We elbowed our way through the crowd and got between the two parties.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked Rebecca.
“These people were being aggressive and threatening toward the minister here,” she said. “He refused to serve them because they were intoxicated and they’re having a reaction to that.”
“I will not serve people who are intoxicated,” the minister said. “They chose drunkenness over food today. They have to live with the consequences of their decision.”
I turned to the group of angry men. “It’s his food, his decision on who to serve,” I told them, shrugging.
“The hell it is,” said the apparent ringleader, a short man with close cropped hair. He wore a white tank top and was covered in what appeared to be gang tattoos, although my experience with gang tattoos was limited to what I saw on television. “What’s stopping us from just taking what we want?”
“I will stop you,” the minister said. “I am a man of peace, but our food will not be used to fuel your bodies for further sinful endeavors. If you take so much as a single wiener, you will be smote in the name of our Lord.”
“You need to go back to Mexico,” said an obese woman in a tight red shirt. She had been serving food and appeared to be of some relation to the minister, perhaps his wife. “We’re doing God’s work and you people are nothing but takers.”
The man laughed. “First off, I’m Salvadoran, not Mexican. Second, I was born in California which makes me a U.S. citizen. Third, you’re a racist fucking bitch.”
The minister surged toward him. “You cannot talk to my wife that way!” he yelled while Rebecca and I struggled to hold him back.
“Listen, crazy man, I’m getting tired of fooling with you,” the Hispanic man said to the minister. He raised his tank top and showed the handle of a gun, then lowered his shirt back down. “We want cheeseburgers and we want them now or someone is getting fucked up.”
I turned loose the minister and faced the guy. “You have guns, we have guns,” I said to him. “We gonna have a damn war over hamburgers and hot dogs? You willing to die for that?”
“I don’t plan on dying,” the man replied, his eyes cold, his voice low. “The question is, are you prepared to die for that?”
I looked him in the eye. “I don’t think anyone should die for a burger, no matter how good it is. I also think we need to work this out without guns. You turn this up a notch and there’s no telling how many people will get hurt. That what you want?”
My attempt at negotiating was interrupted by sirens and a flurry of emergency vehicles pouring over the hill toward us. I could see several police cruisers, a few police SUVs, and even two armored personnel carriers with painted sheriff’s department logos. The Hispanic contingent abandoned ship and took off running at the sound of the sirens. It was obvious from the quickness of their response that they’d done this before. The rest of us stood our ground while the vehicles rolled to a stop beside the tent.
Two of the police cruisers and a large brown SUV stopped at our tent. The rest of the force continued down to the convenience store where the drinking had been concentrated. Two deputies approached, one with a black pump shotgun, the other with a variant of the M-4 assault rifle. The deputies were wearing black fatigues, followed by a tall man in a regular brown sheriff uniform with a wide-brimmed brown felt hat.
“You alright, Minister?” the sheriff asked.
The minister nodded, straightening his clothes and attempting to regain his bearing. “Just a little scuffle,” he said. “The forces of righteousness prevailed.”
“Emmet Cox is on his way to the hospital with that sick lady and her husband,” the sheriff said. “He told us what was happening out here.”
“We’ve fed many mouths today, Sheriff,” the minister said. “The drunks only became a problem a little bit ago.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to shut it down,” the sheriff said. “I can’t guarantee your safety. I have an announcement to make to the folks stuck here and when I’m done I expect you to have your stuff packed and follow us back in. We’ll maintain a presence at the roadblock tonight but we need all the townspeople back in town. We’re stretched too thin to have to go out rescuing folks, no matter how well intentioned they are.”
The minister nodded. He had no basis for an argument, although he seemed reluctant to give up his work here feeding the hungry. “We’ll be packed,” he said simply.
“Good,” the sheriff said. “Can I ask the rest of you folks to work your way down to the exit ramps there? I have some announcements to make and then you folks can do whatever you’re going to do for the night.”
