Damn. He’d hoped his presence would give Christine some relief, some support, but now she was angry, too. And why did he care? Why had he even intruded into a civil matter no one called him to?
Orien said, “No offense, sir, but why are we still here? That was none of our business. You know damn well the D-A’s office isn’t going to file charges for that. It’s a matter for Family Court.”
David had just had the same question, but he still had no answer. It had seemed like the right thing to do—but was it? Had he abused his authority? No, he’d never be one of those cops, he decided; he had only used verbal de-escalation to contain a situation before it got out of hand.
As he turned and headed for the door to resume their patrol, though, in the back of his mind, he wasn’t so convinced.
41
Monday, July 6th
Christine headed to the front door, with Mary in tow. She spared a glance to Bryson, sitting in Fran’s recliner in the living room, but his eyes weren’t on Christine. They were on Mary. The bastard hadn’t been sleeping at Fran’s house, at least, though he wouldn’t tell her where he spent his nights. No doubt he would have liked to spend them with Mary, but her friend had been home—or rather, at Fran’s—each night, and Mary seemed oblivious to Bryson’s looks and overly-friendly small talk.
As the two of them drove to the town hall, Christine ran through her head all the scenarios she could think of, but nothing she saw indicated Mary had returned Bryson’s interest. That was a relief, at least.
As Christine pulled into a parking spot, Mary said, “You’ve been quiet today. Something is bothering you. Is it Bryson? You know you can tell me.”
Christine looked at her friend, searching for any sign of judgment, any indication she was defending the jackass, but all Christine saw was concern. She let out a sigh. Maybe she should just tell Mary. Yeah, just get it out in the open and deal with it. Rip the bandage off, as the saying went.
She said, “Bryson is a damn predator. He has no respect for women, and they’re just a chunk of meat to him, a trophy to validate his too-high opinion of himself. You know that, right?”
Mary shrugged. “I don’t know him at all. But I know you, and I trust you, even though this is maybe…too personal for you. It’s hard to be objective when you’re dealing with an ex. But, um, why bring that up?”
Christine frowned. Best to just say it, she reminded herself. “Bryson has been looking at you like a steak ever since he got here.” She searched Mary’s face for a reaction.
Rather than grimace, Mary’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Really?”
Christine felt hot rage flood through her, and found herself saying, “Yes, really. Oh, is that good news? Is that something you wanted to hear?”
Mary’s smile vanished. “What? No, of course not. Look, I’d never sleep with a guy like Bryson. He has more money than manners. He’s the kind of guy you let take you to a fancy dinner, then have your friend call you with a fake emergency to get out of the sex part guys like him expect, like you’re a hooker he can buy for a fifty-dollar meal. But even if I wanted to go out and get laid, I definitely wouldn’t do it with him. He’s your ex, and I wouldn’t do that to you. Not just because you’re the reason I’m alive, but because we’re friends.”
Christine let her say all that, watching intently, but Mary seemed to be being honest. Then again, she’d been screwed over by friends before—friends who screwed Bryson, in fact. But just because someone else had done that to her, it didn’t mean Mary would. After everything she’d done for Mary, before the CME and since…
Christine said, “Okay. Sorry. I just wanted to give you fair warning about him.”
Mary froze. “Are you threatening me?”
Yes.
Christine shook her head and forced a smile. “No, of course not. Warning you about him, not about you. Anyway, we’re here, and it’s about to start. I hope Cobi hasn’t added anything too stupid to the agenda for this meeting.”
They climbed out of the car and headed in. Within, a dozen people sat in the arranged folded chairs, and they were looking over variously colored sheets of paper. Today’s meeting was about finalizing the “Weldona Credits System,” a system of I-O-Us to create what amounted to a new system of money, to facilitate trade between farmers and townies, mostly. The interim system had been working as they’d hoped, and the food had been flowing freely, along with raw materials the townies needed for their burgeoning cottage manufacturing industry.
