Before he could reply, she spun on her heels and followed the kids into the house, before she couldn’t hide her irritation anymore. Having David around meant safety, for her and especially for her children. But she’d thought he was a good person, too, not just a good cop. Now, though? She had a new doubt. The man was all too eager to throw Wiley out to the wolves, and he didn’t have any good reason for that. He didn’t know Wiley, who was with her when she’d met David and Orien, and it was getting a lot harder to trust David’s judgment when he was so quick to judge Wiley harshly. True, he’d protected her at the town hall, but that was his job. Wiley had been there, too, by her side—and he’d had no obligation to come, much less to stay when things heated up.
Full of conflicting thoughts and troubled feelings, she walked through the living room without slowing, and headed for her room.
33
David watched Christine hurry into the house, and it took an effort of will not to chase after her. She was upset, and he was the cause. But it would do no good—she was committed to trusting Wiley, with or without any damn good reason, and didn’t seem to even notice the “sketchy vibe” with which Wiley seemed to ooze every time David saw the man.
Orien grunted.
David sighed and turned around. “Come on. Let’s walk around town a bit. I need to clear my head, and a walk will do me good.”
Orien shrugged. “Yes, sir. As long as we’re in town, I doubt we’ll need a back seat to stuff criminals into.”
“Saves gas, too.”
“True… Not that we need to worry about gas, anymore.”
David stepped off the patio, ignoring the faint verbal jab. His partner was right, which was even more irritating. But he hadn’t been entirely honest about his purpose. He did need to clear his head, and get away from Mrs. Thatcher’s house—Fran’s—but it would also let him engage more of the local civilians. He’d always thought Denver P.D. needed more of the old-school “beat cop” activities, but he wasn’t in charge, there. Here, he was, and he could make whatever changes he thought would help the people most.
It was kind of nice, that way, actually. By the time they turned the corner onto the next block, his steps felt a little lighter, his shoulders not as heavy—until he saw down Railroad Avenue, and spotted a crowd outside a small, nondescript brown, wooden building.
At the same time, Orien said, “What’s going on at the Pit Stop?”
David grunted, and sped his pace a bit to get there faster, but still slowly enough that he didn’t seem to be rushing, and had a moment to judge the situation.
In the Pit Stop’s small parking lot, empty of any vehicles, a dozen people stood outside on the tavern’s raised patio, the stairs, and a few in the parking lot at the bottom of the stairs. Two men stood facing one another, and David, approaching from the side, recognized an impending bar fight when he saw one.
As he got closer, he recognized one of the men, who stood swaying slightly. The other, he’d never seen before. Both men were flushed.
The swaying one said with a thick tongue, words slurring, “Who the hell’s you think you are? That’s my chair, and this is our bar.”
The other man had his hands on his hips, showing no sign of being intoxicated. David spotted a knife handle sticking up from the man’s belt, though his right hand partially covered it from view.
David muttered, “Knife,” to Orien, before they got into earshot of the men. He approached warily, and stopped at just over six feet from either of them. “What’s going on, here?”
The drunk one said, “This jackhole took my seat.” If anything, his words were even more slurred than before, though in David’s long experience, people tended to sober up slightly when the police arrived.
The other man’s lip curled into a snarl. “I didn’t see a sign on it saying, ‘Reserved for Assholes.’ That would be your chair.”
One of the bystanders said, “Officer, this guy came in and just jumped into Mike’s seat when he got up for another round, then helped himself to Mike’s pack of smokes.”
David grimaced. No-smoking ordinances weren’t enforced in some of these small towns, but that was the least important issue of the moment. He said, “Is that true, sir?”
The sober man glanced for a moment at David, then back to his adversary. “No. He’s too drunk to know his table. I sat at the only empty table, while this douchebag was still sitting down.”
Inwardly, David groaned. The odds of that being true were slim-to-none. And that meant this guy had come in looking to start a fight, for whatever reason. People did stupid things all the time, and David had long ago quit trying to make sense of motives, especially when alcohol was around. Just because he looked steady didn’t mean the man was completely sober.
David said, “I see. And how did you get into town through the roadblocks?”
The other man stiffened and looked at David again, this time maintaining eye contact. “I know my rights. This is America, and I can go where I want. If some rednecks want to put Keep Out signs on a town, that’s too damn bad.”
David nodded. That explained the man’s motive—pure stupidity and stubbornness. “I see. Well, the fun is over. You need to leave the premises immediately—”
The man shouted, “To hell with that. I got every right to be here, and I’m not leaving until I get a drink.”
The crowd seemed to surge a step toward the man, then, the mood turning recognizably ugly, and fast.
Seeming oblivious, the man continued, “If this hillbilly can drink here, I can, too. These idiots can’t just keep a whole town for themselves. You’re a cop, dammit. You know the law, now enforce it. My taxes pay your salary. I bet this guy doesn’t make enough to pay taxes, so you work for me.”
Wordlessly, casually, Orien took several steps to the side, circling the angry man, without David having to tell him to. They were well-practiced at dealing with angry people with alcohol.
The drunk one staggered back a step, but regained his footing. “Who you calling a hillbilly? This’s our town, bitch.”
