Inception of Chaos: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Story

by Holden, J. J.

  The man who’d spoken, a muscular twenty-something farmworker, stood with his hands clenched into fists. His cheeks were a shade of red.

  And David, who hadn’t flinched or stepped back, stood with his gun-hand side farther from the man than his off hand, rather than his normal conversation stance. He was tense, wary.

  Orien was moving slowly to the speaker’s right, away from David—flanking him, Christine realized. That was just their training taking over, but it was disconcerting.

  She stepped into the living room, ignoring her daughter’s quiet plea to stay back. This was Fran’s house, not theirs, and she wasn’t about to let them smash up the place.

  As she came in, another of the people she didn’t recognize, speaking loudly, said, “Well, what am I supposed to do? I didn’t keep that kind of cash lying around, and I can’t just run to the bank or an ATM. All I can do is give you a check. But not until payday. You’re a good worker, and I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know what else to do.”

  Ah. They’d made the problem clear, but why didn’t they see the solution? It seemed so clear how to fix it, not just for them, but for everyone in town. Christine stepped into the living room and coughed, drawing attention to herself. “Excuse me, but can I offer a solution? It’s a compromise, but hopefully it’s the sort that gives everyone what they need, instead of giving no one what they want.”

  David looked to the two feuding men, who looked at one another; then both nodded and shrugged. David said, “It seems they’ll listen. What’s this obvious solution you have?”

  “Well, you need people working your farm, right? And they need to eat. Both those things have to happen today, not someday. So, why not just pay them each day in food? You know what things had cost before the C-M-E, so just use that as the guide for value.”

  The farmhand shook his head. “I can’t buy clothes with ten pounds of beef, and thirty pounds of wheat grain won’t buy blankets.”

  The farmer said, “He has a point. Plus, I can’t give him all that until I harvest it, and it’s not ready for harvest. It’d be useless and wasteful.”

  Christine replied, “Of course. But I don’t literally mean to hand him thirty pounds of wheat, to use his example.”

  David moved his left hand from where he’d hooked his thumbs into his duty belt to run it through his hair. “Then what do you mean? If you see a way through this, they seem to be listening.”

  “We’re a small town. We’re not doing a lot of shipping, right now, right?”

  “None at all,” the farmer said. “No trucks, no planes.”

  “So, we’re growing way more food than we need, right now. A lot of it is going to rot in the field, even with workers. Meanwhile, we’re turning away a dozen people every day, people looking for a handout.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We can solve the problems together. Paying your workers, putting the land to work for you instead of rotting, and what to do about the hungry refugees.”

  David cleared his throat. “Ah-hem. This sounds suspiciously like magic. What’s this wizardry you have in mind? I’d love to hear the point of this.”

  Christine looked around the room and smiled to see she had their full attention. Working at the law firm, she was good at organizing things. She’d had to be, to keep all those hot-shot lawyers’ case files and schedules straight. Now, they were finally giving her the chance to put that talent to use. Even if she would be going back to Denver as soon as this was all over, at least she could “get the trains running on time” until then.

  She said, “Look, Mister…”

  “Chessup. John Chessup.”

  “Mister Chessup, how much did you gross last year in sales?”

  “Just over half-a-million dollars, gross. The buyers would have grossed about two million dollars in retail sales. Why?”

  “Easy. You, your friends, and your family only need so much of that land to feed yourselves. All your land retailed two million, and as ten percent of your land’s worth, that’s twenty million. Never mind land prices before all this, because those are no longer relevant.”

  “So, it’s worth nothing if I can’t harvest it, and I can’t do that without workers—and I can’t pay them until market time.”

  She smiled. “I’ll go over this in a lot more detail at the next town hall meeting, if you like the idea, but basically, you lease your land bit-by-bit to hungry people in a share-crop agreement, and they have to do a certain number of hours working on your land to keep the land you lease to them.”

