Town on Fire: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Series, 25BF Season 2 (25 Bombs Fell)

by A. K. Meek

  03.02

  LIFE IN A SOUTHERN TOWN

  City Ordinance 887 had passed. Narrowly.

  Only by calling an emergency meeting of the council was Mayor Aubrey Gifford able to push the ordinance through. Not all councilmembers were in attendance, but the vote was taken anyway. Some might have called it underhanded for her to hold the session while her strongest opponents weren’t present to vote, but as she thought about the greater good the ordinance would serve, she could accept being labeled a cheat.

  Aubrey had promised complete transparency to her constituency. Maybe she was naive in believing that was possible when she was running for office. With any position of authority, there are those instances that should be kept from the people. Many had told her that, but she didn’t believe it. An open government is a good government, she’d always say. She believed it too, at one time or another.

  Now, here she was manipulating—no, lying to her constituency. A big hypocrite that ran on a platform of openness just used underhanded methods in one of the most controversial council decisions of all time.

  Maybe forthrightness didn’t need to be sacrificed. Maybe she could tell everyone that without her trickery the vote wouldn’t have passed. Probably everyone already figured it out.

  No. What’s done is done. There’s no going back.

  As Aubrey stepped from the courthouse, her home since the attacks, she was saddened by how much Bartel had changed. Many cars had remained where they stalled, in parking spaces where parking meters long ago flagged them for violating time. Other cars rested on lawns. One Ford F-150 had jumped the curb and slammed face first into the front of a nail salon. No one cared enough to dislodge the mangled truck from the storefront. Ms. Trai Wan wouldn’t be giving manicures there anymore.

  Aubrey examined her own nails and laughed when she remembered how worried she was when she damaged her French manicure as the world ended.

  Would there ever be time for such trivial things again? Would she ever scan the cable scroll to see when the next episode of Love Made in America would be on? Or stop in to see if the Fish House trucked in any more of that delicious calamari?

  The time for nice things would have to be later. If there was a later. The hard things had to be done now. That included getting necessary ordinances passed for the good of the community.

  She walked the steps to where a couple of picnic tables had been erected. Folding chairs were set around them. Three city employees sat at the desks, loaded with clipboards and pencils and stacks of paper. Lines of people had already formed, snaking away from the tables and onto the street.

  Three deputies stood nearby, M-16s in their hands. They waited for any trouble, because many residents said this day would bring trouble.

  Today the census began.

  Everyone evacuated into the city had to be accounted for. Everyone had to register. A proper head count was the only way to ensure rations could be distributed through fair share. They wouldn’t survive for another month without proper management.

  Already, two people, a man and woman, stood in line holding signs of poster board with a clear message written in Sharpie: Mayor Gifford = Communism. But they still stood in line to get their rations. Aubrey guessed their protests ended at their stomachs.

  She’d learned people were going to complain. Even in good times there are those who find fault. An opportunity for someone to mourn the state of affairs was never passed up. It was even worse now.

  But as she watched the snake crowd drift up to the tables, she noticed many people starting to hop lines. It started with a couple of people moving. No big deal. But several more followed. What stood out was they were black.

  Normally she would chide herself for the observation, which many would view as culturally insensitive. Or bigoted.

  Regardless all the blacks were moving to one line. Several more standing around seemed to take notice. More blacks trickled in and congregated in the one line.

  The other residents, predominantly white, sprinkled with a few Mexicans for good measure, seemed also to notice. The ones that remained in the line with the blacks started to shift, like they had become uncomfortable, or they had become the unwitting pawns in some kind of new flash mob.

  Other citizens started to move from the black line to the nonblack. Before Aubrey’s disbelieving eyes, her town was segregating itself.

  “Mayor Gifford,” came a voice from her right. Reverend Farah was marching up the courthouse steps with his entourage of bodyguards. She sighed. Anytime Farah was around, it always ended in a headache for her. Or the town. Or both.

  He stopped next to her and turned to examine his handiwork. With hands on hips he nodded with devilish pride at the quickly growing mass of blacks. “We’ve decided,” he said in a voice uncharacteristically calm, considering who it came from, “that your methods do not have the best interests of our people in mind.”

  “What are you talking about? I have the best interests of the whole town at heart.”

  “I didn’t say the whole town, I said our interests.” With that he swept his arm in the direction of the line. But she didn’t need that elaboration. She knew exactly who Farah was referring to. And the thought of her town fracturing over skin color frightened her.

  “We’ve decided that we know best how to take care of ourselves. It’s really simple if you think about it.”

  “You mean you’re leaving Bartel?”

  “Oh no, this is our town too. We’re staying right here. But we’re claiming our rightful half.”

  “What?”

  “I have a map in my office showing where we will draw the line between our city and yours.”

  Aubrey laughed, but even if you didn’t know Aubrey you knew the laugh was manufactured and showed no amusement at all. “You’re kidding,” was all she managed to spit out.

  With a snap of Farah’s fingers, one of his entourage broke ranks and scampered down the steps, heading for the church. “I’m not kidding at all. In fact, I’m more serious than I have ever been. I’ve met with my congregation and many other concerned individuals in this community. We’ve decided to move forward as one, and I’m their spokesman.”

