“Somebody has to be in charge,” Bill declared.
“Do they? I mean, I’m on the radio all day long. We’ve got one of the few functioning communications systems left in the state. If even a fraction of the stories I hear are true?” Richardson ground his teeth. “I’m not even sure that God can save us.”
Sam reached out, took Shyla’s hand, pulled her close. He shared a worried glance with her. With his wife. It felt oddly reassuring to think of her that way. Somehow full of promise when nothing else was.
“What about on the other side of the Colorado border?” Amber asked as she stepped out. She was wiping her hands with a dish towel.
Richardson’s eyes narrowed to a squint. “Heard that the FEMA warehouses outside of Denver were looted by one of the gangs. Shot down the few soldiers left guarding the place after the army pulled out. Gangs carted the last of it away. Not that there was much left.” He made a face. “I suppose that eventually these gangs are going to set their sights on Wyoming. We’re bracing for the worst.”
Amber sagged against the porch support, a look of despair on her face. “They going to let those people through the barricades?”
“No, ma’am. At least, those are the standing orders.”
Old Bill pulled on his ear as he said, “We had never before seen so clearly the law of war: ‘You or me.’” His lips twitched. “That’s a quote from a survivor of the Eastern Front during the last days of the Second World War. Guess that’s what we’re finally left with.”
Ultimate Truth
Civilization. The theory of law. Morality. The Ten Commandments. The Constitution. Ethics. All are geared toward functioning societies—rules by which numbers of people can moderate their behavior and act for the common good. A means of providing for social order, security, confidence, peace of mind and the protection of self and property. All highly advantageous in a functioning and stable state.
In the chaos of complete collapse, they become anathema.
Here’s the moral dilemma Governor Agar faced: He had resources, industry, and energy to sustain a little over a half million people. Just over his border, nearly ten million traumatized human beings were going to starve to death. If they flooded north, they would consume everything, destroy the infrastructure, and ten-and-a-half million people would eventually perish in the ruins. Do you stop them? Hold that border?
What would you do?
Choose. Right now.
I don’t hear your answer.
Choose.
— Excerpt from Breeze Tappan’s Journal.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sex felt different that night. Sam wasn’t even sure he could put it into words. He and Shyla shared a deeper intensity and richness, and he realized they had crossed some threshold into a realm that went beyond just being lovers.
In the aftermath, Sam lay with his legs tangled in hers, her head on his breast. He tried to put it all into perspective. What were the long-term prospects for their relationship? He assumed they could still get a license at the Hot Springs courthouse, could wrangle a marriage through one of the local churches. But if they did, somehow, he thought it would kill what was special between them.
Because that’s who we expect ourselves to be.
“Thomas Star, you’re the smartest man on the planet,” Sam whispered softly.
As a cloud passed, a shaft of moonlight shone through the window and splashed on the floor. As it did, it filled the room with a soft white glow.
He thought he caught movement, blinked, and glanced at the opposite bunk. Nynymbi sat there, half hidden in shadow.
The spirit messenger’s three-fingered hands wavered in a ghostly fashion; the concentric round eyes peered at Sam as though from another world. Outside, the mild wind blowing down the canyon whispered through the cottonwoods and hissed along the cabin eaves.
Nynymbi seemed to wave more frantically. Did Sam imagine it, or did the being slip away through the door?
Shyla murmured, “What’s wrong?” as Sam disentangled himself.
“Outhouse, call,” he fibbed, and kissed her pearlescent cheek. She sighed and rolled over, crushing the pillow into a wad.
Sam pulled on his pants, kicked into his boots, and stepped out into the night.
The breeze caressed his naked chest, flipped his hair around. Overhead the three-quarter moon was bright in the sky. Somewhere up the canyon, the great horned owls hooted to each other.
Nynymbi danced in the shadows beneath the long grass where the wind caught and played with it. No sooner did Sam notice him, than the little spirit helper led his eye to the solitary figure standing in the middle of the yard. Thomas had his head back, long braids swaying with each gust of wind.
