Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  Phil cringed as his tough minded friends painted the sheriff into a corner. Paul Kelley looked like he might make a break for the door at any point.

  The mayor of Shelbyville finally spoke up. “I’m all for it,” she said. Nellie Horath was one of the rare public officials Phil respected. She wasn’t a big supporter of the Cooperative, but she’d never stood in their way, either. Once more, she hadn’t let him down.

  Cornin ignored her. “Let’s just say, hypothetically of course, we did let you take over that refinery. Just how do you propose to pay for the equipment you need to restart it? We’re talking tens of thousands of dollars,” he said as he looked at Phil. “I know for a fact you don’t have the money.”

  “Just because I don’t have any money in your bank, doesn’t mean I don’t have any money,” Phil replied.

  Cornin snorted. “Yeah, don’t think that’s gone unnoticed.” Cornin looked over at the sheriff, who glared back. The sheriff gave a small shake of his head, a subtle “not now” look.

  Phil’s stomach churned. Plenty of stories circulated about assets being seized because the Feds didn’t like the way small businesses handled their banking. Up until now, that seemed a big city problem. But with Grapevine’s access to every account in the country, and the algorithms built in to search for anything outside the norms of society, chances were that no one was safe. He desperately wanted to get a message to Anna or the kids, tell them to empty their safe of all the silver coins they’d stashed, to take and hide them somewhere. Would Delbert or Bob risk their own stability by letting the Hamilton’s stash their life’s savings on their property?

  Bob spoke up. “Cornin get that smug look off your face. I do have lots of money in your bank. And I want it out, right now. Every last dime.”

  Cornin’s mouth dropped. “Come on Bob. Be reasonable. This is no time to be pulling assets, you know that. This is the 21st century. We can’t have old fashioned bank runs.”

  “I give near about a rat’s ass for your financial advice right now. I’m demanding you return my deposits.”

  Cornin’s changed as surprise gave way to discomfort, then discomfort became anger, then the anger reformed to smugness once again. “Too bad. We can’t open the bank and access your account. No electricity, no computers. No computers, no records.” The smugness turned to satisfaction. “No records, no withdrawals.”

  Even those in the room who’d agreed with Cornin up to this point felt panic well up. Several used their SmartWatches to purchase items. Very few had physical cash, though most still held plastic cards in their wallets that operated like cash. The thought of having to pull their digital dollars out of the bank hadn’t occurred to many in years. To a person, nearly everyone now felt the urge to march on the bank and withdraw…what? Paper money? Hardly anyone took paper money anymore. Antiquated paper currency was too hard to track, and too dangerous. Only terrorists and mobsters used paper money, why would average law abiding citizens need it?

  Even the normally unflappable Bob was struggling with the thought. Cornin had snatched his ace card away.

  Delbert came to his rescue. “I’ve got a generator big enough to power the building. I mounted it on a wagon frame, so we’ll just pull it into town and hook up.”

  Cornin shook his head. “Not that simple. Even if our computers turn on, they must access the network, the one secured by Grapevine. If the network is down, we can’t access the records.” He smiled again. “Remember, all cash transactions have to be approved by Homeland Security.”

  “Boy you got all the answers,” Delbert said, fuming. “How about we just go over there and make a manual withdrawal. I bet we can get in that vault without too much trouble.”

  “Now wait just a minute, Delbert,” Sheriff Olsen said.

  “Or what, Olsen. You gonna shoot me if I try?” Delbert fired back. The whole room erupted in individual arguments.

  Phil let the noise wash over him. Everything was falling to pieces instead of falling into place. All in the blink of an eye. He took a moment, looking around at the ancient wood paneling on the walls. Every few feet hung dusty old banners representing various community service organizations. Like heraldry of old, the colors and slogans rallied members to forsake personal goals for a greater good. Getting the people in this room to do the same would mean life or death in the very near future. He closed his eyes and steeled himself.

