The Ungovernable

by Franklin Horton

  The plan, as he understood it, was that in a few months, when the comfort camp system was stabilized, restoration of power to individual communities would begin taking place with the same general conditions. Communities who disarmed would receive power and communities who refused would receive nothing. Those in charge had presented what he felt was a logical argument for this policy. They stated this requirement was about the safety of aid workers and was about maintaining order. It would prevent the theft of supplies and the emergence of a black market built around stolen supplies.

  All of that sounded legit to Gordon. A lot of the people they hauled in and out voiced concerns about this plan, feeling there was a sinister underbelly behind disarming the population, and they made it clear they were against the idea. He thought some of their talk could be considered treasonous under current orders, but that wasn’t his job or his problem.

  "Two minutes out to JBAB," Davis said.

  "Request landing lights and remind them we need a trauma team waiting on us,” Gordon said.

  Before the terror attacks, base personnel could light the landing zone bright enough to see from the moon. Now, with fuel and power restrictions in place, landings were conducted in much the same way they would be at bases in war zones. That didn’t bother this experienced crew. They’d landed at this same base under these same conditions hundreds of times, and it was second nature to them.

  When the forward momentum of the chopper slowed and they began the gradual descent to the tarmac, Boss’s eyes opened. Although he didn’t speak, Gordon sensed he was being watched and found Boss staring at him.

  "You okay, buddy?" Gordon asked. “Anything I can do for you before we hand you over to the professionals?"

  "No,” Boss said. “What’s your name?"

  "Gordon Brown."

  Boss’ voice was low but did not sound weak. "I appreciate what you did back there, Gordon. You kept a cool head and you saved my ass."

  Gordon shrugged. "Just another day at the office, man. It’s what we do."

  "I remember the folks who help me," Boss said. “You guys stationed here?"

  “We are but that doesn’t mean shit. We're lucky to be on-base two days a week. We pretty much live out there in Indian country."

  Boss understood that was how people were referring to the central Appalachian region now. It seemed destined to return to the frontier it had been three centuries before. "Who's your commanding officer?"

  Gordon rattled off the somewhat complicated command structure that he now worked under since the shit hit the fan.

  "If I need a crew in the future, I may ask for you guys. You’re solid."

  Gordon chuckled. "Bro, you don’t need to be worrying about getting back out there. You take your time and heal up. If you do request us, though, good luck getting us. All we do is turn and burn. Some days I forget what the ground feels like."

  "Don't worry about that. If I ask for you, I'll get you."

  That comment made Gordon re-examine his passenger, wondering again who the VIP might be. Perhaps CIA or some military hero? Some top-tier operator with valuable information? To Gordon it didn't really matter. He didn’t think it was likely he’d ever see the man again. That wound to his hand would confine him to the bench for the duration of the game.

  The sun was just coming up and it would be a long time before his day was over. It was impossible to imagine what it might bring. Would he be delivering supplies to some remote outpost? Was there a team of engineers somewhere on base waiting to be shuttled to a power plant somewhere in the east?

  Gordon felt the touchdown and got to his feet. The pilots began the shutdown procedure, flipping switches, and powering down the engines. Gordon opened the door saw a trauma team rushing toward them with a gurney. "The cavalry is coming, Captain Ballou. You'll be fine, brother. They’ll have you back on the road in no time."

  In seconds the trauma team was at the open door and men were climbing aboard to stabilize the patient for transport. When he was ready, Gordon helped them gently extricate the patient and transition him to the waiting gurney. Gordon grabbed the duffel bag with Boss’s gear and followed behind as the men rapidly pushed the gurney across the tarmac to a waiting ambulance. While they loaded him, Gordon handed off the bag to one of the medics.

  The ambulance door was slammed in his face and the vehicle accelerated away.

  3

  Two Months Later

  The Valley

  Jim Powell wasn't comfortable with all the chatter. While folks in the valley knew of his plan to flood the power plant, he'd had some ridiculous assumption that this piece of information would remain contained within the mountain walls of their community. He had been mistaken. The heavy snow of a particularly harsh winter had melted and the weather gradually improved. Late spring settled on them and they were having more contact with people outside the valley.

  Beyond ridding themselves of cabin fever, everyone was interested in seeing who had survived. Both town and country folk alike wanted to know who was around after the tough winter. Needless to say, there were fewer people coming out of the winter than had gone into it. Starvation, disease, and hypothermia had taken a toll. While for many families there was grief and a sense of hopelessness, others found strength in the fact they’d made it this far. People were moving around and talking with one another, desperate for contact. To Jim’s great displeasure one of the most popular topics of conversation was the rumor that he had destroyed the local power plant.

  As he saw it, he hadn’t destroyed the power plant alone, nor had he conducted the mission on his own. He remembered talking with folks about it and everyone seemed to be in agreement. It was a group effort with multiple participants. Yet the catchy headline that invariably introduced this captivating gossip was something like, "Hey, did you hear Jim Powell blew up the power plant?"