  “Of course you are.” Aubrey started to turn away.

  She knew she couldn’t talk sense to him. What did that leave, force? She could tell the Kurt to throw him in jail, but he’d committed no crime. That’s probably what he wanted, so he could make himself a martyr for the cause. She wouldn’t give him the opportunity.

  Across the street at the sheriff’s office, Kurt was studying the forming mob. Aubrey darted across the street to him.

  “There’s been another shooting,” he said to her before she even got a chance to say a word to him.

  “What? Who, where?”

  “Earl. It was accidental. He’s okay, though. It’s superficial.” He swiped his hat off his head and swept back ringlets of curls saturated with sweat.

  “Accidental,” she said. “That’s one heck of an accident.”

  Kurt nodded at the crowds. “What’s going on here?”

  “Not much,” she said as flippantly as possible. “The good reverend has decided he’s claiming part of the town.”

  “What the…” Kurt studied the crowd with a new understanding. “I’ll get my deputies. We’ll put a stop to it.”

  “He’s cut our town in half, right down the color line. And if you haven’t noticed, two of your deputies are in the group.”

  Sure enough, two of Kurt’s deputies mingled with the crowd. They stood out with their brown khaki uniforms and shouldered M-16s. He wondered if all his black deputies would support Farah.

  When he left Councilman Aldrich’s house, he thought the day couldn’t get worse. It was like God just had to prove him wrong.

  The segregation of the townsfolk into black and white already caused tension. An agitation as real as the sun rising each day. It carried through the air and hit Kurt almost as solid as a punch. He knew the feeling, the sensation wel
l. Years of law enforcement had exposed him to human agitation for decades. He teetered by a river of that same agitation, ready to dive in.

  He needed to do something. But even now, another weight laid on the scales of Bad Things would tip the scales over. He wasn’t sure what to do.

  Helplessly, the mayor and sheriff watched Bartel split in half, by color.

  03.03

  THE DOG POUND

  Johnny’s head had remained covered for the trip. To pass the time and stave off the erupting fear in his mind, he thought to remember where they were going by paying close attention to direction; peculiar sounds, bumps in the road, and particular smells. After a minute of straining to remember anything, he lost all sense of direction. Plus, all he could smell was sweat and dog.

  He asked Roscoe twice what was going on, but after the second time the cold, hard edge of a knife was placed against his tender Adam’s Apple. That was enough to cut any more questions off. Roscoe played an eight-track of Nazareth’s Hair of the Dog for the remainder of the trip.

  Once they had parked wherever they were going, rough hands pulled him from the truck. He stumbled over uneven ground. The hood was ripped off his head right before he was shoved into a windowless room. The door slammed shut, the click of a heavy locking mechanism unmistakable. When his eyes adjusted, all he could see in the squat room were walls of cinder block. It smelled like the room was built on top of dead animals.

  With nothing else to do, Johnny curled up in one corner, pulled his knees into his chest, and rocked. And cried.

  Sometime in the night the door finally opened. Light pierced the opening, startling Johnny from a restless half-sleep. His eyes burned like he’d stared at the sun. He jerked his arm up to shield his face.

  “Get up!” came a heavy, not-friendly voice . Johnny couldn’t see the person, but they sounded big, mean, and didn’t play around.

  As he stood, his body, having been curled in a fetal position for hours, screamed in protest. The voice at the door didn’t seem like it would care about his stiff back or numb legs, so he didn’t mention them. He limped to the entrance.

  Obviously he didn’t move fast enough, because the hand of the gruff voice grabbed his jean jacket collar and dragged him out of the cell. He couldn’t help but fall to the dirt, his legs still knotted up from the long night.

  An overwhelming awareness of many eyes on him, and once his own dilated enough to manage the bright ambient, he was able to lift his head and see them.

  It didn’t take him long to place the mean voice to the body, which was an extremely large black man. He wore a flannel shirt that in the past had its sleeves removed for his bulging arms. Painful-looking brands were etched in his dark skin. He probably had a short stint as a linebacker for some pro football team.

  Next to him stood Roscoe and a couple other guys that looked like stoners Johnny probably would’ve hung out with on a Friday night. Roscoe wore a wife-beater and had a faded red t-shirt slung over his shoulder. Occasionally he’d use it like a horse’s tail and swipe away gnats and mosquitoes buzzing his face.

  “Well,” Roscoe said, grasping the neck of a half-empty beer bottle in his hand, “looks like you made it through the night. That’s something, I’ll give you that.”

  Johnny stretched and looked around. The building that he spent that horrible night in was one of five similar rooms, part of a rectangular, beige cinderblock building. And as he searched the area around he saw that about fifty yards had been robbed of grass. All that remained was dirt with tire ruts and large potholes with standing water. Several vehicles in various stages of neglect were parked in the open area, leftovers of some off-road car battle. And the off-road won. Across the parking lot stood three more buildings.

  The buildings in some past life had served as double wide trailers. Corrugated metal skirted the bases but had peeled away in several places, revealing a hollow—no foundation, probably mounted on blocks.