David tensed, ready to intercede if the stranger took a swing at those fighting words from the one they called Mike, but instead, he looked the drunk up and down with exaggerated disgust. “I only see one bitch.”
David switched to his authoritative voice, hoping to cut off a fight before someone took a swing. Usually, threat of jail got most people to calm down, drunk or not, at least for a minute. “Pursuant to the state of emergency and the governor’s directions for citizens to shelter-in-place, you are trespassing, and you admitted to bypassing a lawful road checkpoint. You are in violation of the law. You need to leave immediately, or you’ll be visiting a jail cell until court reopens to hear your case. That could be a while.”
The stranger visibly flinched. The implications of that weren’t attractive, apparently. He glared at David. “You can’t do that. This is America.”
“You have advised me of that fact already,” David said, holding his expression carefully neutral. “You can file your complaint with the governor’s office…when it reopens. For now, though, I suggest you leave. Now.” He added emphasis to the last word, turning it into a command.
“No.” The man glared at David, and his hand moved an inch closer to his knife handle, fingers flexing.
David took one step toward him. This, predictably, made himself the full focus of the man’s attention.
Right on cue, Orien stepped beside the stranger and, sweeping one foot against the back of the man’s weight-bearing foot and swinging his arm like a lever against the man’s chest, knocked him flat on his back. In a flash, Orien grasped the man’s knife hand by the wrist, and applied a simple yet very effective counter-joint technique. The man roared in outrage and pain as his arm and wrist bent in unnatural positions, but he was powerless against Orien’s use of pressure points. Within seconds, he was on his face with Orien kneeling on his back, knife arm bent up behind him.
Orien slapped handcuffs on the tortured han
d and, increasing the pressure, demanded the other hand.
This time, the stranger complied, and quickly. He couldn’t even struggle, as Orien finished handcuffing him.
Someone from the crowd said, “We ought to string his ass up, right now.”
David cut off that line of thinking, and fast. “That’s not happening. Other than trespassing, no crime has been committed here, and even if there were, you have no jail. My partner and I will escort him out of town.”
He stepped up to Mike, who glared at the helpless, cuffed stranger with clenched fists, and said, “It’s over, friend. Why don’t you go enjoy your victory, okay? Someone get Mike a drink, and put it on my tab. Make a tab for me, first.”
The small crowd was full of muttering, but they grabbed Mike and half dragged him inside, more for his own protection than any agreement with David’s plan.
One man stayed outside, however. He watched the townsfolk drag their friend inside, then walked over to David. He stopped just outside striking distance, and smiled. “I’ve got to hand it to you two, you handled this well. Thanks. I wasn’t looking forward to cleaning up after a fight in my parking lot. I hate blood so much.”
“You’re welcome, sir. I hope your friend is okay. Maybe don’t serve him so much, next time, okay?”
The man nodded. “Yeah, well, that’s easier said than done, with Mike. He’s just…Mike. But this could have been really bad. That guy has a knife, by the way.”
“Yes, we saw it. He’s been disarmed.”
The man scratched his head, and continued, “Mike’s a good guy, he just talks too much. This town is lucky to have you, right now. I know you can’t stay much longer, but at a time like this, a small town like ours needs people like you. The badge keeps things civilized when the world’s gone ugly, and I guarantee we’ll see more outsiders coming in, looking to stir things up. Probably worse. So, just…thanks.”
He held out his hand, and David shook it despite his usual rules about not doing so. “Thanks,” he said, unsure what else to say. “I’m happy to help.”
The man who seemed to be the bar owner went inside, as Orien helped the man in cuffs to get up, none too gently, and waited for David.
They walked together toward the nearest border checkpoint, forcing their prisoner to walk ahead of them. The man stayed silent, glaring at the ground but causing no further problems.
Halfway there, Orien said, “You know, I have nothing but respect for you, sir. Not all LEOs are good people—everyone knows that, as sad as it is—but you? It’s like your soul won’t rest easy unless you’re making the choices that best help the most people possible. It’s how it should be for all of us.”
David smirked. “You’re still getting a crappy performance review. You know that, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Orien replied with a chuckle. Then his tone turned serious. “It’s why we need to go back to Denver. That’s the choice that best helps the most people possible.”
David grunted. Frankly, he was getting tired of those comments, which were getting to the point of nagging, but his thoughts weren’t on Orien approving or disapproving. Orien’s words rang true—David felt his best when he was genuinely helping others. It was proof he wasn’t the self-centered narcissist that his brother was—both the priest and the mobster brothers, really—and that felt good, like salve on a sunburn that wouldn’t go away.
Orien said, “You look troubled. Something I said?”
David shook his head. “Not really. Yes. Kind of.”
“Which is it?”
David let out a little laugh. Then, he said, “Good cops do the job to help people. And you’re one of the good ones, Orien. But is going back to Denver going to help anyone at all?”
“Just the ones we help, I imagine. Let’s find out.”
David said, “But that’s just it. In Denver, the thin blue line is being used to keep people in place, and to keep the zoo orderly. That’s not really helping anyone, though—not directly. But look at this place… Here, we’re genuinely helping these folks. Think of the incidents we’ve dealt with so far. Those are only going to get more common, and worse, the longer this C-M-E crisis lasts.”
