by Glen Tate
“We hopefully don’t have to use the semi food for the Grange meals,” Grant said. “Maybe we do. But it’s a last resort. A last, last resort.” Grant lowered his voice to make a serious point. “Winter is coming. Think about it. Winter. We need a reserve.” He let that sink in.
“So back to the meal cards,” Grant said. “If you’re not working for the community, which means you’re not getting a meal card for the one meal a day, you get a meal card when your own supplies have run out. But, we need to make sure your supplies have, indeed, run out. So by taking a meal card, you agree to let us look at your place and verify that you don’t have stacks of food. That’s the only fair way to do this.” The idea of searches, even voluntary ones in exchange for food, wasn’t setting too well with everyone. So Grant made the next point that he’d been saving up.
“Of course,” Grant said, “if you get a meal card, you need to do some work for the community. So if you run out of your own food, you need to start working for the community to get a meal card. It could be helping with the meal preparation. Or keeping track of the meal cards or helping keep track of all the donations. Or taking care of sick people. Or a million other things. It doesn’t have to be guard duty. Everyone out here can do something for the community. But it’s only fair that if the community is going to feed you that you do something in return.”
Silence. Uh oh.
“So what do you think?” Grant asked, a little timidly.
More silence.
“Hell of an idea,” said one guy.
“Sounds good.” “Love it.” “Sounds fair.” A little clapping.
Whew. Grant looked over at Snelling. He was emerging as the leader of the opposition. Grant seemed to have the votes so he thought he could take a little risk and have some fun.
“Mr. Snelling? Thoughts?” Grant said in his most respectful voice.
“I guess the macho men with guns,” Snelling said, “stole something and now want to control who gets it. Classic authoritarianism,” Snelling said in a calm, yet passive-aggressive voice.
“Boo!” “Shut up!” “Asshole.” It was only a few people saying it. Most people just sat there waiting to see how this conflict would play out.
Grant wanted to use this to knock Snelling down a few more pegs. “Let’s analyze your statement, Mr. Snelling.”
A few people started laughing, knowing that Grant was about to demolish Snelling’s statement piece by piece.
Grant said, “Macho men with guns? Well, yes, the Team risked getting shot to secure this for all of you. The guards, including dozens of volunteers who came streaming down to the gate, were ready to fight to the last death for this semi. And they secured it with guns because the people who stole this from Gideon—with guns—seemed to be coming here to shoot us and take the semi.”
Grant let that set in and went on. “Mr. Snelling, the people who stole this from Gideon—you can ask him yourself—were your beloved Freedom Corps. Your government at work, sir.”
Grant put his finger up to make a point and said, “Back to guns, though. Turns out the Freedom Corps thieves didn’t try to break into Pierce Point and shoot us, but we didn’t know that when we ran up to save Gideon. For all we know, the hijackers ran away when they saw us macho men with guns.”
The crowd laughed. They loved this.
“Stole?” Grant continued. “Do you want to return this to the corrupt corporation that is in bed with the government, Mr. Snelling?” Grant usually didn’t talk about politics like this to the residents, but this was such a teachable moment about soft fascism—corporations and government getting together to screw the little people—that he couldn’t resist. There was no better way to show the audience about soft fascism than a concrete example, like a semi of food that they wanted to keep for themselves.
Grant decided to go for the jugular. “Go ahead, Mr. Snelling, tell everyone here that you want this food sent back to your corporate and government buddies. Then they can distribute it to themselves. Just like they’ve been taking from us and giving to themselves for years now?”
More boos and jeering from the crowd. Snelling could not believe that Grant was batting him around like a mouse.
“But my favorite line of yours, Mr. Snelling,” Grant said, “is that bit about ‘authoritarianism.’ How is it, again, that us asking people tonight what they want to do with the food is ‘authoritarianism’?”
Cheers and applause.
Grant knew what was really bothering Snelling: the meal cards. The community would control the meal cards. Actually, the threat to Snelling was that Grant would control the meal cards. But, in reality, Grant would not control them. A group of others, like Drew and anyone who wanted to help him, would actually administer the cards. But Snelling thought Grant would control the meal cards.
Snelling also hated the part about having to work for the community to get the meal card. This was ironic given that Snelling, who would probably describe himself as a “progressive” in the past, went to cocktail parties in Seattle and talked about how people needed to do more for the community. Not now, when Snelling’s people weren’t the ones running things. Now doing things for the community was “authoritarianism.”
Rich correctly sensed that this was a great time to take a vote. “All in favor of holding the semi in reserve for emergencies and for the meal card plan, say ‘aye.’”
“Aye!” said almost the entire crowd.
“Those opposed?” Rich said.
“Nay,” said Snelling, his wife, and a handful of his followers.
The vote was about 150 to five. Grant couldn’t believe it went that well.
He wanted to make sure this thing took root. “We need as many people as possible to administer the meal cards. We are not keeping this limited to any group of people. Don’t feel like this is some inside job like the government has been. You can be involved in this and anyone at any time can see the records and watch how the process is administered.” Grant knew that when people got hungry they would start having wild conspiracy theories about preferential treatment. It was important for everyone’s impression to be that there was no favoritism.