  People moved between the buildings, ants busy at work. They carried boxes from one location to another. Groups huddled together, chatting. It reminded Johnny of a warehouse environment.

  In the background, a multitude of dogs barked and howled.

  “What is this place?” Johnny asked. “Where did you take me?”

  “You should focus on the opportunity you’re getting, Johnny-boy. You could say you’re getting the rare chance of a second life.” With that Roscoe motioned to the couple of guys and they turned and strode away with no care in the world. But the large linebacker man stayed there, watching Johnny with every bit of hate that a man could muster for a stranger.

  Roscoe stroked the scraggly beard on his chin. “We worked together for about six months or so, right? So I kinda have an idea what you’re like, Johnny-boy. That’s why it’s your lucky day. So here’s what I’m gonna do for you. I’m going to vouch for you that you’re a good guy.”

  “I’ve been kidnapped and I don’t know where I am right now.”

  “That’s awful inconsiderate of you,” the linebacker said. “If Roscoe didn’t vouch for you you’d be wearing your guts as a vest.”

  Johnny looked to Roscoe to see if this was, in fact, true. He smiled and gave a slight nod like linebacker spoke absolute truth.

  Roscoe turned and headed toward the cluster of buildings in the middle of nowhere. Johnny knew he was expected to follow without question, so he did. Linebacker fell in behind him.

  As the trio made their way across the dirt parking lot Johnny had more time to examine the area. He could see on the other side of the buildings a large vehicle, maybe a semi or a U-Haul. Boxes were being loaded on and off the truck.

  There were no other buildings anywhere near. Further off he could see a fringe of orchards. Probably a peach orchard. Between the orchards and the buildings, a perimeter of fence line had been established. It appeared that later, wire had been unspooled along the top, reinforcing the original fence. Johnny also saw people walking the fence line. They had guns. All of them.

  When they neared the buildings, Johnny noticed next to one of the mobile homes a box about the size of a large washing machine. What stood out was that the casing for the box was similar to the box in Roscoe’s truck. They were made in the same futuristic design with curved corners, accented in bits of highly polished silver. He wanted to ask Roscoe what it was but he caught sight of the linebacker from the corner of his eyes and seeing his serious face, he decided to keep his mouth shut.

  Johnny noticed three other buildings that’d been hidden from view. And the original ones were larger than they appeared initially.

  Chatter increased. Yelling, cursing, engines roaring to life, and in the background, barking became more distinct. It sounded like hundreds of dogs of all sizes, from shrilly yapping drop-kick dogs to the deep bellowing of some Marmaduke-sized beast.

  Abruptly, Roscoe froze in place, like he’d reached a pre-determined destination. “This is it, this is home away from home. I’d like to introduce you to the Dog Pound.”

  When Roscoe said that it the whole thing suddenly clicked in Johnny’s mind. He realized they were at the regional animal control. He remembered seeing commercial adverts with glassy eyed dogs staring mournfully into the camera as some music wailed. The pound had been a big deal a couple years ago.

  Many of the small surrounding communities didn’t want a dog pound moving in next door. People didn’t like the idea of a new animal control building bringing all the smells and sounds. After several legal battles, the residents of Bartel succeeded in blocking the construction. Shortly after, an undisclosed party donated land and contributed funding to the building.

  If this truly is the case then Johnny reasoned he was about twenty-five miles outside of Bartel, which would be the closest city.

  “By the way, Johnny-boy,” Roscoe continued, “this is a family reunion. Someone else is interested to see you, once I told him about you. But first, let’s get something to drink. It’s hot out here.”

  Johnny used to t
hink the best beer was free beer. His new motto became: the best beer is one after you’ve spent the night in solitary confinement thinking you’re going to die.

  It’s amazing the wounds a cold longneck can heal.

  Johnny had all but forgotten the fear of the night before, the kidnapping, the hood over the head, the unknown, the long night in a cell smelling like roadkill. With the day it seemed to make everything better.

  After a shared six pack, and a quarter bottle of Smirnoff, Johnny even began to think Linebacker was smiling at him.

  They were sitting in one of the trailer buildings, an animal examination room.

  Once Johnny was thoroughly saturated with beer and vodka, and everybody was a little more enlightened and feeling good, Roscoe said, “It’s time to see the boss now.”

  He led them to an adjacent building guarded by two large men that looked like they meant business. They each had a long machete and holstered pistols. They reminded Jonny of a couple of burnouts from the local biker bar. Roscoe said, “The boss wants to see him,” jerking his chin at Johnny.

  They didn’t say anything, they just glared at Johnny then at Roscoe and then the one on the left made a quick motion with his head, almost indiscernible if you weren’t paying attention.

  The inside of the building looked like an office. Mismatched desks butted together. Pictures on the wall to make it seem like some corporate board CEO office. But it looked more like a junkyard convention had decided to renovate an office space. Johnny didn’t see him at first but when Bob stood from behind the desk Johnny almost fell over with surprise.

  “Bob? Bob! What are you doing here?” he said to his former employer.

  Bob smiled the same smile that Johnny knew. It wasn’t a friendly smile, it was a smile more like I know something about you and I’m going to use it to my best advantage.