With that, the sheriff turned and walked back to his Blazer. The two men who’d arrived with him stuck around, presumably to encourage us travelers to promptly make our way down for the announcement.
“Well, I appreciate the hospitality,” I said to the minister. “You guys stay safe and take care of yourselves.”
He extended his hand and I shook it. “Oh, hold on,” he said, raising a hand to me then bolting off toward the serving line, returning in a moment with a blue cooler, the kind that holds around a case of beer. He extended it toward me.
“I know you missed dinner bringing those folks in. That’s packed with food. There’s burgers and hot dogs, beans, slaw, all the fixings. It’s your reward for keeping the peace.”
I laughed. “I was just saving that guy’s ass,” I said. “I thought you were going to take him down.”
The minister blushed and looked down. “I let my personal objectives get in the way of the Lord’s work.”
I shook his hand again and we parted ways. Our whole crew was still wandering around and we reassembled, making our way down toward the growing cluster of people at the foot of the off-ramp. From a distance we could see that the sheriff was standing atop one of the armored personnel carriers. It was unusual for local police forces to have equipment like that, but it was through the combination of Homeland Security grants and the glut of surplus equipment from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Other deputies were breaking up the party at the convenience store. Some belligerent and uncooperative revelers were face down on the oily concrete, their plasti-cuffed hands behind their backs.
With the hotels, businesses, and surrounding parking lots emptied there were more people here than I would have ever expected. It estimated the crowd to be around three hundred fifty or so. The crowd stood on the paved roadway, some sitting on the various guardrails and disabled vehicles. When it looked like there were no more people streaming in, the sheriff took up a bullhorn and addressed the crowd.
“Good evening, folks,” he began. “I need to make a few announcements but first I want to express that I am sorry that so many of you have found yourselves unable to make it home due to the unfortunate circumstances that we are experiencing right now. From the information that I am receiving, there is extensive damage to the nation’s infrastructure and to our fuel refining and delivery systems. There is no projection as to when things will return to normal, but it is likely that we may have to endure several months, possibly even several years of hardship before all services and conveniences we were used to are restored.”
This led to a rumble in the crowd. Apparently some people had not been able to put the pieces together for themselves. Those were the people who would not be prepared for the difficulties of the coming year. Looking around me, I knew that at least half of these people were likely to be dead in a year if government projections on this type of scenario were accurate. Lack of medicine and food would wreak havoc on the population in short order. Some estimates even went as far as to say that serious systems failure could result in a 90% fatality rate at the end of the first year due to starvation, violence, and illness.
“I have been on the radio with Virginia Emergency Management officials and it’s clear that what is going on here at this exit is going on across the whole country. Throughout the Commonwealth of Vi
rginia, up and down the interstate highways, people are clustered at exits and rest areas doing the same thing you folks are – trying to figure out how you’re going to get home and how you’re going to survive. It’s clear, though, that allowing people to stay at exits is not going to work. Things will disintegrate into chaos and lawlessness, just as you folks have seen today.
“The word we’re getting is that FEMA, in cooperation with state and local authorities, is establishing shelters for stranded travelers. The nearest will be about twenty-five miles away, at the junction of I-81 and I-64, near Lexington. Tomorrow morning, a convoy of chartered buses will begin picking up folks at exits and rest areas. The buses will transport you to this shelter where you can receive food, shelter, and have any emergency needs seen to. FEMA staff will assist with developing a plan for getting people back to their own regions, although you need to understand that this may take quite some time.”
“If the buses pass by our town, can we get off?” a voice shouted from the crowd. It was a hairy man in a white tank top and a red Bass Pro Shops cap. “I live closer than Lexington.”
“My understanding is that if the bus passes your exit, they will let you off there, although the buses will not leave the interstate to take you any further,” the sheriff replied.
“What if we don’t want to go to these FEMA camps?” asked another man, a bearded trucker in a Harley Davidson t-shirt with a chain wallet.