Sam walked out into the yard as quietly as he could, not wishing to disturb the old man’s solitude.
“I suspected that he’d bring you out.” Thomas Star said it as if it were a casual remark over coffee.
“I’m still having trouble with this spirit helper thing.”
“I have a B.A. in physics,” Thomas told him. “While I was amazed by the principles and laws by which the physical world is governed, I was awed by theoretical and quantum physics. It’s the multidimensional element that fouls most people up.”
“I speak anthropology, not physics.”
“I’m saying, in my clumsy way, that there’s more to reality than we can perceive. Call it perturbations, ripples of energy, the jostling of particles from dimensions we can’t imagine.”
“You’re saying Nynymbi is real.”
“I’m saying trouble’s coming.”
Sam took a deep breath and stepped up beside Thomas to look up at the moon. “What kind?”
“The spirits don’t say. All I know is that we have to be ready. Don’t know how it will come. Or from where. Just be glad we were warned.”
“Then maybe I’d better not go to Cheyenne.”
“No. You need to go. The spirits didn’t tell me why. Or did Nynymbi tell you?”
“I wasn’t aware he could talk. But why would the spirits bother? Why go out of their way to warn us in the first place? What makes us so special?”
“We’re not special. They warn us because we’re willing to listen. And don’t bother to deny it.”
“But Thomas—”
“Otherwise you wouldn’t have left a nice warm bed filled with a beautiful woman and followed a nynymbi out here.”
“Okay. I’m warned. Now what?”
“Go to Cheyenne and find out.”
The Line
I talked my way past the militia blockade on the state line at Woods Landing. Wyoming people share an identity. Once you get out of Casper, Cheyenne, and Sheridan, it’s a tough state. Develops a sense of independence and self-reliance given the weather and distances.
Agar had decided to save his state—and to damn his soul in the process. Right or wrong, he had determined to preserve a sliver of civilization. Probably because unlike the governors of Colorado, California, New Jersey, and Maryland, he could.
It came down to population, resource production, and most of all, distribution. Wyoming had farming and ranching, oil and coal, railroads, and most of all, electricity. And none of it had been destroyed by rioting.
Agar established “The Line”, a string of armed outposts, called OPs, along the Colorado border to turn back refugees. He manned it with Wyoming National Guard, the local militia.
I’d seen the alternative. I’d survived the insanity and mayhem. For my part, I joined a group of young women who used their motorcycles to run critical supplies to outlying OPs.
I’d given up part of my soul on Willow Creek Pass when Felix was shot.
I lost the rest of it on The Line.
— Excerpt from Breeze Tappan’s Journal.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In the ranch yard Sam hugged and kissed Shyla goodbye. The early morning chill made hugging her close even more enjoyable. She gave him a saucy wink and promised, “Don’t wor
ry about me. I’ve got the pistol. Thomas and Willy and Brandon are here. And you know that no one would mess with Amber or Pam.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow night,” old Bill called. “God, I’d think you two love birds were held together with superglue.”
Sam grinned, reluctantly let loose of Shyla, and climbed into the truck.
“Hey, Delgado!” she shouted in the moments before the door was closed. “I’m making you a coat! I love you!”
The words hummed in Sam’s memory like the endless chime of an old church bell. He sat in the Dodge’s back seat with Evan and Court while Frank drove, and old Bill offered commentary from the passenger seat.
True to promise, a Highway Patrol Dodge Charger awaited them at the Highway 120 junction and took them all the way to Shoshoni where another patrol car escorted them to Casper and I-25. Sam was retracing his path into Wyoming. And how different it was from that day when the banks had failed. He saw the empty rangeland and distant mountains through entirely different eyes.
Along the way they passed occasional cars and trucks that had been abandoned and pushed off the side of the road.
