by Joe Nobody
DA Gibson squared her shoulders and stepped outside. The sun was already a quarter high in the eastern sky, and the sudden brightness cause her to flinch, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. She was greeted with a chorus of “Good morning, ma’am,” from the gathered onlookers.
Glancing around until her eyes acclimated to the brightness, Miss Gibson inventoried the men who stood in a semi-circle around the side entrance to the Pecos County courthouse. She knew all of the six onlookers well. Four of them were what the citizens now called enforcers, ex-lawmen who didn’t bother with a uniform anymore. Long guns and badges were the only remaining hint of their pre-collapse responsibilities.
The fifth man was the town’s resident electrician who was standing next to the warden, the person responsible for the refugee camp.
“What’s on the agenda this morning, gentlemen?”
The electrician stepped forward and spoke first. “Ma’am, I’m on my way over to the Jones place again. We’re going to take another shot at making that water well work. I’ve got the battery-wagon all charged up.”
Pat thought about the man’s statement for a moment before replying. “Are you sure we’ve corrected yesterday’s problem?”
“Yes, ma’am. One of the batteries shorted out. I had to requisition another from the storehouse.”
“Another one? Isn’t that three already this week?”
The man avoided Pat’s gaze, choosing instead to look down at his dusty boots and mutter, “Yes, ma’am.”
Buying time to think, Miss Gibson glanced at the nearby horse-drawn wagon. Stepping over to the contraption, she studied the contents of its bed. Rows of automobile batteries rested on the wooden floorboard, each connected in a series with heavy cables that in a former life had been jumper cables. At the rear was another larger, green metal box that the engineer called an “inverter,” a device used to convert the electricity generated by the batteries into more usable current.
Turning back to the nervous electrician, she asked, “How many batteries are left in the warehouse?”
“I’m not exactly sure, Miss Gibson. I would estimate there are about 20 left.”
Pat wasn’t happy with that answer. “You would estimate? You can’t count to 20? I want to see those inventory sheets on my desk first thing in the morning. Every single battery had better be accounted for, or we will be hunting for a new electrician. Do I make myself clear?”
“Ye… Ye… Yes ma’am,” stuttered the linesman.
DA Gibson stepped closer and pointed with her finger. “If I find that you’ve been trading our precious batteries for something like whiskey, you’ll have more to worry about than finding another line of employment.”
Pat’s threat caused the enforcers to chuckle, but they all knew it wasn’t a laughing matter. Shortly after the collapse, the DA had organized a seizure of every unused automobile battery in town. The move had saved hundreds of lives.
Unlike many small towns, Fort Stockdale’s water wasn’t supplied by a single well. The berg’s location on the high desert plains had forced the city’s planners to drill several smaller wells into the pockets of life-giving liquid trapped in the limestone below. When it became clear that the electrical service wasn’t going to return quickly, DA Gibson had organized a mobile power plant that traveled around the town and pumped water into the above ground storage tanks.
At first, a pickup truck had been used to haul the life-sustaining cargo. Gasoline generators charged the battery banks overnight, and then the truck drove from well to well, hooking up the power and pumping the neighborhood’s tank full. When the gasoline began to run out, horses were substituted. Eventually, wood gas had to be used to run the generators.
Despite being a town of over 8,000 people, the number of car batteries scavenged had been remarkably slim. Most of the automotive parts stores in town carried a minimal number of replacements. Even the big box store chains with extensive auto repair facilities produced fewer than expected quantities. Still, the system worked, and the people had water – for the most part.
The population didn’t remain at 8,000 for long.
Food had been a completely different challenge. Little local produce was cultivated in the surrounding countryside, and the local cattle population was quickly depleted.