“Any other business?” Rich asked.
Grant raised his hand. “An alert system. Yesterday, we found out the hard way with the scare about the attack that we don’t have a way of rounding up the troops. We need one.”
It was quiet. Finally, a man raised his hand.
“I’m Gene Shonemaker. I will put an alert system together. Phones still work most of the time. We can have a phone tree where people call a list of other people. Maybe we could get a big horn here at the Grange to alert people to start making the calls. We’ll work it out,” he said.
“Perfect,” said Grant. He not only wanted an alert system, he wanted people to start volunteering to take on things like this and show their neighbors that everyone—not just Grant and Rich—were running things out there.
Rich said, “Grant, you wanted to talk about transportation.”
“Yes,” Grant said. “Mobilizing the guards showed that we need a transportation system. Gas is in short supply. We need to conserve it. We can use private vehicles in an emergency, but we should really have a bus or vans or something. I see two needs here. First, to get a lot of troops around quickly. Like, if guards get alerted by Gene and then we have a bus to go into the gate. Second, we all need to get around here, especially here to the Grange which is the headquarters of all we’re doing. We should maybe have a bus service that picks up in various places and makes a regular run here. Maybe like a morning, noon, and evening run. It won’t be as frequent as we’re used to, but it will save a ton of gas and diesel.”
A few hands went up. “Great,” Grant said, looking over at Rich. “Let’s get together after the meeting and you guys can start putting this thing together,” Grant said.
People were amazed at how Grant seemed to be thinking of all these things. So was Grant, although it wasn’t that it was brilliant to think “we
need some rides;” it was pretty obvious that they needed a transportation system. The amazing part was that Grant was just up there in front of 150 people saying, “Hey, we need a bus service. Let’s get one together,” and it was getting done.
“Any other business,” Rich asked. He was tired.
A woman stood up. Grant had seen her around, but didn’t know her name. She was kind of a hippie looking lady in her fifties or sixties with a touch of gray in her hair. “We need to have some organized gardening,” she said.
“Your name, ma’am?” Rich asked.
“Oh, Betty Norris out on Anderson Road.” Rich motioned for her to go ahead.
“I’ve been growing food out here for years,” she said. “I’m happy to help anyone who needs it.”
A murmur went up. It sounded like a lot of people needed some gardening help. Betty smiled. She loved helping people.
Betty also felt a little vindicated. For years, people wondered why the crazy hippy lady grew her own food when there was perfectly good food just sitting there at the grocery store. Betty was concerned about food additives and started growing a few fruits and vegetables. Then she realized how much better homegrown food tasted. Then, when the economy went into the crapper, she realized how much money she was saving. There was no looking back. Each year, she added more and more crops to her garden, which, at over an acre was actually more of a small farm than a “garden.”
“I have seeds you can use,” Betty said. “They’re tested and they grow great out here.” She smiled. She had been saving seeds for just an occasion like this. Not that she was a “survivalist,” but she just thought it would be a good idea to have some seeds. It wasn’t much work to save them and she knew—she just knew—that others would need them.
“How would you like to proceed?” Rich asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Betty said. “People can just talk to me after the meeting. Maybe we can have some classes here in the mornings. Then people can come out to my place and see what I’m talking about and get some seeds.” What an extraordinary offer she was making.
Grant had always expected people to be extremely greedy when the Collapse happened. There was some of that, even in Pierce Point, but there was more generosity than greed. Whether she knew it or not, Betty was exposing herself to possible theft by telling people she had all that food. Then again, the full time residents probably knew she grew all that food already. She had probably given them tomatoes and other things for years. But still, it was a big risk to raise her hand during the Collapse and say, “I have tons of food. Come to my house and see.”
Grant made a mental note to talk to Betty about having a guard out at her house. Maybe a gardening guard, a person who wanted to help her with the teaching and seed sharing—and who was well armed. That was the least the community could do for Betty.
Rich didn’t want the meeting to bog down on the details of Betty’s gardening so he said, “OK, after the meeting come and see Betty to volunteer. Thank you so much, Betty. Really. This is great.”
Betty blushed. She was so proud. She was so glad to be helping and not be the crazy “organic” lady anymore.
When Rich asked if there were any more topics for discussion, Mary Anne raised her hand. “Mrs. Roth’s funeral will be tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. Here in the Grange.”
She paused. She looked embarrassed and uncomfortable when she said, “We actually buried her yesterday when everyone was at the gate expecting trouble. We don’t have any embalming fluid, so we needed to. But we will have a service remembering her life and—for those of you who didn’t know her—tell the amazing story of her life. I know most of you didn’t really know her, but you should come to this for yourself. You will learn so much about…yourself. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? But, you will. You’ll see what a life well lived is all about and how we’re only here for a short while.”
Everyone clapped. Not only was Mrs. Roth’s legacy those fabulous canning supplies, which would feed lots of people in the coming months, but her death would help bring people at Pierce Point together. She would have been proud. Grant felt like she could see what was happening down in Pierce Point and was very happy.