“You know,” old Bill said, “as long as the fools left the keys and didn’t leave the ignition on and kill the battery, there’s a living to be made hauling gas out and driving these abandoned vehicles back to town.”
“Don’t you think there’s already enough abandoned vehicles in town?” Frank asked.
“Oh, stop being such a damned pessimist and think it through. Each of these abandoned vehicles is a collection of spare parts, tires, wires, and things we can’t replace with a simple trip to the auto parts store.”
“Hadn’t thought of it that way.”
And that was the thing. They all had to start thinking differently.
“I don’t really know Governor Agar,” Evan said. “You’re the expert, Bill. What’s he like?”
“A no-bullshit pragmatist. A lot of people, especially the state employees, didn’t like him. The delicate art of diplomacy isn’t one of his finer attributes. Government people like to chrome-plate and polish the barbed wire so it’s all sparkling and gleaming before they shove it up your ass. Tell you it’s just a gentle rain while they’re pissing on your head. Pete Agar tells it like it is.”
Frank added, “Which is why the people of Wyoming reelected him. Up until the shit hit the fan, I think a lot of the kiss-my-ass career people in state government, and probably the feds, too, were counting down the days until the next election. Agar would have been term-limited-out. Now? Well, do term limits even matter anymore?”
“Why did he call us down to Cheyenne for this meeting?” Sam asked. “Couldn’t he move against Edgewater himself?”
Old Bill stared out the window at the passing grasslands. “Agar thinks on a state-wide basis. He might have started out as a lawyer in Casper, but his uncle ran a trucking company with offices in Rock Springs, Gillette, and Cheyenne. Cousins still have ranches in Lincoln County, Uinta County, and Crook County. A brother runs the biggest hotshot company in Casper.”
“What’s a hotshot company?” Court asked.
“Oil field service,” Evan told him. “If You Betcha Oil Company is drilling a well sixty miles from town and discovers they’ve got three sections of drill stem that won’t thread. The company calls the hotshot service, and, day or night, they run a truck and trailer over, pick up the stem, and deliver it right to the well.”
“That’s just it,” old Bill said as they began passing the occasional house north of Cheyenne. “Agar knows the state from the grassroots up. I sure don’t envy the decisions he’s been having to make.”
Evan reflected, “Do you save your own citizens, at the expense of thousands of lives, or do you let the refugees in to overwhelm your resources? The ultimate us or them. Either way, you’re damned.”
They had passed a surprising number of pedestrians headed north with bundles on their backs, and more than a few headed south. The farther south they went the numbers were up. Including knots of people sitting on the roadside across the way on the northbound lane. Mostly families, or small groups of adults, all had signs describing their plight. Most waved, even though Sam’s party was headed the other direction.
“Doesn’t look nearly as rough as Sully Richardson said it would,” Bill muttered.
“Yeah,” Frank added, “especially when we’ve got a Highway Patrol escort. You think anyone would have the balls to try and flag us down?”
Old Bill growled, “If the number of refugees grows, and they steal enough guns, a couple of patrol cars won’t make much of a difference.”
A checkpoint had been set up in the north-bound lane at the Highway 85 exit ramp. Orange construction barrels funneled traffic into a bottleneck, and a Highway Patrol car was backed up by four pickups filled with armed men and women.
“Must be the vaunted Wyoming Militia,” old Bill grumbled.
Sam kept his nose to the window as their escort took the ramp at exit 12 and led the way into Cheyenne. He watched the tent city in Frontier Park pass: the signs people along the street displayed read: Need Help! Starving Children! WFFF! Will Work For Food. Jewelry For Sale. God Loves Us So Help Please. and so on. One stated: Trade: 22s for food.
This can’t be America. Not my America. Sam knotted his fists as he took in the refugees.
Their Highway Patrol escort led them to a spot in the Capitol parking lot. After Frank pulled into the space the officer indicated, Sam was delighted to get out and stretch.