“Yeah, but we’re Denver P.D., not Weldona’s.” Orien eyed him askance.
David shook his head. “We are Weldona’s P.D., though. Cobi made it official—just about the only good thing he’s done as far as I can tell. I don’t want to stay here forever, but until this mess clears up, we’re the only blue line these people have. I think I’m going to find a way to try to notify H-Q, and get official permission to stay stationed here for the duration, as soon as I can, at least. But we have an SUV, and a promise of gas. If your conscience tells you to go home, I know it’ll be because you think that’s what is best, not because you’re running away.”
Orien paused for a heartbeat before replying, “Oh no, you aren’t getting out of it that easy.”
David tensed for some kind of argument.
Orien continued without pausing, “I’m staying here with you. I’m getting that favorable F-T-O report, even if it means we both have to follow your stupid plan. Besides, someone has to watch your back out here in the boondocks.”
“Very well,” David replied, grinning.
Up ahead, a checkpoint came into view, about three blocks down. They shifted course slightly to veer toward it.
As they walked in silence, David left the prisoner to Orien, and withdrew into his thoughts. The truth was that Orien couldn’t possibly be staying just for a favorable report from his field training officer. Not only was that kind of moot, at the moment, thanks to the crisis, but David suspected Orien was merely afraid of staying and getting in trouble for it later, and uncertain that staying was the option that did the most for the greater good.
Well, David decided, he would spend whatever time it took to convince his partner. Staying in Weldona, at least until all this C-M-E stuff blew over, was the right choice, and he’d make Orien see that, eventually. Orien’s approval mattered, if only because he was a damn fine cop, though inexperienced.
No, Orien was staying out of loyalty. David was pretty certain of that. And if he ever got the chance, David vowed, he would repay his partner’s loyalty. He wasn’t yet sure how he could do that, but something would reveal itself to him, eventually. And when it did, David would be ready to take advantage of the opportunity.
34
Friday, June 5th
Christine came down the stairs to the living room, then into the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Fran was there already, cooking a small mountain of eggs and bacon. The smell made Christine’s stomach rumble.
Fran rushed around the kitchen to different stations, rinsing utensils as fast as she dirtied them. As she set a wire whisk into her plastic dish drying rack on the counter beside the sink, she spotted Christine and nodded in greeting. “Morning. The kids are just stirring, but they aren’t up, yet.”
Christine yawned, and stretched. It felt good. “Okay, I’ll get them up. Breakfast smells delicious. What’s on your agenda for the day?”
Fran flipped a pancake. Without looking up, she said, “I have to ride over to a neighbor’s to help butcher a hog. I wish they’d do it tomorrow, but I promised them I’d help, so I have to go.”
“Why tomorrow?” Christine looked for her coffee mug in the cabinet, and finding it, pulled it down.
Fran said, “Because today, Cobi is holding a town hall meeting.”
Christine wrinkled her nose. “Another one? I don’t remember seeing it on the bulletin board.”
“Only some people were told about the vote. I heard it from Mrs. Cleary. You remember her? You threw a baseball through her window when you were eleven.”
Christine smiled. She did indeed remember. Margaret Cleary was a kind old widow, now, but back then, she’d been a kind married woman. She hadn’t yelled about the window, and let Christine pay it off by helping out at her horse stables for a while.
Christine froze, her smile gone as Fran
’s words hit her at last. “Vote? What vote?” With Cobi involved, it couldn’t be good…
Fran turned and sighed. “I heard from Marge that the mayor wants to use eminent domain to take over the farms closest to town. If the vote passes, some people are going to be awfully pissed when Cobi tries to run them off their own property. He wants to pay them in cash, like that does anyone any damn good these days.”
“But…why?” Christine felt outrage for them, the farmers. What would they do, then, to get by?
“Why do you think? So the townies are guaranteed enough food. But I think it’s because, if he can make us depend on him for food and he’s the only one providing it, his constituents as he calls them will have to vote however he tells them to, in the future. This is just the first step, you mark my words.”
Christine reminded herself to breathe and walked over to the teapot, steaming merrily on the stove. Fran indulged everyone by running the generator in the mornings, sparing a bit more than she needed for cooking in order to boil water. The French press coffee maker stood, clean, on the counter nearby. Christine’s thoughts, however, were on the vote. Her mom had to be right—why else would the jackass try such a naked power grab? She said, “But, he’s an idiot. There’s more farmers than townies in the township. Every farmer out there is going to see themselves as being next, and they’ll fight alongside the folks losing their farms today.”
Fran shrugged. “Stupid is as stupid does. But the farmers don’t bother much with townie votes.”
“Only because it doesn’t affect them, usually. You can bet they will, after this. And that’s assuming someone doesn’t get shot. I know some of them. They shot rock salt at me for picking their beans. They’re going to use buckshot if townies come to take their farm. And what do townies know about running farms, anyway? Who’s going to keep them running? Food doesn’t just magically appear.”
Inception of Chaos: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Story Page 23