  The course of life in the valley had naturally formed people into tribal groups. Jim’s family was part of a larger “tribe” that consisted of Hugh, Lloyd, Randi’s family, and Gary’s family. That was the core of the group. On the perimeter were some families that kept more to themselves like the Birds, the Weathermans, the sheriff’s family, and the Wimmers. Jim didn’t think it was the folks in his tribe spreading this gossip. All of them understood he didn't like talking about it. He didn't want his name associated with the destruction of the power plant because there was an inherent risk in that information being shared too freely. All it had to do was hit the wrong set of ears and someone might decide Jim was personally responsible for a death in their family.

  While Jim didn’t worry so much about his core group, he didn’t know about the families on the fringe, nor with whom they had contact. There were a few families remaining in the valley who had no contact with Jim and his tribe at all. It was possible they’d caught wind of what he’d done and felt no obligation to keep it secret. Folks like that, with no personal relationship with Jim’s family, might spread the story not out of malice but simply because it was something interesting to talk about.

  Then there were the Wimmers.

  Although the Wimmers were friendly with Jim, they were not really part of his tribe, mostly because their own family was large and basically formed a tribe in itself. They had extended family outside the valley with whom they had frequent contact. Jim knew they probably discussed the action he’d taken with the power plant. He assumed it wasn’t malicious, and that old Mrs. Wimmer was probably proud of what Jim had done. She was likely bragging about what a brave young man he was.

  She’d often said that she didn’t need “the juice.”, stating that she’d come into the world without it and could go out the same way. Still, in a world devoid of news and without the normal avenues of entertainment, this juicy tidbit of information was traveling far and wide at a pace Jim was unable to halt.

  On a late April day when the snow was gone and the temperature hit sixty degrees, Jim, Gary, and Randi rode to town to check the state of things. Jim promised his parents
he would check on their house and make sure it had fared the bad weather. It was immediately evident that the winter had changed people. Where town folks had gone into winter wary and cautious, scared of interacting with anyone outside of their families, people were almost sociable now.

  It'd been a harsh winter, with lots of cold and snow, trapping people in their houses for extended periods of time. With the proliferation of all-wheel-drive and four-wheel-drive vehicles prior to the collapse, people weren’t used to being stuck at home in bad weather. Sometimes they ventured out in the worst weather just to prove they could. They’d been unable to do that this winter and were desperate for conversation and human contact. They gathered in yards and shot the shit, had group bonfires and speculated on what was going on in the world beyond them. They also came out into the streets at the appearance of people riding through town to see who they were and if they brought news.

  The presence of spectators made Jim nervous. Considering how they’d lost their dear friend Buddy here in town, his small group was on guard. They trusted no one. Every rider was armed to the teeth and ready to fight if it came to that. They were not soldiers but they were haggard and hateful, dangerous because it was the safest way to be. Jim was distrustful and abrasive on the best of days, and these were far from the best of days.

  They'd barely gotten past the town limits when they began to pass the first houses. From a small brick ranch, a schoolteacher Jim barely knew shot up from a rocking chair on his porch and strode boldly up to him.

  “What do you have against electricity?” he demanded.

  Jim was taken aback. He thought the man’s name was Rick or Rob or something though wasn’t certain. It was his first contact with anyone outside of the valley in over a month and he was surprised by the man's brazenness as well as the nature of his question.

  "Excuse me?"

  The man put his hands on his hips, angry and animated. "I heard about your little stunt over at the power plant.”

  Everything about this interaction pissed Jim off. There was just something about being accused of pulling a “little stunt” that reminded him of the way teachers had talked when he was in school. He’d had to take it then. He didn’t have to now. His face flushed with anger for the briefest moment and then it subsided, turning to a chilling calm.

  "Just what did you hear?" Jim asked.

  "You know what you did," the teacher spat. "Blew up the place, didn’t you? I hope you're happy."

  More teacher talk, telling Jim he knew what he did, not waiting for an explanation. God, how Jim hated this kind of interrogation. "Just where did you hear that I blew something up?"

  "Where I heard it is none of your damn business."

  A subtle shift of Jim’s hand raised his rifle until the barrel was leveled at the teacher’s face. "If my name is in your mouth it’s my damn business."

  The teacher gave a quick look around, suddenly realizing that it had perhaps been poor judgment to confront a violent man with no witnesses. The nature of the accusation alone implied that Jim might be dangerous, at a minimum. Perhaps even unhinged. The fact that there was no safety net settled on the teacher and made him think about the consequences of his actions. There was no 9-1-1, no police, and no social media to post the interaction to. He was utterly alone.

  "Well, I...well I...don't know,” the teacher spluttered. “Somebody in town. There were people talking about it and I overheard them." The man gave a stiff, inappropriate laugh. “The whole thing may have all been a simple misunderstanding.”

  Jim stared at the man without moving his gun barrel. “It’s a big misunderstanding, neighbor. How about you do me a favor and don't repeat that nugget of gossip. It's not true and you can probably tell I don't like people talking about me. In fact, it downright irritates me."