The sheriff shook his head. “Don’t go calling these FEMA camps,” he said. “These are emergency shelters for stranded travelers.”
“Does that mean I don’t have to go?” the trucker asked.
“There was no mention of forced relocation,” the sheriff said. “However, I am following suit with the actions of other law enforcement authorities up and down the interstate and taking action to shut down this exit after the buses pass through tomorrow.”
There was more of a rumble as people began discussing this.
“What do you mean by closing the exit?” someone asked.
“I mean,” the sheriff responded, “that it will be like closing time at the bar. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. My force is stretched too thin to have to deal with policing this area. Everyone here will have to leave tomorrow morning one way or another. You can take the buses or you can leave on foot, but you cannot enter our town and I would heavily advise against setting out on foot. Word is that crime is rampant on the interstate as folks are becoming more and more desperate. There’s word of murders, robberies, and sexual assault all up and down the interstate, and law enforcement is obviously unable to respond to everything. We’re facing limitations of our own. It’s likely that things out there will get worse before they get better.”
Gary and I caught each other’s eye. We’d seen that increased crime and desperation already. Obviously it was just a little taste of what was out there in the world waiting on us.
“You don’t leave a man many choices,” the trucker spat. “Trust the government to get you home or take a chance on getting killed on the highway.”
“Yep, that’s about the size of it. I could put lipstick on it, but it would still be a pig.” The sheriff nodded grimly. “If there are no more questions, we’ll be back in the morning to coordinate with FEMA and assist anyone who needs help getting on the buses. After that, we’ll expect you all to be gone. And just as a warning to anyone who is thinking they might just stay and get arrested as a way of securing shelter and meals for the duration of this crisis, we are not prepared for that. Anyone who does not cooperate will be loaded onto trucks, taken down the interstate and dumped off at a spot of our choosing. So don’t try it.”
With that, the sheriff handed the bullhorn to a fatigue-clad deputy and jumped down from the APC. The sheriff and his deputies loaded into their various vehicles, started them, and crept off back past their roadblock, closing it behind them with vehicles.
“I thought they’d at least stay and offer some level of security for the night,” Gary said.
“I guess they’ve got their own problems,” I remarked.
“Maybe we should just head back to our room and discuss our plans,” Gary suggested. “Who knows how long the peace will last with those guys gone? And I’m starving.”
“You can say that again,” I commented, pointing toward the gas station parking lot where deputies had left the handcuffed troublemakers. Their friends were now using knives to slice them free of their plastic handcuffs. They’d be back raising hell in no time.
Chapter 10
Ellen stood in front of the gun safe with the children standing behind her. She was wearing a Petzl headlamp that Jim kept hanging nearby to better see inside the dark recesses of the safe.
“You guys need to remember that we have to be safe around these guns,” she said.
“We’ve been shooting a lot, Mom,” Pete said. “We know to be careful.”
“I know all that,” Ellen said. “This is different. Your dad’s not here and guns may be a bigger part of our life until he gets home. You need to not touch them unless I tell you to bring me one or unless you are supposed to be using one. Do you understand?’
Pete and Ariel nodded seriously.
“There may be a time that I ask you to bring me one. How do you handle one safely?”
“Always point it in a safe direction,” Ariel said. “Where there are no people.”
“That’s right,” Ellen said. “What else?”
“Don’t put your finger on the trigger,” Pete said. “Never put your finger inside the trigger guard unless you are planning on shooting it.”
“That’s right, too,” Ellen said. “Always treat them as if they are loaded and ready to shoot. I’m going to get a few out and we are going to put them around the house so we can get to them easily if we need to.”
“Why?” Ariel asked. She was always the practical one who required an explanation. Pete took you at your word; she did not.