But of course, Cobi insisted on meetings and changes, as though the edge pattern printed on paper I-O-Us was somehow important. Probably, she thought, he wanted to put his face on the paper notes. Ha.
The people inside invited her to come look, along with Mary, and Christine feigned interest as the proposed notes were passed around. Some were pretty, but didn’t have all the information needed, like printing date, signature spaces, or so on. Others looked little better than office message notepads, though they had the needed information. Some had both, and she made a mental note of which ones, and whose names were on them. Small town politics were real, and she’d have to tread carefully in giving out praise or criticism, but she’d navigated office politics for years, among lawyers no less, so it shouldn’t be too hard, she decided.
The door in back opened, and Cobi strode in, smiling and waving, gave a finger-pistol to one guy, nodded at another woman.
Shaking hands and kissing babies…
Christine shook the uncharitable thought away. Cobi was a master of small-town politics, too, and such displays were necessary to get anything done.
He walked up to the podium and leaned both elbows on it. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road, shall we? Christine, thanks for joining us. I appreciated your help in vetting this idea during the incubator stage. That really helped me nail down the specifics.”
Christine imagined herself clawing out his eyeballs, as she smiled and nodded. Vetting the idea… Yes, just as she’d anticipated, he had taken full credit for her idea, but it got the job done. With him behind it, the idea had moved quickly from concept to beta program.
He continued, “Our test run of the Cobi Bucks—which I’ve officially named the Weldona Credits System, as you all know—has been pretty damn successful. The food’s coming in, the tools are going out, everyone’s happy.”
Someone in the audience called out, “Cobi Bucks rock!”
Cobi grinned and pointed at the man. “No, you rock. But thanks. Anyway, first thing’s first. I’ve looked through all the designs, and I saw so many good ideas, I’ve decided I’m going to make an entirely new one that takes good ideas from you folks, so more people can have their finger in the pie. This is a solid ‘win’ for Weldona, and as many of you as I can fit in ought to have something to remember it by.”
A general murmur of agreement went through the assembled people. It was a smart idea, buying support from as many of the town’s influencers as possible. Christine had no doubt that unpopular people’s submissions would find no home in the final design, which was the reason she hadn’t bothered with making a submission, herself.
Then, he said, “I do have one change to make to the final design. We won’t be needing the ‘printed-on’ date, anymore. I know I said at first it would lose value if people didn’t spend it when they got it.” He motioned the surprised murmur into silence. “That was to encourage people to spend them. But from what I’ve seen, and correct me if I’m wrong, but people are spending them just fine. That being the case, it’s not fair to have money vanish if someone wants to save up for Farmer Bill’s tractor.”
Christine sat in shock. “Wait, what? That value reduction, unless signed and dated with a month, is key to getting money flowing.”
“I-O-Us,” he corrected her. “But they are flowing just fine, don’t you think?”
“For now,” she had to admit, grudgingly. “But without the devaluing, hoarding could very well result in no money flowing. The whole point of the system
is to have a highly limited supply of credit notes, so they don’t have inflation.”
Cobi chuckled to the room, not to her directly, and he said, “I think I know the point. They’re Cobi Bucks for a reason.” He paused for a polite chuckle from the audience. “But tell me, if we don’t print more, how will we have inflation? Besides, each one is worth ‘X’, right? So I don’t see how it’s going to be an issue.”
Christine frowned. Either he was stupid or pretending to be. Inflation was one problem. Hoarding was the other. “If they aren’t incentivized to spend them, people won’t. With only so many out there, every buck someone hoards is one someone else can’t spend. We need to—”
He cut her off, raising his voice over hers. “I think you worry too much. Your ideas are great, Chrissy, and we’re glad to have them, but I think we all agree that it’s hard to buy a tractor with only ten bucks. Sure, they’ll save a few, but then they’ll spend even more. Right? So don’t worry so much. I appreciate your concern, but I think we know what’s best for Weldona. And I think we don’t want to punish people for making a big purchase once in a while. Right?”
