significance to Gonzalez excepting the well-known enmity between Latinos and blacks but he was thrown by the accent. The man had no identification marks other than a small circular patch on his shoulder. They went inside.
The man's partner was also black and shorter but his features were less refined. He was obviously the subordinate and had a chip on his shoulder, though Gonzalez couldn't tell if it was for Mexicans or whites or people who were taller or just everyone, period.
"Take off your coat, roll up your sleeve and hold out your arm, sir," the man said.
"Who the hell are you?" Gonzalez demanded. "Let's see some fuckin identification." The smaller man studied Gonzalez wondering if he was going to be allowed to kill him.
"I'm Smith and this is Jones," the tall one answered.
"This be yo identification mother fucker," the little one said, brandishing his rifle.
"Not necessary, Mr. Smith," the taller one admonished.
"I thought you were Smith," Gonzalez said.
"Hold out your arm, sir," Smith-Jones commanded.
Gonzalez wasn't really worried they were going to harm him. He was used to this kind of behavior and attitude from FEMA and he was certain these two were legitimate contractors. He draped his coat over a chair, rolled up his sleeve and extended his arm.
"I am going to vaccinate you against H1N1VX, a very potent influenza that has been detected in the population," he said. "We cannot afford to have people like yourself immobilized so I
have been instructed to inoculate you."
This was nothing new for Hector, either. He felt like a porcupine by the time they were finished with him in Indianapolis, last month. He'd been sick for two days but had come out of it seemingly unscathed. He'd heard that some people had died from those vaccinations but he dismissed those stories as more urban legends, like the con-trails and the devil worship at Yale and the pizza chains running their customers' names through the FBI data base. The United States Government was not going to deliberately endanger its own citizens. He, Hector Gonzalez, illegal Mexican immigrant who had risen to the position of district supervisor in FEMA, registered Democrat, friend to all Niggers, Slopes, Gooks, Slants, Bohunks, Waps and Kikes, would stake his life on it.
Smith-Jones expertly administered the shot and immediately destroyed the needle and the syringe.
"One more thing, sir, please," he said, taking Hector's arm and probing his bicep with a powerful finger jab. Gonzalez winced.
"Sorry sir," he said. He then removed a gun-like contraption from his medical bag and placed it against Gonzalez's arm. He seemed to be looking for the right spot and then he pulled the trigger. Gonzalez felt a sudden, searing jab in his muscle and saw stars for a moment.
"Steady, sir," Smith-Jones, said, holding him tightly.
The swoon passed and Gonzalez looked at his arm. A red welt had appeared and he could feel something hard and rigid under the skin.
"This will annoy you for a few days. Then you will become used to it. The red mark will mostly dissolve," he said. "It is a micro transmitter, a chip. It sends a specific signal that can only be monitored by one of our receivers. Wherever you go now, the authorities will scan your arm and know who you are. This way we can keep the terrorists from infiltrating our ranks, you see?"
Gonzalez had heard of this but thought this was also just an urban legend. He rubbed the welt.
As Wind in Dry Grass Page 10
