The Ungovernable

by Franklin Horton

  “Agreed,” Hugh said.

  Randi looked at Gary expectantly.

  “I agree too,” he said. “I assumed it was understood.”

  Some folks did not express an opinion either way. Jim understood that.

  “Well, I need to go in and talk to my wife,” he said.

  “Hugh,” said Scott, “if you’ll get me back to my chopper, I’ll give you the radio and we’ll coordinate logistics for next week.”

  Hugh nodded. “Gary, if you all want to come with us, I’ll follow you home.”

  “I appreciate that, Hugh.”

  Jim rose and disappeared into the house. Ariel was in the living room playing with the other children. Carla was watching them.

  “We’re done,” Jim said. “People are getting ready to pack up and head home. I’m going to go speak to my wife a second. You might want to get the children ready to leave.”

  “Yeah, you better get in there and talk to her,” Carla said, a warning expression on her face.

  Jim hugged Ariel. “I’ll be back out here in a second, sweetie.”

  “If Mommy doesn’t kill you,” Ariel mumbled. “You’re in bad trouble.”

  33

  One of Jim Powell's favorite movies was The Godfather, in particular a scene in the movie where the competing mob families have gone to war. Things get hairy so the families decide to “go to the mattresses,” an expression meaning that they all hole up together with armed men sleeping on mattresses on the floor. The expression didn’t originate with the movie but it was where the phrase became part of Jim’s vocabulary. It was basically the same as circling the wagons in one of those old Western movies and it was an apt description for the state of the valley in those days leading up to the Fourth of July.

  For the few remaining days until his appointment with destiny, Jim and his tribe decided it was best they “go to the mattresses” too. Some of the homes, like Mack Bird’s, Jim’s, and Randi’s, were not too far apart. Gary and the Weathermans were the most distant, living toward the head of the valley. Lloyd, living in Buddy's old house not far from the Wimmers and the sheriff, were on the end of the valley closest to town.

  Despite Jim’s invitation, the Birds felt comfortable remaining where they were. They were close enough to maintain radio contact with folks if there was an emergency. The Weathermans were distant enough that radio communication was hit or miss from their place but they didn’t give a damn. They weren’t interested in packing in with a bunch of other families and leaving their home to be ransacked. Jim completely understood that sentiment.

  Hugh chose to remain on the mountain, feeling that his place was far enough off the beaten path that no one would come up there even if they were aware of his presence. Besides, it took some serious walking to climb that mountain. The primary reason he stayed home was to monitor his radios. If Scott turned up new information or had to change the plan, he needed to be there to receive that message.

  It took a bit of effort to get a group this size situated. They split everyone between Jim’s house and Randi’s. Jim was ready for this. When he built his shop and the storage buildings on his property he intentionally designed the wall-mounted plywood shelving to be the same size as a bunkbed. Every shelf was wide enough, long enough, and had enough headroom for a man in a sleeping bag to stay there indefinitely. Jim had never mentioned this design feature to anyone, even his wife. He just thought there might be a time when he could have to take folks in so he’d planned for it.

  Pete and Charlie were becoming more serious about hardening their outdoor skills. While Jim harbored concerns about them going native, he was impressed at how they adapted. The pair split their time between Outpost Pete and the barn. Although Ellen worried about them, the boys seemed happy.

  The rest of the children enjoyed it in the same way that children always enjoy the newness of a sleepover. It was less enjoyable for the adults. It reminded Jim of those family gatherings he’d gone to when he was a kid where you’d have forty people in a tiny house with one bathroom. This was not nearly so festive.

  There was a significant amount of tension in the air. While people tried not to talk about it, the upcoming operation in town seemed to be weighing on everyone. The group maintained a heavy state of security. They continued to tend animals and maintain their gardens with the hopes that they would be around to harvest them but everything was done with armed security. Children were only allowed to play inside the homes or in the immediate backyard, under the watchful gaze of heavily armed parents. It was an oppressive and joyless existence.

  When Jim’s watch confirmed it was the third of July he wondered if the others in his community continued to be able to track dates with any accuracy. Were there people showing up in town today because they had the date wrong? Would some people be showing up in two days because they had missed the fourth?

  For Jim, this day was for meeting with his team and finalizing their plans. He wanted to make sure the people escorting him to town knew exactly what they were supposed to do, regardless of what they ran into. He didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Neither him nor anyone else.

  Besides a few farm chores, meeting with his people was the main thing he had to do that day but it was not the only thing. Before that meeting he had a visit he needed to make, the results of which might impact the success of his team. As much as he didn’t want to make that visit, he felt he had no choice. He geared up in the house, sliding on his vest and strapping on his gun belt.

  Ellen heard the firm snap of a magazine locking into his rifle and glanced at him. “Where are you going?”

  Jim explained it to her.

  “You need to take someone with you, Jim.”

  “Not this time,” Jim said. “I'd rather keep my shooters here.”

  “I’m not happy about it.”

  “There’s nothing for you to be happy about. It is what it is.”

  “Then go on and get it over with.” Ellen hugged him hard and sent him on his way.

  Outside, Jim got on the radio and let his people know he was going off the farm but that he should be back in two hours.