  “That’s…interesting. I’d get income from the land instead of letting it rot and go fallow, and I’d have workers. But what about the specialists? What do I pay them? Cash is worth a convict’s word, these days.”

  “Basically, a glorified I-O-U note. Each one worth a basic laborer’s full day of work, but in produce, not cash. You couldn’t have more notes than what your land will support, though. Someone would verify and track how many you can issue in total, and notarize each note.”

  A grin spread on David’s face, and his eyes lit up. “Damn. You’re talking about minting new money, based not on gold or some government’s word, but on what the land can actually produce each year—better year after year, if I want more of it.”

  Christine nodded. “And because those crop-share people will have that land for years, they won’t likely try to overproduce. Fran can help with that, consulting on how she does things. You should see how dark her soil is. Even I’m impressed.”

  A man in back, sitting on the floor leaning against a wall, stood up then, glaring at Christine. “This ain’t what the HOA president said. Cobi didn’t clear this, did he?”

  “No,” Christine admitted, “but—”

  “Then we ain’t interested,” the man said, interrupting. He glowered at the others in the room. “You ain’t interested neither, ain’t that right? John, tell her.”

  John Chessup broke eye contact and found something interesting on the floor. “I reckon.”

  David raised his hand like he was halting traffic. “Whoa, slow down there, sir. Cobi wants to protect the town, yes? And this idea is better than letting food rot while people go hungry, yes? Cobi will be on board, once he hears it.”

  “No, not until he clears it. Y’all ain’t doing it.”

  John the farmer, still staring at the ground, said softly, “Only, I don’t have much choice. It’s not Cobi’s crops that’ll be wasted, and it’s not Cobi’s people going hungry because I can’t pay them. I’m doing it.”

  The man stepped forward until his face was inches from John’s. “Is that right?” When John nodded, the man’s upper lip curled back into a sneer. “Yeah, we’ll see. Chrissy, you’re stirring up trouble, and none of us forgot how you left us behind. Might just be, we leave you behind after I tell Cobi about this plot you got. It’s mutiny. I’ll be sure to let him know you don’t care what he says, John.”

  With that, the man spit on Fran’s hardwood floor, then sauntered out the front door, whistling a cheery tune.

  Once he was gone, David turned to the farmer and his worker. “Don’t worry about him. There’s one like him in every crowd. Mean and dumb is a bad combination, one I dealt with every night as a law enforcement officer. I’ll go talk to the mayor about this.”

  John nodded, though slowly, looking pensive. “All right, then. I hope you do, ’cause it sounds like a fine idea. But people like Marcus, there”—he tossed his head toward the door and the recently departed dissenter—“might not buy into it. Too different.”

  Christine shook her head frantically. “They will, when they see it work.” To David, she said, “And not without me, you don’t. Maybe I can explain it to Cobi in a way he likes, if he doesn’t like the idea just because he didn’t invent it.”

  David shrugged. “The ‘N-I-H’ factor appears strong with him. ‘Not Invented Here.’ If he didn’t think of it, he’s not interested, from what I’ve seen.”

  Christine nodded, thinking back o
n the public verbal flogging Cobi had given David for agreeing with him. All just to show people he was in charge, not the law. Well, she wasn’t a stranger, and she wasn’t a public servant. If Cobi thought he could talk to her like that, he had another thing coming. “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing her flannel and heading out the door, breakfast forgotten.

  Christine, David, and Orien rounded the street corner, coming into view of the town hall. The doors were open, and a few people were coming in and going out. At least one government office was open, it seemed, even if it were only Cobi’s.

  When she walked inside, Cobi was standing at the back of the podium platform, talking with the mean, stupid guy who had tried and failed to threaten Farmer John into behaving himself—Marcus, if she remembered it correctly. He was red-faced, though Cobi seemed calm and cool.

  Arrayed around the platform, in folding chairs, sat a dozen people awaiting his highness’ audience, it appeared.

  Cobi looked up as she came in, and her heart beat faster, anticipating him coming after her the way he had with David the night before.