  The man scowled and found a second, vitriolic wind. “Well, I don’t know how you intend to shut it down. It's all anybody is talking about. They don't understand what kind of sick bastard doesn’t want the lights back on. And just what are you going to do anyway? Kill everybody who talks about it? That’s a lot of killing."

  Jim flicked the safety off with his thumb. It was a world without cars, without blaring radios, and without the insular cocoon provided by earbuds. The metallic click of the safety lever was clearly audible, its meaning obvious even to the most inept. “If it’s a big job, all that killing, I should probably get started and not waste any time. Should I start with you?”

  The man didn’t answer. His common sense was battling with his sense of outrage.

  Jim curled his finger around the trigger. “I don’t know if you can see it or not but I’m resting my finger right on the trigger. All the training I’ve had says not to do that unless you’re ready to kill what’s in front of you.”

  The man shook his head quickly. "You...don't have to do that. I'll keep my mouth shut."

  Jim cleared his throat. "That’s not good enough after the little stunt you pulled.”

  The teacher frowned and Jim smiled.

  “See what I did there? I turned your own words against you. How does that feel?”

  The teacher had no response.

  “What you’re going to do is go one step further. You’re not just going to keep your mouth shut, neighbor. If you hear my name being discussed again, you’re going to tell folks you heard that story wasn't true. You heard it was a bunch of bullshit somebody made up."

  The man looked doubtful. "I can try."

  "You do that. You try real hard." Jim withdrew his finger from the trigger guard and flicked the safety back on. He nudged his horse forward and rode away, twisting in the saddle to keep the man in his view until they were a good distance away. The ignoramus had screwed up a beautiful day. Jim hated people who could ruin a good day. There was a special place in hell for them. Who was he kidding? He just hated people.

  A bit further on they passed by the supercenter, the vast shopping center that had been the scene of much conflict. It was where Jim had been taken prisoner by rogue cops. It was where Jim had met back up with Hugh, a childhood friend who’d joined Jim’s group as a radio operator and extra gun. It was the same place where Jim’s long-time coworker Alice had died after her own perilous journey back from Richmond.

  A lot of men had been killed at the supercenter, and a lot of women and children had wintered there after losing their husbands. Jim was certain it had been a miserable experience for them. This was one place where he expected hostility and resentment. He was wary long before they reached the parking lots.

  He was surprised to find that the parking lot had become an open-air market of sorts. Cobbled together tables of scrap wood and blankets spread on the asphalt displayed the meager items that a handful of vendors wished to barter. There were clothes, shoes, baby items, knives and tools, cookware, and camping gear. Everyone seemed to be searching for food, medicine, and water filters, all of which were in short supply.

  As the clattering of their horses’ hooves became audible over the din of conversation, people turned their way. They quit their haggling and watched the approaching riders with hostile, narrowed eyes.

  "People are sure throwing a lot of shitty glances our way,” Randi said. “Must be because we have Prince Charming with us. He has that effect on people.”

  “Now I’m giving you a shitty look too,” Jim said. “Can you feel it?”

  Randi ignored him.

  "Probably the horses," Gary said. "They resent that we have transportation."

  "I hope that's what it is," Jim muttered. “I’m tired of arguing with folks. You reach a point where it’s easier to just kill somebody than debate with them. I’m about there.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” Gary said. “Debate is healthy. Murder is not.”

  “We’ll know by the end of the day if that’s true or not,” Jim said. “If debate leads to a bullet in the brain bucket then I’d wager it’s not so healthy.”

  “Remind me not to argue with you,” Randi said. “I
’d hate to get killed for putting in my two cents.”

  “You never just put in your two cents. It’s always more like a buck and a quarter. Besides, you’re safe,” Jim said. “You have privileged status.”

  Randi shot him a withering look. “Oh, I feel privileged every time I’m around you. You have a way of making people feel special.”

  Jim ignored her and stared at the crowd as they stared at him. He spotted a woman he'd gone to high school with in the small group of traders. She lived in town, but as far as he knew she wasn’t one of the folks living at the supercenter. He hoped she didn't recognize him but she did. It was too late. He looked away, and when he gazed back in her direction she was staring right at him.

  "That you, Jim Powell?" she asked.

  Jim gave her a weak smile and a puny wave. He’d probably have been better off not smiling. His smiles always came out resembling a pained grimace. “How you doing, Jenny?"

  She put her hands on her hip and cocked her head at him. "I’d sure as hell be doing a lot better if I had power."

  Jim tried to give a friendly chuckle but it sounded more like a tubercular throat-clearing. He’d never mastered those friendly mannerisms most people aren’t even aware they perform. "Yeah, I'm sure we’d all be better off with a little power. I miss a cold beer."

  His attempt at humor, at redirection, fell flat.

  "If you wanted the juice back on, why the hell did you go and blow up the plant? I always knew you were crazy but I never figured you for selfish. Now you’ve gone and ruined things for the rest of us. Maybe you don’t want power but some of us needed it. We all know folks who have died because they didn’t have it. That’s on you."

  "Well shit," Jim muttered, his jaw clenching. He shot Randi and Gary a bitter look, like they should have known this was going to happen.