  Randi demanded to know where he was going.

  “You sound like my wife,” Jim said.

  “Smart and good-looking?”

  “I was leaning more toward bossy.”

  “If you’d learn your place we’d have less to be bossy about. Now where are you going?”

  "I'm not ready to say," Jim replied.

  "Bullshit. You wouldn't let any of us by with an excuse like that."

  "Randi, I’m pretty sure it's against FCC regulations to use the word ‘shit’ on the radio.”

  “Oh, so Mr. Fuck The Rules is all about following the rules now? How convenient."

  Jim keyed the mic and sighed loudly, trying to make a point. "Hell, I could have been there and back in the time I’ve wasted arguing with you. Since you're so damn insistent, I have to run up to the sheriff's place for a few minutes. I have something I need to talk to him about."

  "You sure you don't need some company?" Randi asked. “Some backup? I don’t think he likes you very much.”

  "Nope. Don’t need backup. It should be a cakewalk. And I’m used to dealing with people who don’t like me."

  “Yeah, you should be,” Randi said.

  Jim pocketed his radio and started down his gravel driveway. The condition of it irritated him. Had this been normal times, he would scrape this driveway with his tractor once every week or so and keep the sides of the road mowed. Now there were weeds all over the place. Gradually, the two gravel tracks that led in and out of his home were fading, being swallowed by the Earth. He had to wonder what the place would look like in a year. He hoped he lived long enough to see it.

  He exited the gate, the chain that fastened it making that familiar clank as it bounced against the tube gate. Once he was through, he closed it and started up the road, lost in his thoughts, though not so lost that he was being careless. Anymore, a state of vigilance was
the norm. It was ingrained into their behavior. Accustomed to always watching for threats, he wondered how one could turn that off. He didn't imagine anyone ever could.

  Even if things went back to normal in his lifetime, would he be sitting at the gas station with a gun in his lap waiting for someone to try to steal his fuel? Would he hold his breath in crowds, waiting for the moment that chaos erupted? Would he forever be ready to draw and shoot, afraid that giving someone the benefit of the doubt would get him killed?

  He had friends who’d gone to war and come home different. They tried to explain this feeling to him and he’d never understood it until that moment in his driveway. It was the realization that there was no going back to normal once you’d lived that way. It wasn’t fear exactly. Just the understanding that any situation could go totally apeshit in the blink of an eye. One moment you were laughing with a friend. A second later, you were plastered to the ground, eating dirt, and hoping to God that today wasn’t your last day.

  How did one reconcile that? How did a person push it back down within oneself?

  34

  Jim called from the gate but no one answered. No one gave him the finger, threw rocks, or otherwise discouraged him either, so he went through the gate and climbed the driveway. He found the sheriff in the backyard trying unsuccessfully to get his beans to climb a series of strings stretched between posts. He had that hopeful appearance of a man trying to train a dog to do a trick. Like a dog, the beans had a mind of their own and sprawled in every direction except the one which the sheriff intended.

  “I called from the road but no one answered,” Jim said.

  The sheriff didn’t look up. “And you didn’t take that as a hint?”

  “I’m not easily deterred.”

  The sheriff made a grunt of some sort. Jim wasn’t fully certain what it meant but he assumed it to be a dig of some sort. “How are things going?"

  "I guess I should be asking you that." The sheriff successfully managed to hook another tendril of a bean vine over the string. It stayed several seconds before springing back to the ground.

  "Things have been sporty,” Jim said. “I expected to hear from you. Thought you might at least be curious what all the fuss was about."

  “I assume you’re referring to all the shooting?” The sheriff straightened and stretched his back. "I got no taste for hearing what your body count is up to now. Every time I hear a gunshot it makes me sick. I know more folks are dying."

  "Is not just us doing the shooting," Jim remarked. “My people are being fired on too.”

  The sheriff raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And just how many have you lost?"

  "Well, none."

  The sheriff gave Jim a smug expression, as if the answer validated his point.

  "So I should feel bad about keeping my people alive? You think I should sacrifice a few for the sake of equality? So my enemies feel better?"

  "No, I don’t think that," the sheriff replied. "It ain't right no matter who's doing the dying."

  “I can almost agree with you there,” Jim said. “If given a choice, however, I’d much rather bury those folks than bury mine.”

  “I got no doubt about that. You’ve more than demonstrated it.”

  Jim’s attempt at a friendly conversation was failing. Trading jabs with the sheriff wasn’t accomplishing anything. He needed to get to the meat of it. “I’d like to ask a favor.”

  "Well, you’re a froggy bastard, aren’t you? I’ve made it pretty clear I don’t approve of your techniques and you still got the nerve to ask me for something."

  Jim handed the flyer over to the sheriff and waited patiently while he read it. When he was done the sheriff let out a low whistle.

  "You're practically a Picasso of pissing people off.”

  “I had good intentions.”

  “And hence you’ve paved the road to Hell.”

  Restating the obvious accomplished nothing. Yes, Jim was an asshole. Yes, he’d screwed up in his attempt to make a stand for his people. "Will you at least hear me out?"

