SEVEN DAYS

by James Ryke

  No one from the line stepped forward. Finally, two members from the congregation grabbed Isaac under the arms and pulled him to his feet. A string of blood ran from Isaac’s forehead down to his chin, where it dripped onto the pavement below. The vibrant spots of red seemed so odd on the black pavement that Isaac had a hard time looking away from them. He blinked repeatedly, rubbing his eyes until he could make sense of the situation.

  Rick grabbed Isaac around the shoulders and began to force him to walk. “Come on.”

  Isaac touched his forehead. “I’m bleeding.”

  Rick turned his head to Old Pete, “Take over. Make sure you don’t lose control again. I won’t be far.” He turned back to his brother, “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “You’re going back to the church.”

  “What about the…the…thing?”

  Rick shook his head as he sat Isaac on a bus stop bench. “They can handle it for now.”

  Isaac touched his head and looked at the blood on his fingers. “What happened?”

  “Chaos,” Rick answered. “Civility and order have a cost—and if no one can pay the price, anarchy fills the void. People are just scared right now, and this is how scared people act.”

  Isaac still looked confused. “I’m bleeding.”

  Rick nodded. “Why don’t you get back to the church and make sure everyone is working on something that they should be.”

  “We were supposed to do the lottery tomorrow morning. You changed it to just an hour from now. Why?”

  “You worry about getting your head attended to,” Rick answered. “I’ll be back at the church after the lottery. Do you want me to send someone with you?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. You need the help here.”

  ***

  Isaac held a wet rag over the cut on his forehead, squeezing it occasionally to allow a trickle of water to slip down his cheek. Either from the wound or the shock, Isaac had been in a state of numbness—at least, that is the best way he could describe it. Not long after he left Rick’s side, he threw up the oatmeal his wife had made for him that morning. He did not much like the taste of oatmeal, and it was almost as disgusting coming up as it was going down. It took him twice as long as it normally would for him to make it back. Even then, despite the long walk, it seemed to him that it ended far sooner than he thought it should have.

  It was all a blur. His kids encircling him, his wife fretting over the cut on his head, the members of the congregation asking dozens of questions. He answered what questions he could before he stole away to his office. He sat there, hardly moving, for well over an hour. He had been cut before in his life, many times more severely than this, but what made his head spin was the instant riot he saw unfold right in front of him—it was like some news report from a distant country. A coup of a dictator or something. The people just snapped. They had no problem charging in and knocking me to the ground. There was real panic in their eyes. Sometime while he still stared up at the roof, Jane squeezed into the room. She asked him how he was doing and if he needed anything. He said that he was fine, but she did not leave. Instead, she sat in the corner of the room and made so little noise, Isaac soon forgot she was there.

  Ten minutes later, a knock came at the door.

  Isaac removed the wet rag from his forehead. “Come in.”

  Rick entered.

  Isaac gestured towards one of the seats.

  Rick threw a clipboard on to Isaac’s desk and collapsed into a chair.

  “How did it go?” Isaac asked.

  “We were almost done with the raffle when police officers dressed in military fatigues showed up and shut us down.”

  “Shut you down?”

  “It doesn’t matter—I think I can make the list still work.”

  “Make it work? What do you mean? What happened?”

  “The new Mayor of the city has issued martial law—hell, he probably issued it yesterday, but with the limited number of law enforcement officials, they were stretched too thin to enforce it everywhere. That grocery store was probably one of the last places they seized.”

  “Seized?”

  “Yes. The grocery stores will now be under twenty-four-hour armed guard.”

  “And what about the people that were waiting in line to buy things?”

  “Those who were able to buy what they could when they could were lucky. The rest of them were turned away. Supposedly, the Mayor has a program for rationing the food. A handwritten flyer was distributed throughout the city, explaining in a lot of words with very little detail how the program works. There’s an application process where people submit the details of their family, including a list of all their assets, such as food and firearms. As soon as a person turns in everything they possess, and they submit their house for an inspection to prove that they’re not withholding anything, they can enroll in a program that will provide for all of their needs. Everyone only has a few days to sign up. After that, those who didn’t, are on their own.”

  “That sounds encouraging. At least he’s taking charge.”

  Rick rolled his eyes. “It sounds like Nazi Germany. It’s a death warrant. What they’re doing is seizing every weapon and food source of every person that signs up.”

  Isaac rubbed his forehead. “Was our food seized too?”

  “Yes, what was left of it, along with Old Pete’s .22 pistol. I

  wasn’t close enough for them to see my firearms; otherwise, I’m sure they would have wanted to seize them as well.”

  Isaac shook his head. “They can’t seize people’s personal food. That has nothing to do with martial law. What’s happening out there?”