Mary Anne had some papers in her hand. She started passing them out. “This is the first edition,” she said, “of the Pierce Point Patriot, our newspaper. That’s right: our newspaper. Thanks to Ken Dolphson for getting this put together and making the copies. We only made a few copies since we might run out of copy paper and not be able to get more for a while. So please read it and share it with a neighbor.”
People were looking at the sheet of paper as she spoke. They were impressed with it. A newspaper; their very own. Having their own little tiny newspaper was one more way to help secure the community feeling that was developing. Instead of reading a Seattle or Olympia newspaper, which didn’t really relate directly to them, they were reading a Pierce Point newspaper. It was all about them. People went to great effort to produce a newspaper just for them.
Grant was anxious to see the paper. It was well done. This first edition was all about Mrs. Roth, as it should have been. Sure enough, Ken had put a “Don’t Tread on Me” on the top of the paper by the words “Pierce Point Patriot.” Grant heard Snelling groan as he read it. Snelling understood the significance of that “Don’t Tread on Me” on the paper.
Good. Let Snelling realize he was being out organized here. This wasn’t Snelling’s little weekend getaway where a bunch of rednecks unfortunately lived. No, Pierce Point was a Patriot stronghold, whether they realized it yet or not.
Snelling crumbled up the paper and stormed out with his handful of supporters. It was like some high school thing where a clique of kids couldn’t stand everyone else. It was very immature. But Grant was glad they were acting this way.
After a while, as the meeting was finally winding down, Lisa came over to Grant. She was tired, too. People were coming up to her to meet the doctor. She was a popular person at Pierce Point.
Finally, she broke away and said to Grant, “Hey, we need some medical supplies. Like, badly. I didn’t want to say anything publicly tonight because that would make people lose confidence in the clinic, but we need supplies.”
As Lisa said that, Rich and Cindy, the nurse, heard it and came up to them.
“Yes, we do,” said Cindy. She had a clipboard and waved it around. “I have a list.”
Rich took a look at the list. He pulled Grant over and whispered, “I have an idea.” Rich told Grant his idea. Grant realized why Rich was whispering.
Grant said to Lisa and Cindy, “We’ll get back with you tomorrow morning on this, Cindy. Would you be able to come into town tomorrow and help us get these? You’d have an extremely well-armed escort, of course.”
“Oh, OK,” Cindy said. She hadn’t really wanted to go into town, well-armed escort or not, but she could see that they needed someone with medical expertise to get the supplies. Lisa could do it, but it was Cindy’s list and, besides, they might need a doctor that day and could live without a nurse right then. Cindy was spearheading the medical supplies issue. Grant admitted to himself that another reason to have Cindy instead of Lisa go into town was that Grant didn’t want Lisa to get killed. Cindy was nice and all, but…
Grant knew he needed to talk to Chip for Rich’s plan to work. He went outside and talked to Chip. It took a while, but Chip eventually agreed. Grant went back in and told Rich the plan would work. Rich smiled.
Chapter 133
The Legend of Pierce Point
(May 14)
Grant got up at about 7:00 a.m. that morning, which felt like sleeping in. He felt rested, a feeling he hadn’t had in a while. He had a light day ahead of him for the first time since he got out there. He needed it. All these all-nighters, stress, and runnin’ and gunnin’ was wearing him out.
He got up and started making pancakes. He wanted to give Eileen and the others who had been making breakfast for the past few days a little break. Not that they minded doing it, he ju
st wanted to show his thanks by doing it for them.
Grant loved the smell of those pancakes. He took several deep breaths and savored the smell. It wasn’t just that they smelled good and he was hungry. It was that he had pancake mix out there and he had his family to cook for. He had prepared for this and—by some miracle—his family was out there. He had written them off when he first got out there. He had mentally decided that he would spend the rest of his life without them because they wouldn’t come out. Now they were sleeping in his beloved cabin and he was making them pancakes. What could be better?
His family started stirring. First Eileen, and then Drew. Eileen helped with breakfast and Drew made coffee. Grant, who didn’t drink much coffee, was very glad he brought out plenty of coffee and filters before the Collapse. He knew that coffee had a civilizing effect on people. A morning cup of coffee was a pre-Collapse routine. Having a cup out there was a connection to the pre-Collapse “normal.” That was very important.
Grant had always hated normalcy bias, but there were parts of “normal” that were healthy and beneficial. A morning cup of coffee reminded people of the past when things were good and gave them hope that even during this stressful time, these things of comfort were still available. Not everything had changed; that was reassuring. They would have coffee through this and enjoy it after things got better.
The Morrells and Colsons came over. Missy Colson was playing with Cole, and Manda was watching over them. That was working well. It seemed that Manda had grown up in the past few weeks, nearly overnight. It was remarkable to see her—who Grant remembered just a few short years ago playing like little Missy—now being the teenager in charge.
The Team came over, too. Ryan was now fully integrated with them, which was good. He was staying out at the yellow cabin with the rest of the Team. They were a tight-knit group, so it wasn’t easy to quickly fit in, but Ryan, a combat Marine, had the respect of the guys, so it worked well.