“Straight through the front door, gentlemen,” the trooper told them. “Have a good day.”
Sam looked up at the Capitol. The building was imposing, with the requisite soaring golden dome. A fortress mix of grayish-tan stone, classical columns, and high, arch-topped, windows.
Court shot him a “who knows?” look as they walked to the main entrance. Armed guards, dressed in Tee-shirts and light denim jackets, stood posts at the doorways.
Climbing the main steps, a soldier in fatigues asked their names.
“We’re the Tappan bunch,” old Bill told him. “We’re supposed to confab with the governor.”
Sam stifled a whistle as they were led into the rotunda, and he looked up. Okay, so it was a pretty cool building.
A second soldier led them down a hall and to a conference room.
Here, a young man was placing notepads before chairs around a central table. As he finished, he asked, “Anyone need coffee?”
“All around,” Bill said. “Thanks.”
After the young man left, Court meekly said, “Um, I don’t drink coffee.”
Bill gave him a sour look.
At that juncture, Merlin Smith and Sally Hanson entered. They shook hands all around, Sam and Court getting their first formal introduction to the Hot Springs movers and shakers.
The next two men to arrive were older. The first, a tall, elegant-looking sixty-year-old with silver hair, was introduced to Sam and Court as Terry Tanksley, or just plain “Tank”. He wore a Western-cut suit, gleaming-black pointed Western boots, and bolo tie. His companion was Barry Lehman, the mayor of Cody, Wyoming, and an ex-state senator.
No more had introductions been made than the young man was back with a tray of cups, followed by a capable-looking woman with a large coffee pot that she plugged into the wall. One by one, she poured, handing cups around.
“Cheers.” Sam clicked his cup against Court’s. The computer geek just stared glumly into the black liquid.
“Looks like the cabal is here,” Sally said as she glanced around the room.
“When did you get here?” Frank asked.
“Two days ago. We gave Agar a rundown on Edgewater’s doings. How it almost ended in a riot in Hot Springs.”
Lehman took a drink of his coffee before saying, “Same here. Agar said he wanted to consider his options, and that when he was ready, he’d make his decision about the Basin.”
“Think he’ll stick to it?” Evan asked.
Sally
stated in her hard-as-nails voice: “I watched the governor execute four death sentences the night we got here. He pulled the trigger himself. Shot them in the back of the head. Agar is as serious as a heart attack when it comes to holding this state together.”
At that moment, the governor himself stepped into the room.
Sam thought that Pete Agar should have been ten feet tall, built like a line-backer, wearing a ten-gallon hat, with twin six-guns on his hips. The man who walked in might have topped five-foot-six, with close-cropped black hair, thoughtful dark eyes, and was wearing a regular suit and tie. Even his loafers looked average.
Again, the introductions, though a curiosity lay behind his gaze as he was introduced to Court and finally Sam. From the order of things, Sam had no illusions but that he was low man on the totem pole. He and Court took the chairs at the far end of the table.
“Thanks for coming down,” Agar began. “We don’t have much time, so let’s cut to the red meat: What’s the latest situation with Edgewater, and what are we going to do about it?”
Tank spread his hands wide. “Essentially the guy’s dug in up the South Fork. Took over the Clark Ranch. He has forty-some hard cases on his payroll who act as his enforcers. About half of the more influential of our citizens have offered their services. Most of them, I think, because they’re seeking to avoid having their property seized or possessions taken. Some of his more vocal supporters think that by licking his ass, he’s going to be their ticket to prestige and status. In short, he’s got guys, and guns, and the willingness to use them.”
“How is he paying them?”
Evan interjected. “With luxury items. Guns, booze, new vehicles, fancy clothes. Nice places to live. And he’s making appointments. Lick his boots, and he’ll set you up as high minister of fuel supplies, with your own armed guard to back it up.”
Dissolution: The Wyoming Chronicles: Book One Page 22