  “That’s the thing you have to understand: civil rights cost money. Being politically correct or having a judiciary system that takes years to execute a known serial killer costs money. Civil order costs money, more money than most places have right now. We’ve had this coming for a long time, and now our debt has just come due. That changes people. Our system is based on checks and balances—which only functions if that system has the wealth to waste in months or even years in providing solutions. What’s happening now is the same thing that happens to a new Middle Eastern or African country experimenting in Democracy. Democracy can only exist in a growing economy; otherwise, the system falls apart. Right now, Isaac, in this new world, your government can’t guarantee you anything—including your right to survive. Rights are inalienable only when the government can pay for them to be inalienable.”

  “But this is the United States. We have a legal system in place. They can’t just seize our food and Old Pete’s gun without a warrant or something. It was a .22—those are still legal. What’s the Mayor doing?”

  Rick sat forward in his chair, “I don’t know. He’s got an objective that he’s working towards, but I have no idea what it is. He must know that the city is going to turn to hell. I just can’t figure out why he’s staying behind and waiting for it to happen.”

  “I know,” Jane said, her shy voice barely audible.

  Rick turned around, surprised by the sudden presence of his niece. “How did you get in here?”

  “I’ve been here,” Jane whispered. “But I think I might know what the Mayor is doing. He and I have something in common.”

  Isaac frowned. “What could you possibly have in common with the Mayor?”

  “I know him,” Jane said. “I worked on his campaign when he

  was running to be a Senator last year. His name is Marcus McKeet. He put out a reading list, and I read all the books he had on it. He’s a history buff, and if he believes half of the stuff he reads, I know what he’s doing. He’s one of the few Senators to have a Ph.D. in History.”

  Rick folded his arms and arched his eyebrows.

  Jane avoided Rick’s intense stare by looking at the ground.

  “Well,” Isaac said with a warm smile, “what do you think he’s doing?”

  Jane looked u
p at her father. “As in any society that wants to survive in a world with limited resources, the Mayor must turn our open society to a closed one. The more closed a society is, the more contained the problem will be when civil disorder erupts. This new Mayor knows what he’s doing; he knows what he needs to survive.”

  “What do you mean?” Isaac asked. “What is a closed society?”

  “Well,” Jane answered slowly, “an open society is one where the people know what’s going on in the government: There’s a clear voting process; the governing process is transparent; there are public debates over key issues; and the media is free to publish the news. A closed society is just the opposite: The people don’t have any idea what the government is up to, and they have no power to stop it. From everything I’ve seen the Senator do—or this new Mayor rather, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a ‘Food Allocation Program.’ There’s no way to magically create more resources by seizing all the supplies. Think about it. There were huge lines at the grocery stores, which means that people are concerned about not having enough, which means that if people are concerned, they’re starting to realize they do not have enough. Now the Mayor steps in, promising enough food for everyone; but, despite him starting a new “Food Allocation Program,” the amount of resources has not changed—so how is it that people will suddenly have enough food? Even if he rations it with the skill of a shrewd accountant, he’ll only extend the life of the city for maybe a month. But he’s already figured all of this out.”

  Rick and Isaac spoke at the same time.

  “What will happen?” Isaac asked.

  “How do you know this?” Rick said.

  “It’s Econ 101: If you can’t increase the supply of a product, you have to decrease the demand. If the Mayor is smart, which so far he has not proven himself to be otherwise, he’ll continue to close down the society until the people have no voice whatsoever in what’s going on.”

  “How will he close the society down?” asked Isaac.

  Jane cleared her throat, the nerves she felt only a few seconds ago seemed to be fading. “The same way that Adolf Hitler or Pol Pot did, the same way that Stalin or Caligula closed down their societies. First, he’ll site an incident that’ll invoke a threat to the public.”

  “The EMP?”

  “No,” Jane shook her head. “The EMP created a problem, but it’s no longer a threat. For a group of people to willingly give up their power and resources into the hands of the few, the Mayor must create the perception of an ongoing threat. After September 11th, it was the key phrase “terrorist” that allowed President Bush to consolidate power and pass the Patriot Act; in Nazi Germany, it was the perception of ‘evil’ Jews. In the Roman Empire, when Caligula ruled with terror, he also blamed the Jews—actually, the Jews have been the scapegoat for lots of societies; for Pol Pot, it was the evils of capitalism. No nation has ever gone from an open society to a closed society willingly—unless an outside threat could be created. In this situation, it was the Mayor’s assassination. And when I heard Rick’s account of the events of the Mayor’s death, and after I saw this sheet being hung up all over town, my suspicions were vindicated.” She then placed a handwritten paper onto the Pastor’s desk. Isaac picked it up and stepped closer to his office window for light. He read the handwritten report out loud.

  LOCAL CHANNEL 9 NEWS REPORT

  Yesterday, sometime in the afternoon, a group of at least eleven terrorists, dressed in all black fatigues, forcefully entered city hall and assassinated Mayor Quintin Bentley. The Mayor was brutally murdered execution-style, according to witnesses. Marcus McKeet, a United States Senator, has gratefully accepted the responsibility of being the Mayor until the electricity can be restored and an actual election can be held. City Council members unanimously voted to appoint Senator McKeet as the acting Mayor. It is suspected that these terrorists are responsible for the blackout as well as several other murders throughout the city. A cash reward will be given to anyone that can provide information leading to the arrest of these individuals. The leader is male and is described as being a white Anglo-Saxon American, about 6’1”, and has a goatee.

