Calm Act Box Set (Books 1-3)

by Ginger Booth

  Who was I to call him crazy? Emmett was off to do something at least as insane, and I was behind him all the way. “Thank you, Major Cameron,” I breathed.

  Cam took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Emmett knows what he’s doing, Dee. Believe it.”

  “You must be Dwayne!” I said. He certainly looked like a Dwayne, with cafe au lait skin and short playful dreadlocks. I pegged him as around five years younger than Cam. Where Cam was upright and earnest, Dwayne seemed rounded and flexible and sway-backed, with a playful flashing smile.

  “Must be!” he agreed. “Welcome to Camp Cameron, our not-so-humble abode. I love this place.” He stepped beside me, and waved his arm wide to show off the spread in his imagination. “The horses and stables go there. And a gazebo on that little rise. Surrounded by rhododendrons.”

  “You said wisteria yesterday,” Cameron commented. He exuded not-into-flowers.

  “The wisteria bloom after the rhodies,” Dwayne explained.

  “I can see it,” I agreed. The rise was hard to detect. The grass grew waist-high around their sprawling brick ranch-style house. I guessed the lot at several acres. It featured a guest house, a triple garage for storage, and a large parking plaza for the trucks.

  “I like her, Cam. I like you. I’ll share my rabbit with you. I caught a rabbit today, hon.”

  “Outstanding, Dwayne. Dee, Kyla, my husband Dwayne Perard is a Coco,” Cameron offered by way of introduction. “Or used to be a Coco. Of Windham township in Connecticut. We haven’t gotten that far yet here.”

  “We’re working to secure the water supply,” Dwayne clarified. “Water. Sewage. Communications. Power.”

  “Enough power for water and communications, anyway. Dwayne, we have chicks. No, the other kind. That truck.”

  “Sorry, ladies, back to work. Slave driver.” Dwayne shot Cam a crooked grin and headed for the trucks. He sang the militia workers a bit of a Jackson 5 song – simple as ABC, 1, 2, 3, baby you and me... I admired his ability to project good cheer toward their vacant faces. He got them moving and working again, slowly.

  Cameron took us to tour a civilian encampment nearby, squatters in a once-upscale apartment complex. He called them day laborers. He and Dwayne, or local farmers, could go there to recruit a group of workers for whatever task. There was an open trench latrine, that the Army had dug for them when the quarantine line passed through here. Without the water mains running, the residents relied on a swimming pool to collect drinking and wash water. The downspouts of the roof rain gutters were redirected into the pool with add-on bits of gutter, scavenged from other buildings.

  Cameron called out and hired a half dozen people to help him work on the local pumping station. They each got an apple as down payment on their wages, to eat on their way to the job site for energy. Kyla and I elected to stay and talk to the locals instead of following Cam. He looked dubious about that, and called Dwayne on a walkie-talkie, asking him to check up on us in a bit.

  Then Kyla and I were alone with the sullen refugees. The ones who’d emerged from their apartments hoping for work and food, mostly disappeared back into the buildings. I spotted a few furtive children’s faces behind drapes or bushes. They vanished if we got close to them. Some women stood their ground by the pool, out washing clothes. I approached one, who looked slightly more spirited than the others.

  “Can I help?” I offered, with a friendly smile. Kyla hid behind her camera, recording.

  “Rinse,” she said. She was washing in a big beer cooler with detergent suds. A dish tub of sudsy clothes sat waiting next to another beer cooler, apparently the rinse water.

  I got busy with the rinsing, blessing my electricity and gas water heater and washing machine back home. Technology is a girl’s best friend. Without it, cooking and cleaning and clothing could easily fill a woman’s life to overflowing with drudgery.

  “I’m Dee. That’s Kyla. We’re filming to show people what it’s like here in Suffolk County, past the quarantine,” I explained, once I’d established myself as helping with the laundry.

  The woman narrowed her eyes at the camera, then returned to scrubbing.

  “Are these your husband’s clothes?” I asked. I was rinsing jeans around Emmett’s size.

  “Business,” she explained. “I wash, get some food in return. The pretty men prefer to hire clean workers. I hate men who smell.”