  The sheriff refolded the flyer and handed it back to Jim. "Go ahead. Shoot," the sheriff replied. Then in a moment of mock panic he threw his arms up in surrender. “Oh, I’m sorry. Probably a bad choice of words to use ‘shoot’ in your presence."

  "Are you done yet?"

  "Yeah. Go ahead."

  Jim launched into an explanation of all the events that had taken place recently, resulting in the gunshots the sheriff had heard. He explained Scott's plan and how they hoped it would bring an end to the bounty hunters launching attacks on the valley.

  "What exactly would my role be?" the sheriff asked.

  "I'd like you to be one of the team escorting me through town. It would lend an official atmosphere to the operation and cut down on the likelihood of people shooting at us."

  "Wasn't that your reason for bringing me to this valley in the first place?”

  “It was.”

  “How did that work for you?"

  Jim opened his mouth, ready to launch into an explanation of the complexities, the emotions, and all of the reasons his plan didn’t work. He didn’t have an opportunity. The sheriff cut him off with a single word.

  "No."

  Jim was shocked. “No? Seriously?”

  "You heard me right. I'm not doing it. I lost my job, my friends, and I lost my mother. I pretty much lost my county, and who knows how many citizens I lost? I'm not putting myself at any more risk for you. When you asked me to come out here, I could see a benefit in keeping the peace. I thought it would help keep people alive. It didn’t work. Now, I don’t see any more value in helping you out. I know this sounds harsh but the longer you live, the more people are going to die."

  Jim was stunned. He felt a surge of anger and let it pass before he spoke. "I’m sorry you feel that way. I hope you understand that this is kind of a turning point in our relationship. I’ve always respected you, but I’m going to have a hard time helping a man who thinks the world is better off without me in it."

  The sheriff knelt back down in his garden and started working on the beans again. "I won’t be your problem much longer, Jim. We’ll be moving back to my family farm soon. I'm holding on to squeeze what I can out of this garden and then we’re gone."

  “I hate that it's come to this."

  The sheriff shook his head indifferently. "It's probably for the best. Eventually this would have come to a head. One of us would end up dead and that wouldn’t help anyone."

  Jim searched his mind for anything else left to be said. There was nothing. They'd already talked out everything that needed talking, and anything else was just pollution. Jim had struck out. He could almost understand it, could almost see why the sheriff was done believing in him. He wondered if the rest of his tribe was reaching that same point.

  Jim left without a goodbye. He trudged down the driveway, sweat trickling down his back as the sun beat down on him. It was going to be a hot day.

  35

  Jim's team met at his house at 2:30 AM on the 4th of July. No one had slept well, if they even slept at all. Although Jim's family tried to maintain their composure as they said goodbye, everyone had a sick feeling in the pit of their stomach about this operation. Even the people who agreed to escort Jim—Randi, Gary, Lloyd, and Hugh—knew their safety was not guaranteed. Anything could happen. They’d been through some shit but this was as dangerous an operation as any they’d undertaken. They would be walking into town, likely in front of a mob, and hoping they could hold them at bay. It was maximum vulnerability.

  Jim led his team out. Familiar with the route, he rode in the lead and used night vision to see his path. The rest didn’t use anything, their horses understanding to follow behind Jim’s and go where he went. As they exited the farm they exchanged low greetings over the radio with the folks on sentry duty. They were being entrusted with the safety of all the loved ones until this operation was over. The way things had been going lately, there was no promise it would b
e any easier than the trip into town.

  Those riding behind Jim could see very little of the terrain around them. There was barely a sliver of moon and it was just enough to reveal the profile of the Clinch Range against the night sky.

  “I’m taking you into town by a route we’ve never travelled before,” Jim quietly explained. There was a large cattle farm way down the valley, close to Lloyd's parents’ home. The farm stretched from the valley road nearly to town.

  The landowner did not live on it. It was just a place to graze cattle, cut hay, and relax. There were no farmhands or rental homes, only a decrepit old house that had once belonged to a previous owner. The two-story home had been stately and ornate in its day but was now completely uninhabitable, with boards instead of windows and doors hanging open to the elements. In the frugal manner of farmers everywhere, the owner used the house for storing square bales of hay. It was not built as a barn but it was dry and available. At times cattle found their way in and were discovered standing in the living room by a collapsed piano, gently tugging hay from a compacted bail.

  Jim only knew of this place because he’d grown up with the owner's children. As a kid, he rode dirt bikes all over this property and fished in the farm pond. When he was older, he’d camped on the property while school was out for the summer. It felt like a lifetime ago and took him down that dark track of wondering what had happened to those childhood friends. Were they alive? If so, how were they faring?

  It took nearly two hours for Jim’s group to arrive at the dark shape of the old house. Jim turned his headlamp on. "I think we’re safe to use lights now. This house is down in a hole and you can't see it from anywhere. It’s in too bad a condition for anyone to live in it over the winter.”

  “Why?” Gary asked.

  “Can’t heat it,” Jim replied. “Most of the windows are gone. There are definitely better options around. We can leave the horses inside there. There’s probably enough hay on the floors to keep them occupied."