  “Listen! We’re fighting amongst ourselves, nothing is getting accomplished,” Phil stood and shouted. To his surprise, everyone stopped and looked at him. He hadn’t really considered what to say next, so he just made it up as he went along. “I’m going to Decatur to get the supplies we need. If we can’t restart Greenstem, cooperative members will try to increase our production to help as many as we can.” He struggled to contain his own anger, but he looked directly at Cornin and Olsen. “It’s up to us to lead, anyway we can. If we can’t help everyone, that’s not going to be on my conscience.”

  Olsen had the decency to look away. Cornin just laughed. “How you going to pay for all that? You still got some pumpkins you can trade? Or did you sell them all and stash away the profits.”

  The sting of failed ventures embarrassed Phil. He’d always tried to make his own way. He’d forsaken the 9-5 world for one where he felt like he could build something, not just trade life in exchange for a few dollars. No matter how hard he worked, monetary success just hadn’t come. “Failures teach a person humility, Cornin,” Phil replied steadily. “I hope your lesson doesn’t cost you more than money someday.”

  Cornin stood so abruptly his chair fell backwards against the wall. “Sheriff, that’s twice today I’ve been threatened. Are you going to just sit there, or are you going to do something about it?” he raged.

  Olsen rose from his seat and grabbed his hat. “Shut up Dalton,” was all the big man said as he marched out the meeting room’s back door.

  Again, Cornin was left dumbfounded. Embarrassed and at a loss for words, he stormed out the same door.

  “Well that went about as poorly as we could have hoped,” Delbert said. Most of the attendees were clearing out into the restaurant. A handful of cooperative members stayed behind.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Phil replied. “Getting Cornin to admit the truth, that what folks think they have, they really don’t…that’s a big lesson.” He turned to his friend Bob. “I’m sorry that’s the way it came out, though.”

  Bob waved his hand. “Ah, don’t worry about it. It’s just a lifetime of savings. I’ve still got my health,” as he mocked a cough. “Honestly though, Mr. Founding Farmer. How do you expect us to get what we need with no money?”

  Phil sighed. “Beg? Borrow? Trade?”

  Delbert patted him on the back with a smile. “Or maybe silver.”

  Mt. Sterling

  The Third Day

  The roar of mud grip tires on asphalt, wind blowing in open windows and the throaty roar of a V8 engine kept Sy Bradshaw and Darwin King from having to say much on the ride into Mt. Sterling. Both were deep in their own thoughts, fighting the confusion that accompanies unpleasant surprise.

  They had left out a little before dawn to make the twenty-minute trip from the lodge into town. Sy knew the winding country roads like only a native could, though it unnerved him that every one of the few houses they passed was completely quiet and dark.

  The sun was peeking up when they finally reached the outskirts of town. None of the usual early risers showed any signs of life. The General Store was supposed to be open by 5 a.m., but there was no one there. Only a couple of houses had any light at all shining out of windows, and most of that looked like candlelight. It wasn’t until they reached the darkened FS service station that they spotted a cluster of muddy and well-worn pickup trucks.

  Sy pulled his old Chevy in next to the rest and turned the engine off. He didn’t get out right away. “Thanks for coming with me,” Sy finally said. “I know you wanted to stay with the Caseys.”

  “Y
eah, well, I reckon I could do more good here. Let JR and little Trey be together for now. ‘Sides, your sister treats ‘em like family. They’re in good hands until we get things figured,” King replied.

  Sy just nodded and reached out of the window to pull the outside door handle. The inside handle still worked for King's door, though the creak of the well-used hinge made a loud noise against the eerie calm of the morning. “Guess I never figured how quiet things were around here,” King said. “Made sense at your lodge but didn’t reckon it to be so here in town.”

  “It’s never this quiet here. Between the trucks, the trains and the grain elevator, there’s always noise,” Sy replied. Even with less than two thousand people still calling Mt. Sterling home, there were always people moving around at most hours. “That’s not even takin’ into account the regular cars making their way back and forth to the prison outside of town. They run three shifts out there…”

  Sy stopped and looked out toward the direction the prison sat. “I hope those guards have power.” Kara’s ex-husband was a guard there. They didn’t get along—not in the least. Still, the thought of them being stuck without power in the middle of two thousand inmates made his stomach turn.