  I could relate. Some of the men who clamored for Cam’s jobs had smelled awfully ripe. I gathered that the pretty men were Cam and Dwayne. I could easily picture Cam insisting that his employees wash.

  “Are you originally from Riverhead?” I asked. “I’m from New Haven, across the Sound.”

  “Ronkonkoma,” she replied, naming a city near the middle of Long Island, maybe 20 miles west of where we stood in Riverhead. “What’s it like in New Haven now?”

  I privately exulted that I’d managed to elicit some curiosity from her. I told her that we worked hard, grew food, paid food taxes to support the militias and the border troops, and they protected us. That I still had power, a washing machine and dryer and stove and heat, Internet and phones. That Major Cameron hoped to that set up for them here, too. Running water, at least, to start. That most of the Northeast still had Internet. That’s how they’d see this video.

  The washer women kept their eyes on their laundry, but listened intently.

  “The pretty man you came with?” my washer inquired. “That’s Major Cameron?” I nodded. “What do they do about the rape gangs?”

  I glanced up at her sharply, and around at the other women. “They kill looters and rapists, in Connecticut,” I told them all. “We have no rape gangs.”

  “Not so loud,” my companion whispered in warning.

  Several men sauntered out of the closest building and headed for us. They didn’t shuffle in sullen vacant resignation like most.

  “Rape gang,” the woman breathed.

  Kyla scurried behind me, camera pointed at the men as her only defense. My weapons included a tub of cold water too heavy to lift, and wet jeans.

  “Fat asses,” one of the men commented. His aroma preceded him foully. I guessed them all to be in their early twenties. Kyla and I were a bit old for them, and actually on the lean side. But we were certainly curvier than the other gaunt women nearby. Good health definitely makes you more attractive.

  “What are you telling these fat asses, Mary?” One of them grabbed my washer companion by the hair, then grabbed and twisted her breast just to hurt her. “Getting ideas, stupid bitch?”

  I warily eyed the one zeroing in on me. His eyes were plastered to my wet shirt. I crouched down behind my beer cooler, and twisted the jeans in my hands. Kyla squeaked behind me as one of them grabbed at her.

  Suddenly a shot rang out. Our tormentors ran for the building, as Dwayne ran up to us. He barely spared us a glance, before he was yelling at the buildings. “Get them back out here!” he demanded. “If any of you ever want work again, you get those assholes back out here!” His new militia caught up. They headed into and around back of the building, to hunt our attackers down.

  Cameron had heard the gunshot from down the block. He jogged up to us, just as the last of the wannabe rapists was thrown to the lawn by the pool.

  “They were attacking the women,” Dwayne told him.

  “Mary told me they were a rape gang,” I explained, indicating Mary. I wasn’t sure what all a ‘rape gang’ entailed, but the gist was clear enough.

  “Did one of these men rape you, ma’am?” Cameron inquired.

  “All of them,” Mary agreed. The other women nodded.

  “Does anyone defend these men?” Cameron called out. The throng – several dozen now – shook their heads no. “Dwayne? You saw them assaulting these women?”

  Dwayne nodded.

  “Shoot them,” said Cameron, the Resco who’d defended the inmates of Connecticut.

  “Cam, are you sure about this?” Dwayne whispered urgently.

  “I am sure,”
replied Cameron coldly. To the crowd, he said, “We shoot looters and rapists. Kill them.” He handed a pistol to one of his new militia, who stood over each of the rapists in turn, gun to the back of their heads, while the other militia men held the rapists to the ground.

  Mary and her neighbors looked eager. I turned away, hugging myself, and winced at each execution shot. Kyla recorded, with a steady hand.

  Cam selected a few people to bury the corpses down by the latrines. He pre-paid them in apples.

  The attitude of the encampment visibly shifted. People who wouldn’t look at us before nodded in respect. Mary looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you.”

  Dwayne led his militia back to Camp Cameron, while Cam took us with him to the waterworks. They’d made their point.

  And within a few hours, Cam got the pumping station back online, powered intermittently by a solar array he’d cobbled onto it. The work crew actually smiled and cheered. Cam dispatched them to scatter through the residential neighborhoods. He needed them to turn off the water mains in abandoned homes, to keep pressure up instead of leaking out through all the pipes that burst last winter.