  In further news, the new Mayor has received word from Washington that a large shipment of food is on its way. If anyone wants to receive their fair share, they’ll have to participate in the “Food Allocation Program” before this shipment arrives. This program is designed to allocate resources to the individuals who need them the most and will ensure proper distribution of current supplies. You must be registered to be entitled to more resources.

  Isaac put the paper down onto his desk. “That’s Rick they’re talking about, but the story is all wrong. It’s not a blackout that took out the electricity; it’s an EMP. People are going to see right through this garbage. Why are they lying to everyone? What’s the point? And why are they saying that help is on the way when Rick told the old Mayor just the opposite?”

  Jane continued, her voice betraying a small hint of excitement. “They don’t want to create panic. In fact, they want people to have a small portion of hope—enough hope in the system that they won’t do anything rash. At the same time, the new Mayor doesn’t want to give people too much to look forward to because then they’ll not be as willing to go along with his plan. The Mayor is counting on that small glimmer of hope on the horizon to hold enough people over until he can consolidate his power.”

  “Maybe he got word from someone else that help is really on the way,” Isaac said.

  “How can there be help on the way?” Rick replied with exasperation. “The EMP took out the entire Eastern United States.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “We can’t afford to think differently,” Rick answered. “She’s right, Isaac. None of the Mayor’s actions have made any sense in this crisis—in fact, he seems to be trying to actively make things worse. He’s using limited communication and fear to manipulate the city.” He turned towards his niece, “Jane, what’s the Mayor’s next step?”

  Jane looked at the ceiling as she organized her thoughts. “He has already taken control of the media, as evidenced by that sheet of paper on Isaac’s desk. The assassination of the old Mayor has given him an excuse to create a paramilitary force. The new Mayor will try to draw the most powerful individuals into his regime—people like gun owners and militia members, people that are civil servants, or in law enforcement. He might even create two or three different types of forces, almost like a system of checks and balances. That way, he can keep one in check by the use of the other. Hitler used the Brownshirts and the SS; Pol Pot used the Communist Party and the Khmer Rouge.

  “I’ve already seen people in the city that are being called the Red Sleeves because they have something red tied around their arm. They’re the public force, the sheer numbers that support the Mayor, but I’m sure the Mayor will employ a system of spies. They’ll attempt to gain information about regular citizens. Those that complain too much about the situation will be “killed by the terrorists” or will be labeled “terrorists” themselves and will face execution. In essence, a false war will be waged—one that’ll distract people from figuring out the truth. All the while, the hope that Federal aid will be showing up at any minute with truckloads of supplies will keep the people mostly docile. All of this will be done within the next four or five days.”

  “Why so quickly?” Isaac asked.

  “Because the narrative completely falls apart when Washington never shows up. Besides, that’ll give the Mayor more than enough time to consolidate his power. The more quickly he’s able to do this, the less time the public will have to react.”

  Isaac shook his head, his eyes wide with disbelief. “But what will happen to everyone? I’ve lived half my life in this town, growing up with all these people. What happens when the Mayor consolidates his power?”

  “Not sure, but if history teaches us anything, it doesn’t look good for the city,” Jane replied simply. “If you can’t increase th
e supply of something…then you have to decrease the demand. People will demand food and water until they’re dead. Eliminate the people, and you decrease your demand. I’m sure that there will be resistance—the Mayor will be counting on it—but it will be too little, too late. The vast majority of the people will have turned their weapons in and will be too shell-shocked to give much of a resistance. There might be a few survivalists that’ll lead the charge, but they’ll be vastly outgunned. People will either be cut down, or they’ll be forced to flee the city. The casualty rate from either starvation or gunshots will be catastrophic. And even those that get out of town in time won’t last long without supplies.”

  Isaac looked like he just had his lungs removed. “How can you talk about this as if it’s nothing, Jane? What you’re saying is that the Mayor intends to wipe everyone out.”

  “It’s human history,” Jane said. “It’s genocide of the worst kind—and every single one of those books the Senator had on his reading list had a detailed account of a least one mass execution. And if we don’t survive, I doubt the deeds of the Mayor will ever make it into the chronicles of history.”

  FIFTEEN

  Day 3

  Rick stood in a long line inside the congregation room, awaiting his turn to receive his morning oatmeal. The bowls were from all different houses and, consequently, were various shapes and sizes. They ranged from extremely formal to barely functional. He was not excited to get his portion of steaming slop—he was even less eager to see who was serving it. It was Kate. She was wearing a messy apron and was clumsily wielding a ladle. Rick’s jaw tightened as he held out a tray with three bowls in front of Kate. As Rick approached, the woman’s composure changed abruptly: She now seemed very sure how to use the ladle, very sure how to serve oatmeal. Her smile disappeared.