DA Gibson had instituted rationing, seized private property, and taken control of a local government that had completely disintegrated in a matter of weeks. It was the most difficult moral dilemma she had ever faced. Not only was the workload extreme, the ethics of the entire process went against her grain. She had become a lawyer to protect people’s freedoms, not take them away. She had worked two jobs, studied all night, and avoided interpersonal entanglements in her resolve to protect the American way of life. To find herself in a situation where so many lives depended on her violating those rights was demoralizing at best.
But there hadn’t been any choice.
It seemed like every single day had required life and death decisions. Who received medical care, and who suffered with pain? Who received food and who went hungry? What should be done with a man caught stealing food? What should be done with a woman accused of killing her neighbor?
The town’s mayor had been killed in the first wave of violence that swept the small town. Desperate, starving citizens without water demanded the city do something – anything. The protest had turned violent, first with rocks, then bottles, and eventually gunshots. The elected official had died in Pat’s arms.
Something came over her that fateful afternoon. The ring of deputy sheriffs and city police officers was being pushed back, law enforcement’s struggle failing to keep the swelling throng of angry residents away from the courthouse. DA Gibson remembered the fear she felt from the mob. She watched a police officer fall, not 20 feet away, and then stared in horror as the man’s body was literally torn apart – such was the ferocity of the horde.
In less than 15 minutes, the Chief of Police turned to DA Gibson and screamed, “What do you want us to do? We can’t hold out much longer.”
“Why are you asking me?” she had shouted over the clamor of the crowd’s howling fury.
“Because everyone else in the chain of command is dead.”
Terrified - positive she was going to die horribly at the hands of the very people who had voted her into office, those fateful words had rolled out of her throat. “Fire into the crowd, Chief. Disburse those people by any means necessary.”
The blood spilled that afternoon had stained the streets of the courthouse square for weeks before enough rain fell from the arid Texas sky to wash it away. When the light was just right, DA Gibson thought she could still detect dark areas on the pavement, remnants of the desperate ones who fell that day. She prayed that time would fade the visions of carnage from her memory.
Since that event, DA Gibson had ruled Fort Stockdale with an iron fist. She considered her soul already lost and went about running the town’s business without emotion or compassion, every decision based on the cold, hard logic of what would keep the most citizens alive for another day.
Suicide was always on her mind.
Meraton, Texas
January 24, 2016
Pete’s Place was doing a brisk early evening business. The warmer-than-normal West Texas day had brought the crowd hustling in for a cold one as soon as the market had closed. Cold one, thought Pete. I didn’t think I’d ever serve another frosty beverage again. Thank heavens for electricity!
The bar’s patrons filled every stool and table, the smell of cigar smoke, leather, and gun oil permeating the small establishment. The early hour prompted most patrons to be on their best behavior, the din of conversation, laughter, and good times reverberating throughout.
Pete was busy behind the bar, fulfilling the traditional role that included being a good listener, janitorial service, and server, ensuring glasses stayed full. With one towel over his shoulder, and another in his hand making small circles on the bar, he didn’t no
tice the new arrivals at first. It wasn’t until a hush fell over the place that he looked up to see three strangers entering his establishment.
The first gentleman to breech the threshold was a tall man. Pete guessed the stranger topped 6’4” and was well over 200 pounds. A dark Stetson angled slightly down in the front shadowed the man’s face, but nothing could hide the muscular chest that bulged underneath the fellow’s plaid shirt.
Behind the first, entered a second gentleman. This guy was older, not as tall, but still a formidable looking character. Tuffs of gray hair showed beneath the worn brim of his headgear, a rock-like jaw projecting determination and authority. He’s the boss, thought Pete. I can see it in his eyes.
The trio of strangers was rounded out by a thin, wiry looking cowhand. Not overly large or heavy, Pete’s instincts bristled when he looked into the man’s icy, dark-green eyes. Here’s the dangerous one, the bartender judged, this man’s not afraid of anything because he’s seen it all before – and he won.
Pete slid half a step down the bar, positioning himself within easy reach of the sawed-off shotgun residing there. He was just about to reach for the weapon when one of the customers called out. “Mr. Beltran! Welcome sir! I’ve not seen you in Meraton for a long time.”