  King didn’t know the story, but he recognized the look on Bradshaw’s face. “Whatever it is, mate, I’m sure your government has a backup plan for this situation.”

  “Darwin, I don’t think you know our government,” he muttered as he stepped inside the service bay of the FS. All but one of the vehicles—a newer truck—were moved out, and chairs from around the building had been moved in. There were shop lights strung up along the outside edges with long cords running out the back door. The group of old men that usually congregated around the front waiting area of the station were seated in a semicircle of folding chairs, mostly facing the door.

  Sy laughed at that sight and waved. “You old codgers can’t even get a circular firing squad shaped right.”

  “Hey Bradshaw, you promised to bring donuts for us the next time you crawled in from that fancy-pants lodge of yours,” one of the old men yelled.

  “I would have, Tucker, but you apparently found the only spot in town with a working generator,” Sy fired back. “I’ll go get the dough if you want to heat up the oil.”

  For the first time this morning, Bradshaw and King could hear a mechanical sound that wasn’t Sy’s truck. Tucker started to say something, but noise intensified as the back door opened. A large bearded man with a lantern-style flashlight stepped over the cords running like vines across the concrete floor. He carefully closed the door as much as possible to block the sound. “Jeremiah there’s the man of the hour,” Tucker said, pointing at the bearded man. “He’s the one who didn’t trust the power grid to stay juiced up.”

  Jeremiah Tomlinson waved off Tucker’s compliment. “I don’t think any of us trusted the grid. Not out here, anyway. Been trying to get everyone to help build our own power station here in Brown County, like the co-op over in Shelby County did. Keep all our dollars local like they’re doin’.”

  “But this FS keeps truckin’ in foreign fuel, even now. Least they gave you the money to build that generator,” Tucker said.

  Jeremiah looked disgusted at the thought. He’d been over it a million times a million different ways with the local county and co-op leadership. Shelby County Cooperative and Old Main College set up their own cooperative for everything from bio-fuel to schools to policing, and they offered other counties all their plans, free of charge. Many of the local people had been supportive, and there had been lots of talk, but precious little had been done as their community slowly slipped into demographic oblivion.

  “I bet those Shelby County boys have lights right now,” he groused. Resigned to the lost opportunity, he tried to brighten his own mood. “Course, I bet Bradshaw here has power, too. He put in the fanciest generator in the whole county. He didn’t want those rich folks to get cold toes out there in the boonies.” He looked over at King with a nervous smile. “No offense meant, mister.”

  “None taken, mate,” Darwin replied with his own smile. “But where I’m originally from, this doesn’t count as the boonies.”

  Jeremiah looked surprised. Seldom was Brown County, Illinois considered anything but the outback of civilization to city folks. “I’d certainly like to see that sometime,” Jeremiah nodded. “Bradshaw, you come to welcome us out to the lodge for breakfast?”

  Jeremiah could see immediately Sy wasn’t smiling back at the good-natured ribbing. “What is it, Sy? What’s wrong?”

  Darwin sensed his friend’s struggle and stepped in to help. “Got us a situation,” the Aussie said. “Guest of the lodge passed on last night. We were wonderin’ if there was a workin’ phone about?”

  There was confusion in the room for a moment as the locals looked at each other, trying to process the unfamiliar accent and phrasing. Finally, Jeremiah replied. “No, sorry, uh…what was your name again?”

  “King. Darwin King.”

  “Right, Mr. King, uh, there ain’t no phones workin’ anywhere. The only form of communication you got is right here in this room,” Jeremiah told him.

  “We're the new Pony Express!” Tucker yelled, gesturing to the old trucks outside. He seemed pleased at the number of laughs that got.

  Bradshaw regained his composure. “What about Sheriff Moore? Is he around? He’s got to know what we should do next.”

  “He stopped by about an hour ago. He’d been out to the prison to talk to them. He just stopped in here to grab a few Jerry cans of gas for his trip. Beardstown or Jacksonville after that. Supposed to be a FEMA disaster response truck one place or the other. He figured maybe they’d have answers,” Tucker told them.