He smiled and looked around the room; wherever he looked, heads nodded in agreement. The “special council” was his creature, after all.
Then a thought occurred to her. What if that reptile had only agreed because he saw that he must, just to buy time? What if this was a back-handed way of sabotaging the whole thing, so he could call it a failed program—thanks to Christine’s ideas he used, no doubt—and then institute his original idea of just taking people’s farms for the collective?
Maybe he was neither stupid nor pretending to be. Maybe he was smarter than she’d given him credit for…
Mary, sitting next to her, whispered, “He seems to have something up his sleeve. Just a gut feeling. It makes me wonder if there’s any point of even going through this charade.”
Her words echoed Christine’s thoughts. She’d explained the whole thing in great detail to Mary before, as she had shown a surprising interest in it, and to have someone else who understood how it worked “under the hood” echo her thoughts was, itself, disturbing.
It meant her gut was right. Cobi had a scheme up his sleeve.
42
Tuesday, July 7th
Wiley sat in his room, one of Fran’s guest rooms, and stared at his backpack. Maybe it was time to go. Those two cops were around every damn day, and that made Wiley feel like a clock was ticking down to a time when they’d figure out where William Johnson had gone.
But that wasn’t the only threat. This small town had everything it needed to survive, on its own, but the leadership was anything but united. Cobi was a self-centered ass, and met every stereotype of a rural Big Fish in a Small Pond. He wasn’t getting it done, wasn’t making the sacrifices they’d need to stay safe when the barbarians came knocking at the gate.
That day would come, eventually, and probably sooner rather than later. He’d heard of the small groups of refugees bouncing off Weldona’s outer defenses, but some had gotten through. The ones who’d attacked a farm, for example, or the ones the cops had found a home for with that other farm. There were only so many farms taking in farmhands, and every time they brought in new people, it diluted their strength. Outsiders would never bleed as much for their land as the natives would, but they would bleed for food, even if they had to take it by force.
Not to mention the whole split between townies and farmies. That crap was toxic. It didn’t make them stronger. Such divisions were how prisons kept the inmates focused on each other, instead of on the guards and administration. If prisoners ever had gotten unified, they could have easily taken every jail or prison Wiley had been in as they moved him around before and during his bull-crap kangaroo trial.
A knock at the door interrupted his musing. “Come in,” he said.
The door opened to reveal Fran. He smiled at her, and she smiled back and then said, “Got a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up, Franny? Anything I can do for you?” Wiley hoped she had something. He didn’t like feeling like a freeloader. He earned his way, or took what he needed, but he didn’t freeload.
“Actually, yeah. With Bryson around,” she said, referring to Christine’s ex, “the kids are pretty anxious. So’s Christine, and she’s at that ridiculous town hall thing about the Cobi Bucks.”
Wiley nodded. Cobi Bucks, indeed. He had no doubts whatsoever that the whole thing had been Christine’s idea, else the HOA president wouldn’t have put her on the committee. “Yes, that’s unfortunate. His being here can’t be easy on you, either, since your daughter is here, too.”
Really, Franny should have booted his worthless ass before he ever came through the door, just because his ex was her daughter. He didn’t understand why she’d let him in, unless she somehow hoped they’d get back together, but as far as Wiley could see, that would have been only a pipe dream.
Fran looked down at his words. “Yeah, it’s not. But I wanted to know if you could maybe take them down to the creek to go fishing? Bryson doesn’t ‘do fishing,’ but I don’t really want to leave them alone with him anyway. I thought if you took them, it’d give them something to do and take their minds off their dad and worrying what he’s up to—they do worry about it, especially Hunter—and besides, it takes them out of the equation while she’s gone at that meeting.”