The older man in the middle removed his hat and smiled at the greeter. “Hello, CJ. It has been a while at that.”
Following their boss’ gesture, the two cowpokes removed their hats, and the general atmosphere relaxed. Several people moved to greet the famous local rancher, Pete counting no less than four of the ladies kissing his cheek.
The big, burly cowboy stayed close to his boss, never more than an arm’s length way. The thin man headed directly for the bar. Pete asked the age-old question, “What will ya have?”
He received the age-old response, “What do you have?”
“We’ve got locally brewed beer. It’s not bad. I’ve got bathtub gin and moonshine whisky. There’s still a pot of coffee that’s drinkable, and I could even come up with some cold water if you’re the designated driver. What’ll it be?”
“Beer for all of us, please.”
While Pete filled three mugs, he studied the stranger. The man’s intense gaze panned the room, scrutinizing the crowd as his boss moved and greeted almost everyone there. It was clear to the ex-Philly cop, now turned barkeep, that his latest customer was a professional. The man’s eyes constantly probed low, always looking at hands and waistlines, never at faces. Faces couldn’t hurt his boss – hands could fire weapons.
Pete slid three mugs full of cold, brownish liquid across the bar, each container boasting a slight overflow of crème-colored head. “Where’d you get your training?” he casually asked.
An odd expression crossed the ranch hand’s face. Pete could see the displeasure in the man, a look of annoyance that anyone had noticed his presence. Another sign of a pro, thought Pete.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
Pete snorted and then flashed a friendly smile. “Don’t worry, son. I was a cop before I started filling mugs. I can spot someone with training a mile away. I won’t tell anyone; your secret is safe with me.”
Flashing an understanding smile, the cowboy peered down at his beer. “I was recruited out of the Army by the State Department. I worked in the asset protection service before I decided to come back to the ranch. I missed the work, and Mr. Beltran was kind enough to take me back in.”
“Well, welcome to Pete’s Place. It’s rare we have any trouble here, so sit back and relax. Enjoy your beer.”
With a twinkle in his eye, the cowboy motioned to the bar with his head. “Speaking of trouble, what’s that you got behind the counter there? A 12-gauge? Shortened barrel? Pump? At least that’s what I would guess you thought about reaching for when we first came through the door.”
It was Pete’s turn to be surprised. “Now how did you know I had a shotgun back….”
About then, Mr. Beltran and the big cowboy returned to the bar, each accepting a mug from their friend. Mr. Beltran took a long sip, smacked his lips, and announced, “Not bad, not bad at all.” The elder rancher then extended his hand to Pete and volunteered, “Carlos Beltran. You must be Pete.”
Grasping the offered hand, Pete nodded. “Yes, sir. That would be me. Welcome to Pete’s Place.”
Mr. Beltran nodded to the large man on his right, “This is Butter,” and then to the slighter man on his left, “and this is Slim.”
“Butter?”
The big fella shyly looked to the floor and muttered, “I can’t help it – I know it isn’t as healthy as green, leafy vegetables, but I just like butter. Is that such a bad thing?”
Slim grunted, “Don’t let him fool you. He eats butter on everything. He eats butter on pizza. Even with his questionable eating habits, he was also an undefeated state champion wrestler who was a shoe-in for the Olympic Team before everything went to hell. Probably would have gotten his ass whooped by some smelly Russian dude, though.”
Butter straightened at the jab, an argument forming in his throat. The retort never made it out though, Mr. Beltran placing his hand on the big cowboy’s forearm, ending the debate.
After everyone had shaken hands, Pete moved on to serve other customers, his social instincts deciding the three newcomers wanted privacy in addition to quenching their thirst.
Less than an hour later, the lights blinked once and then dimmed. The event caused several customers to sigh, a few taking in the electrical pulses before lamenting, “It’s that late, already?”