  To her surprise, he grinned. “There she is,” he said loudly, and heads began to turn, following his gaze. “Christine Simmons, come on up here, won’t you?”

  “Um…” She looked at David, but when he nodded and motioned for her to go, she did so. She walked up to the podium, and Cobi extended his hand, so she shook it. “What’s all this about?”

  Cobi grinned, a snake-charmer smile if ever she’d seen one. Loudly—for the audience’s benefit, she had no doubt—he replied, “Why, my new economy policies, of course. My friend, here, came to warn me that you were plotting something. Of course, I told him it was no plot.”

  He turned to face the audience, grasping the podium on either side with both hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, I put together the best people to work on solutions to our most pressing problems. Officer David Kelley, for example, to organize our deputy force. And Chrissy Thatcher… Sorry, Chrissy Simmons, to brainstorm with me on ideas for our economy. Together, we came up with a plan, and I’ll let her explain it. Everyone, welcome Chrissy Simmons to the podium.”

  He turned to her. “Come on to the podium, sweetie, and tell the good people what we created. Don’t be shy.”

  Christine paused, refusing to allow herself to be rushed up. What happened if she went up? She’d get what she wanted. Weldona would have a functioning—if very local—economy. But…Cobi would get all the credit. And what if she refused to give in, and didn’t go up? Then he’d blame her for the economy, though she didn’t create the situation. She could imagine it, picturing it. Oh, how he’d rail against her night and day. She could even be kicked out of town, and doubted many would try to help her, or to stop them. If people got angry enough, her kids and mother could be endangered.

  She looked down at the floor long enough to fight back tears. In one simple move, the bastard had not only managed to take credit for her work, but to get her to confirm it. And, she was exhausted—too tired to fight a losing battle.

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied after a moment, and stepped up to the podium. She had every reason to go along, and only pride as a reason not to. She’d adapt, for her kids’ sakes.

  She looked around the room and stifled a yawn. Emotional exhaustion? Perhaps it was just as tiring as the physical kind. Whatever. “Hello, people of Weldona. We have an idea, and we think you’ll like it. I’ll explain it simply, but understand that putting the system into place will be difficult for those who work on it. But, we are confident it’ll work, and that we can manage it.”

  “So, what’s the deal?” someone shouted from near the back. “What’s the great plan?”

  Christine spent the next half hour explaining the system and, especially, answering questions. Cobi took the lion’s share of credit, but Christine didn’t really care. Let him have his glories. People knew the truth, deep down, especially all the people who mattered to her.

  She finished with that shortly before noon, having convinced the majority of her plan’s worth. It’d go through, without much struggle. Cobi shook her hand at the door, complete with pistol-fingers “you the man” farewells, and Christine walked away, wiping her hands on her coveralls to get the moist, clammy feeling off them. David walked with her, though he kept silent as they walked to his SUV.

  Only once they’d climbed in, with Orien in the back, did he say, “So, what’s on your mind, ma’am? I know very well who came up with that idea. It sure wasn’t him. But at least you got him to buy into your plan, right?”

  “Yes. That’s good. I worry more about what comes next, though.”

  “What do you mean?” Orien asked from the back seat.

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the HOA President and Mayor of Weldona is all too eager to smash anyone who might be a threat, or even just to boost himself up. He takes credit for what others do. He manipulates people. He’s a good politician, but he’s a crappy leader.”

  “Yes, I’d noticed all that,” David said. “And it doesn’t really matter, but I agree with you.”

  She flashed a faint smile, briefly, but it vanished quickly. “If things don’t get better, and soon, we’re going to need real leaders. This isn’t the adult version of a high school popularity contest—this is people’s lives. Real people.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “And, I don’t think Cobi has the leadership skills to pull us through what might be coming. I think he’ll get us killed and then whine about whose fault that was. If things get worse, and they easily could, he’s going to cost us lives.”