  “FEMA? It’s just a power outage. Why’s that a disaster?” Bradshaw asked.

  Jeremiah answered him. “Think about it, Sy. You’ve got two thousand prisoners sitting out there with no food, fuel, heat… Heck, Moore wasn’t even sure they could get the prisoners in or out of their cells without electricity.”

  “Surely they have generators there,” King said. “That’d be mad as a cut snake if they were that blodgy about their work.”

  “Mister, I have no idea what you just said,” Jeremiah told him with an embarrassed smile. “But I can tell you that their generator only works long as they have fuel. They were in yesterday to buy some of ours. They got enough to keep going for another day or so. Said they’d just keep comin’ back.”

  There was silence in the room as each man contemplated the idea of that many criminals, and that few guards, all locked in together. “Max’s dad is out there,” Sy finally said.

  “You thinkin’ about going out there to see?” Jeremiah asked him. Peter Lewis and Sy had once been friends who played football together in high school. Lewis and Kara’s divorce had been very public in such a small town.

  “I dunno. Feel like I ought to, but I got more important things to worry about. Like Max, and a very distraught son and grandson of the man who just died in my lodge,” Sy said. He was sorry almost immediately for the sarcastic tone. “Meantime, I guess I’ll just have to wait until the phones start working or Sheriff Moore gets back.”

  No one had any other answers, and for once that stopped them from offering suggestions.

  Sy gave up and moved on. “Can I buy some fuel off you, Jeremiah? I got a few cans in the back of the truck. Maybe get some diesel for my tractors?”

  “Electric pumps are working super-slow. Something about being on the generator causes them to just trickle. I can use the hand siphon if you like?”

  “Either would be fine. Appreciate that.”

  As Jeremiah started to walk out, King grabbed his arm. The look on the bearded man's face told him most men around these parts weren’t used to being grabbed, friendly or no.

  “Say, mate,” he said, then let go of the big man’s arm when he recognized the warning. King held up his hand and smiled with a nod of understanding. “What would it take to buy the w
hole lot? All your fuel, I mean.”

  Jeremiah looked at him with a mixture of confusion and amusement. “Look, mister, I don’t think you realize what you’re saying. The prison already spoke for as much as they could get. Plus, I got two decent-sized trucking companies that buy fuel for their rigs. Don’t haul near as much as they used to… Shoot, mister, you realize I got two 20,000-gallon tanks underneath here? They gotta be at least a quarter full, even though we haven’t gotten a refill in a week or two.”

  Darwin King held up a shiny metallic black credit card. His company’s silver boar’s-head logo reflected the dim light. “No limit on this card. I’ll buy the whole lot from ya.” He smiled brighter.

  There were chuckles from those watching the conversation. “Well, much as my general manager would love that, here’s the problem: I ain’t got no way to run the card, see what I mean? No electricity, no phone, no credit cards. That’s how it works,” Jeremiah told him.

  The smile melted off King’s face. Though his parents had both been professors—their area of specialization had lent him his given name—they still maintained a rural lifestyle. In his heart, he was just a hardworking bloke from the old homestead. “Yeah, sorry, mate. Guess I wasn’t thinkin’ the whole way through,” Darwin said.

  “No problem, Mr. King. I keep makin’ the same mistake all mornin’. And I don’t blame you for asking. But don’t worry, Sy’s credit is good enough with us. You can take all the fuel you can carry today. We still got some old paper logbooks back in the office. We’ll keep track of whatever you need.” Jeremiah got a big smile on his face, “Then you bring that fancy card back later and settle up with us.”

  “That’s a deal, mate,” King said. Then he turned to Bradshaw. “Reckon we could get some food while we’re in town? Your credit good for that, too?”

  Bradshaw thought about it for a moment. “I guess. Maybe at the diner, but most of the stores still open around here just stock the government ration bars. Everything else is kind of done on the down-low, you know what I mean? The diner stayed open because of some grandfather clause a local Congressmen got ‘em.”