  “There’s a manual,” Cam explained. He pulled a hefty softcover off the side-board. After a meager supper of barbecued rabbit and apples, we’d set up for a formal interview at Cam’s dining table. Multiple cameras on tripods, and lighting in the form of camp lanterns, provided Kyla creative control.

  “The Resource Coordinator’s Guide,” Cam continued. “This book constitutes my written orders. And yes, Dwayne, I am ordered to shoot looters and rapists. A looter being someone who steals food and survival supplies from someone else. Salvage is fair game.”

  Of course salvage was fair game. This entire property was salvage. Dwayne chose to keep the portraits on the dining room sideboard, of the couple who’d lived here once. Stan and Rachel, their kids and grandkids. If any of them came back, they’d be welcome to stay. The backs of old photographs provided their names.

  Cam was really talking to me, for Kyla’s cameras, though Dwayne sat beside him. “We cannot tolerate looters, because looting destroys productivity. People waste their energy defending what they have instead of producing the food we need to survive. A rapist is a looter who terrorizes women, in practice.”

  “In Connecticut, you would have given those men a trial,” Dwayne argued stubbornly.

  “I gave them a trial. I confirmed, before a jury of their peers, that they were rapists. None spoke in their defense. It’s also perfectly acceptable to kill them in the act. These particular criminals also interfered with a Resco, by attacking Dee and Kyla. Attacking a Resco or Coco or his operation is also a capital offense. Always.”

  “Alright,” Dwayne allowed. “That one makes sense.”

  “It does?” I blurted.

  Cameron opened the manual to a page near the beginning. “A resource coordinator, first and foremost, must exert authority over the assigned area. That’s a pre-requisite. It is necessary that I be the biggest, baddest authority around, and use it to win the respect and cooperation of the populace. Let’s check. Were the citizens more, or less, cooperative, as a result of those executions?”

  “They were delighted,” I admitted. “The women especially. They almost looked like they dared hope again.”

  “My crew talked about it all afternoon,” Dwayne offered. “Said it was about time. I’ve never heard them talk so much before.”

  Cam nodded curtly, professionally. “This page in the manual outlines different levels of civilization that the Resco may find himself trying to organize. At any given level, the goal is to rise. In northeast Connecticut – my previous Resco assignment – we were about level 8, working toward level 9, on this 10-point scale. Middlesex County, under Lieutenant Colonel Mora, was likewise a solid 8 or 9. The shoreline counties run maybe 6 or 7.”

  “Hey!” I objected.

  “Dee, I’m basing that on your own Resco’s assessment. Lieutenant Colonel MacLaren rates New Haven at about a 7. Fairfield County fell hard at the beginning. They struggled heroically to get back up to a 6. Hartford is about the same. Litchfield County Connecticut is a 3.” He pressed his lips in disapproval of Litchfield County, a realm of petty armed kingdoms, each centered on a castle ark.

  “Here in Suffolk County on Long Island, we are at level 1. Essentially an unorganized struggle for basic survival. Even the gangs are small and powerless. Our current goal is to work our way up to a 3. My point is that different levels require different treatment, to gain and keep the respect of the people. As a Resco, I cannot improve the lives of people unless I exert authority. At this level of chaos, even the simplest order – we shoot rapists – is a huge win. Tonight we have running water, and three dead rapists. People sleep better tonight in Suffolk County, because of that. Not many people yet. But a few.”

  “And that wouldn’t have impressed anyone back in Mansfield or Windham,” I said.

  “Of course not,” Cam agreed. “They never lost running water. Rapists and looters never ran amok. We shot some, at the beginning. But northeast Connecticut never fell to these levels. There we even kept the state university running, let alone water.”

  “One of the state universities,” I quibbled. UConn was still alive. Eastern Connecticut State University was not.

  Cam nodded, and tapped a finger at level 8 on the infographic printed in his manual. “The goal at level 8 is efficient food production to support more trades and occupations. With UConn, I wanted to preserve the capacity for microelectronics fabrication, among other tech. Not many Rescos can afford that luxury now. But without microelectronics, we can’t maintain our communications infrastructure. I had a choice between supporting other colleges, or primary education. We chose to keep day care and public schools through grade 8. We also kept three high schools open, including Colonel Mora’s Middlesex County. The other teenagers need to work.”