Wiley nodded. It seemed she, too, had considered the possibility Bryson would try to take off with them while she wasn’t looking. He sure didn’t seem the type to do it while she was looking. Well, Fran had given Wiley her welcome into her home, so taking kids fishing was the least he could do. Besides, he liked the kids. Kids were better than adults, almost always in his experience. “Sure, I’d be happy to. I know just the spot, from my walks. We’ll bring home ‘a mess o’ trouts,’ you’ll see,” he said in a faux hillbilly accent.
After she’d left to get the kids ready, Wiley went to the central air vent by his bed and pulled it out easily. He reached in and took out his pistol—the one he’d taken off the dead prison guard after the bus had crashed—and tucked it into his satchel. Those kids were in for a learning experience with firearms, that day…
He made his way downstairs, whistling a happy tune at the thought.
As Wiley and the two kids walked home, Hunter carrying a half-dozen fish for dinner, there was an awkward silence. He’d let them unload on him about their worries, their pains, their insecurities. As they fished, they’d opened up to him about their dad, the divorce, custody battles, and of course, the terrors of that world that, after the CMEs, had stripped away any traces of security in their lives.
Of course, he’d been planning on teaching them some basic firearm safety and how to shoot straight, even before their long afternoon’s chat, but that cinched it for him. Wiley had spent as much time talking about fishing as he had in teaching them about the handgun, its parts, how to handle it, and at last, how to fire the thing. A box of ammo later, they’d even stopped flinching at the big boom. They’d been more than happy to promise to keep it a secret, and he’d promised them another training day at some point.
Besides, preparing them for what was coming would give them a sporting chance, and make their hunter work for his trophy. Unlike the men Wiley had slaughtered like the pigs they were, a deer didn’t have any chance to fight back. It was why Wiley didn’t hunt—not deer, at least. But he now had an interest in Christine’s kids. They’d get their sporting chance, when their time came. He had made sure of it.
That thought brought a smile to his face as they walked back up Fran’s driveway. And the kids smiled as well, both happy to have had the chance to talk about their issues and giddy at the secret they now shared—Wiley’s firearms training. When Fran opened the front door for them before they got to the patio, she smiled, too, seeing the looks on their faces.
As Wiley let the kids go inside first, excitedly bragging about the fish they’d caught, Fran mouthed the words “Thank you” to him, a
nd he nodded in reply.
Bryson, on the recliner, glared. Wiley only caught a glance of it before the glare was replaced with a cocky smile Wiley felt the urge to knock off his face—but Fran hadn’t seen it. Wiley mentally shrugged. Oh well.
He headed into the kitchen, behind the kids. “Okay, kids. Who knows how to clean these things?”
43
Wednesday, July 8th
Christine stood leaning behind Mrs. Larsen, a retired school teacher who knew how to use the damn contraption they’d moved to the town hall.
Mrs. Larsen said, “It’s not really lithography, you know. That uses light, like photography. I don’t really know what they called this thing. We just called it a rotary printer, because the cylinders spin. You just need ink and paper. It certainly made quite a mess, however. When you use it, you should wear an apron, and the copies need time to air-dry because the ink comes out wet and is easily smudged.”
Christine frowned. Rotary printer, lithography, what did that matter? “But it still works, right?”
“Oh yes, dear. Each original will make up to five-hundred or so copies, before it gets ruined. So, I’d make originals and store them somewhere, then make each run using one original. Use a rubber stamp to set the serial number, if you number them. But keep in mind, you cannot print on the reverse side, with this contraption. You’ll need to ensure the whole thing fits on the front.”
Christine felt irritation rising. “That would mean redesigning the form entirely. Some of the test-run IOUs are already unusably damaged from stuffing in pockets, spilled drinks, and wear-and-tear in general, so it’s urgent to get the finals produced.”
Mrs. Larsen smiled up at her sweetly. “Then it’s urgent to redesign them, isn’t it, dear?”
David set his hand on Christine’s shoulder, and shook his head.
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