Pete pulled a box of candles from the bar and began passing them out. “Time for ‘ambient lighting,’ folks. The beer will stay cold even after the electricity goes out.”
Despite the quick dispersion of candles, the windmill’s lack of power generation was an unofficial notification that it was time for many of the folks to head home. Some had long commutes, while others had chores best accomplished before the day became too warm, and thus needed to retire early. It was a symptom of country life.
After a hearty round of “Good nights,” and “Be careful,” Pete moved around rapidly, picking up glasses and wiping down tables. The three visitors from the ranch remained, talking quietly among themselves at the end of the bar.
When Pete returned to see if any of their glasses needed refilling, all of the men politely declined more beer. Mr. Beltran had something else on his mind, however. “Pete, when you have a minute, I’d like a word.”
Placing both hands wide on the bar, Pete smiled and replied, “Sure, Mr. Beltran. What can I do for you?”
“Pete, the reason why we’ve come into town is that I’ve got a problem out at the ranch. I was hoping you might have some idea of a solution.”
The bartender’s face became serious. “Mr. Beltran, whenever this town has needed help, you’ve been more than generous. Every single person in Meraton is in your debt. If there’s anything I, or anyone else can do, we’ll be glad to return the goodwill.”
Carlos waved off Pete’s words. “Oh, now. We’ve not done anything one neighbor wouldn’t do for another. That’s the only way folks get by in this land, helping each other out.”
The old rancher sipped his beer and then looked Pete straight in the eye. “My cattle are starving. We’re going to lose the whole herd if we don’t find a way to feed them before the spring rains come. I’ve got to find another source of feed, and several tons of it.”
Pete shook his head, “Sorry to hear that. Most of the other ranchers around have been bringing butchered beef in to the marketplace on a weekly basis. I’ve heard more than one say they’re reducing the number of animals in their herd. I’m assuming the numbers you’re talking about are far beyond anyone else’s problem.”
“We’ve got 15,000 head total. Our land, even after the rain greens everything up, will only support about 8,000 without an outside source of food. I need about 30 tons of corn or hay, and I need it pretty quickly.”
“Mr. Beltran, it’s late
now, so why don’t you and your men get rooms down at The Manor? In the morning, you and I will tour the market and see if anyone has any ideas. We’ll also radio Alpha at first light and let them know what’s going on. You’ve got a lot of friends there as well. I hope someone has a solution that will work for you, sir.”
The old rancher looked away, an unusual expression crossing his weathered face. Pete couldn’t read it. “Is there something wrong, Mr. Beltran?”
“No, no sir. It’s just I’m not used to asking for anyone’s help. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.”
Pete dismissed his customer’s concerns. “Trust me, sir. The people of Meraton and Alpha would welcome the opportunity to help you and the ranch. You’ve always been there for us. Like you said, it’s the neighborly thing to do.”
Chapter 5
Meraton, Texas
January 25, 2016
Pete rose early, quickly running through the tasks to prepare his business for another day’s trade. He had tossed and turned most of the night, desperately trying to think of a way to help Carlos Beltran. He just couldn’t think of a workable idea.
Leaving the bar and moving along Main to The Manor, he wasn’t surprised to see Betty’s three guests already awake and lounging on the front steps of the hotel. “Good morning.”
The greeting was answered by all of the men, and then Mr. Beltran expanded. “We’ve had good coffee, good eggs, and good conversation with the proprietor of this fine establishment already this morning. A fine start to the day.”
Betty appeared behind the men, her hand grasping a pot of coffee. “Anyone need a refill? Oh, good morning, Pete. Need a cup of coffee?”
Pete declined the offer, reassuring Betty that he’d take a rain check. Saying her goodbyes to the guests, The Manor’s manager hurried back inside.
“What time does the market open, Pete?”
“It’s typically in full swing by nine. I thought we’d send a message to Alpha first. After that, we can talk to the folks while they’re setting up.”