“Because we have to be on the lookout that no one wants to come take any of our supplies,” Ellen said. “People may want our generator, our food, or our gas. We may have to protect ourselves. If people come down this way – if anyone you don’t recognize comes down this road –you come get me and you lock the doors. You do not talk to anyone. You do not answer any questions. People may do crazy things, and we need to stay away from them.”
“That’s scary, Mom,” Ariel said, scowling at Ellen. “Why are you telling me scary stuff?”
“I know, honey,” Ellen said. “It is scary. That’s why we have the guns. They are for protection if we need them. We’ll be okay.”
When the kids had no other questions or comments, Ellen unlocked the combination lock to the gun safe. As the door swung open, she realized she had not really paid a lot of attention over the years to what was in there. She recognized guns they’d shot and had all been trained on when they went target shooting as a family. It also appeared that there were a lot more guns than she knew about. She wouldn’t be surprised if Jim went and bought guns and never told her about it. She knew he also traded different things for guns. He was always concerned about seeming paranoid, or worrying that she’d say something about the money he spent on them. She would never have said anything about it, though. She understood why he bought guns. It was because he loved his family and he wanted them to be safe. That, and he really, really liked guns.
Her plan was to take a few guns she was familiar and comfortable with and place them at strategic locations throughout the house. She began with Jim’s customized Remington 870 shotgun. It was a 12 gauge with a short barrel and a magazine extension that nearly reached the end of the barrel. It also had a collapsible M-4 style stock and a single-point sling. Jim had outfitted it with fiber optic sights that were inexpensive but collected a lot of light. They were fast to acquire and made it easy to track a moving target.
Jim had told her that he always kept this gun loaded with 00 buckshot. Utilizing the training Jim had given he
r on this gun, she drew the pump action back slightly to open the chamber and confirm that there was indeed a shell in the chamber. There was. She double-checked the safety.
“This is a very dangerous gun,” she told the children. “They are all dangerous, but this one is very loud and the shot spreads out over a larger area than regular bullets do.”
“Of course it does,” Ariel said confidently. “It’s a shotgun.”
“Yes, dear, it is,” Ellen said, realizing Ariel had absorbed more of Jim’s training than she thought. “Pete, I want you to take this gun and slide it behind the couch by the back door,” Ellen said. “Put these shells with it, too. Push it up under there to where we can reach it easily but no one can see it from the back door.”
“Got it,” Pete said.
Ellen reached back into the gun safe and removed a bandoleer containing more rounds of 00 buckshot for the weapon and placed them over Pete’s shoulder. She then handed him the shotgun and he left to carry out her instructions.
The next weapon Ellen removed from the gun safe was Jim’s M-4. She didn’t know what brand it was, but knew it was one of Jim’s favorite weapons. He’d told her once they were like Barbie dolls for men because of the amount of accessories that could be put on them. Jim’s had a few tricks on it but was not nearly as elaborate as some he’d shown her in magazines. There was a 30-round magazine inserted into the weapon, though no round in the chamber because of a yellow plastic safety device that protruded from it. She picked up the weapon, checked that the safety switch was in the safe position, and then drew back on the charging handle slightly. While she had the chamber open, she removed the plastic safety round from the chamber, made sure the magazine was seated, and then pressed the release button to allow the bolt to fly forward and chamber a round. There was a satisfying sound to all those actions and a comfort in knowing that this weapon was now hot and available to protect them.
Atop the weapon was a folding set of back up iron sights which she knew how to use. There was also a fairly inexpensive, but very functional, Primary Arms optic that she’d purchased one Christmas for Jim. She twisted a knob on the optic and confirmed through the clear lens caps that the red dot inside the optic illuminated. She turned the red dot back off, hung the single-point sling from her shoulder, and took a few spare magazines from the shelf in the gun safe. This reminded her that there was an entire ammo can of empty magazines in the basement for this rifle. She also knew that Jim had thousands of rounds of the 5.56 ammunition that this rifle used.
The Borrowed World: A Novel of Post-Apocalyptic Collapse Page 10