  He pushed the Resco manual into the middle of the table. “Here in Suffolk County on Long Island, people could care less about microelectronics. They don’t have electricity. They need food and shelter.”

  “And order?” I ventured.

  Cam nodded. “Without order, any effort is useless. What good is it to plant and nurture a crop, or raise livestock, if someone will kill you for it? At this level of chaos, it was better for those women to live with a rape gang, than to have no protection at all.”

  At that beguiling thought, we fell into silence for a bit. I pulled the manual from the center of the table and looked at the description of level 7. “Why is New Haven only a 7?” I doubt the world wanted to know the answer to that, but I did. So it came off the top of my head.

  “Inefficient agriculture,” Cam answered. “I’m not criticizing your Resco, Dee. Emmett’s done a great job. People live fairly well around New Haven. But to live better, you need more effective agriculture. Larger farms, skilled farmers, proper equipment. New Haven is hung up at 7 because it’s full of little suburban lots, farmed by amateurs. We require local agriculture. So there’s a learning curve, and social adjustment. You can get some improvement from learning to farm better on the little lots. But you need bigger farms to be efficient.”

  Kyla broke in, surprising us all. She’d steadfastly trained us to see her only as the eye of a camera, not as a person. “Who wrote this manual?” she asked. She nudged my shoulder.

  “Who wrote this manual?” I parroted reluctantly, on cue. I wasn’t sure I wanted that question answered on camera, due to Emmett’s concerns.

  “The Army,” Cam replied without hesitation. “Before the Calm Act was put to a vote, it was given to the Army for study, and several other Federal agencies. What the likely outcomes of the Calm Act would be, and how to improve it. The Army play-tested the borders scenario, if you will. The Resco manual essentially distills their research, and the winning strategies. Based on that work, authorization for the Rescos themselves was added to the Calm Act. Without the Rescos, more regions would have fallen to lower levels
, and from there would tend to devolve even lower. The Army testers proposed the Rescos as a key to rebuilding.” He smiled.

  I smiled. “Thank you, Major Cameron. And thank you for taking on the challenge of rebuilding Suffolk County.”

  “Thank you, Dee.”

  I imagine most Rescos could have answered that question. The official answer was probably in the manual. But I bet only another of Emmett’s SAMS class could have expressed it that fluently, that clearly, that fast. Once the cameras were off, and Kyla elsewhere, I would have liked to casually ask him, ‘So hey, Cam, did you go to command school with Emmett?’ Or even, ‘Say, did you know Emmett before he moved to Connecticut?’

  But I didn’t ask. Emmett seemed adamant that SAMS must not be outed.

  Instead I asked Dwayne, before Kyla finished turning off the cameras, “So are you from Connecticut, too, Dwayne?”

  “No,” he said. Kyla got a great closeup of his expression. “I’m from Hoboken. My mother and little sisters are still there. Last I heard.” Hoboken New Jersey was just across the Hudson River from lower Manhattan, nestled between the Holland and Lincoln Tunnels. Cam laid a consoling hand on his shoulder.

  All four of us slept together under a down comforter in Cam and Dwayne’s big bed. There was a frost that night. Heat wasn’t on Cam’s list of priorities.

  14

  Interesting fact: Despite the sensational fear factor of Ebola, it is estimated that more people died inside the New York epidemic borders of cholera, typhus, typhoid, dehydration from diarrhea, and starvation.

  “I’ll be back at 4:30 to pick you up,” said Cam. We smiled and waved as he drove off to resurrect the next water pumping station.

  “Why are we staying with Cam instead of Tom tonight?” Kyla asked suspiciously. Her skepticism was understandable. Cam had left us to wait at a tall chain-link fence, topped with loops of razor wire, under a lowering morning sky. Literally lowering – that sky looked closer and darker by the minute. An unfriendly looking Army guard stood just inside, glaring at us. Something about him reminded me of the photo of soldiers in the Greenwich garrison, bowling with a child’s skull.