  David was silent the rest of the way back to Fran’s house, all two blocks of it, but Christine was glad for the silence. Her heart was heavy, and she was grateful to be left alone with her thoughts for a few minutes.

  26

  David turned right, yet again. There were only so many turns in Weldona. About the third time around the same block, after dropping Christine off at her house, he growled to himself.

  “What’s up, Sarge?” Orien asked. “You know, there’s more to Weldona than this glorious downtown metropolitan area. I believe they count cows as constituents, so we could go a bit farther out and still be doing your master’s bidding.”

  “Shut up, Orien.” David frowned. “Cobi isn’t my master. He’s just a petty bureaucrat who’s making our lives difficult to keep us here.”

  “And it’s working. Hence, master.”

  “Shut up.”

  Orien smirked as he looked out the window. “You said that already.”

  “I’ll say it again,” David muttered, more to himself than to Orien. Then, louder, he continued, “Here’s an idea. Let’s patrol farther out, maybe check some of the primary farmholds, or whatever they call them—”

  “Farms.”

  “…Farms, then. See if we can maybe cut a side deal to get some gas.”

  Orien shrugged. “If you really want to get gas and get out of here, then sure.”

  “What do you mean by that? Of course I want to go.”

  “Do you?” Orien stared at David pointedly.

  David had to watch the road, but Orien’s eyes were burning holes in him. “What the hell are you looking at?”

  His partner immediately replied, “You just seem rather fond of The Formerly Mrs. Simmons. She’s divorced, she’s smart, she’s strong. Just your type.”

  David almost swerved in surprise but kept the SUV under control. “Wait, what? She’s quiet, not strong.”

  Orien let out a bark of laughter. “You know, it took a lot of self-control for her to go along with Cobi’s little theatrical lie. She put her needs aside to get the job done. Seems like something you’d do.”

  “Thanks, I think.” David went quiet, after that, and considered what Orien had said. It wasn’t something he’d thought of, until now. Or had he? She’d also packed her kids and rather passive friend into a beat-up car, ahead of the exodus and ahead of the resulting blockades, risking the trip to Weldona alone.
Well, not alone, but definitely the only fully functioning adult in her car—

  Up ahead, movement caught his eye, and his train of thought derailed. He squinted to see better. “Orien, what’s that, up ahead?”

  Orien squinted, paused, then said, “Looks like a small crowd gathered outside one of the big farmhouses. Maybe twenty people? Might want to stop in and make sure it’s all okay. They could be workers.”

  “Or they could be a mob,” David replied. “Let’s find out which.”

  He pulled into the long, dirt driveway that led from the road to the farmhouse. The large, very pretty home sat back about sixty yards from the street. Halfway to the house, a couple seconds later, a rock bounced off the windshield, leaving a chip mark and sounding like a gunshot. Clearly, those were not friendly farmworkers.

  David responded by swerving to the right—avoiding another bigger rock that came toward them in a high, graceful arc—and slammed the brakes. He snatched up his shotgun as he exited the vehicle and took cover behind his heavy, open car door.

  Using the window frame as a level to rest his shotgun barrel, he scanned for the most immediate threat. The mob stood at a range of about forty yards, just at the edge of his #00 buckshot’s effective direct fire range, right at the cusp of where his shotgun would become an area-effect weapon. Getting closer would have been nice, but not at the cost of his windshield and possible severe injury from flying rocks…

  Over the PA system, Orien called out in a calm, level voice dripping with authority—the “cop voice”—and ordered the mob to step away from the house.

  A few did, giving David a flash of a view of the home’s front porch. There, a middle-aged farmer in overalls held a rifle of some kind up to his shoulder, aiming the dangerous end at the crowd. Apparently, their arrival had been perfectly timed to avoid bloodshed. Or, he hoped to avoid it—people didn’t always leave him a choice, especially desperate people in a mob. Mobs were dangerous places to be, and usually did the stupidest thing possible, given a choice. Something about being around other idiots brought out the stupid in people who might otherwise never throw big rocks at a cop’s head...