by G. R. Carter
The immaculately-dressed pallbearers began the slow march up the Domicile steps, finally entering the open wooden double doors. Organ music reverberated from inside the sanctuary, giving those lingering outside an idea of what the service sounded like. Most gave a final wave to the beloved cofounder of the Republic, and then returned to daily tasks which recognized no special occasion.
As the casket was placed on the platform at the end of the aisle, the outside doors swung shut and the church became silent. Seated in the front pew were the sheriff’s surviving deputies and the remaining members of the Olsen family. Eric and Maryanne sat with their shoulders pressed against one another. The tears were mostly spent in the weeks since Clark’s death. This was more of a memorial than a funeral, and the casket actually held an urn of Clark’s remains. His death in the battle had been brutal and the ditchmen who attacked weren’t renowned for their treatment of others, living or deceased. A large painting of the man’s smiling face sat above the casket on an easel; Maryanne simply sat staring back at the picture, apparently emotionless.
The Silver Shield backed away in a straight line on each side, remaining at attention. Reverend Bishop Stephen Simpson of the Unified Church stood at the dark oak pulpit looking out over the crowd. The man simply known as “Father Steve” to most of those who survived the Reset had been Clark Olsen’s advisor and confessor. He better than most knew the struggles the sheriff faced when confronted with death and destruction as well as the temptations that came with ever increasing power. A powerful man in his own right, Father Steve and his friend Pastor Doug Hart had unified the area’s remaining clergy and churches into a force of stability. Both made some uncomfortable compromises and asked others to do the same, but they had helped keep a semblance of civilization. Their combined influence now spread out from the small farms of the Okaw throughout the Republic and even into allied territories remaining mostly faithless in this desperate age.
“Clark Olsen was my friend,” Father Steve began with a smile. “From the earliest days of this calamity known as the Great Reset, Clark found a way to bring calm to a melting world. Always willing to volunteer for jobs most would dread. Always willing to put himself in harm’s way so that others could rest. And in those final moments of his earthly toil he gave the final ounce of devotion in his soul to provide a shield against demons trying once and for all to destroy those he loved.
“What can we say about a man like that? What mortal words capture the essence of a soul that would stand steadfast in the middle of such horror and terror knowing full well the chances for his own survival were remote? What can we say?” he repeated, seemingly making eye contact with every person in the crowd. “We can say that he was our friend.”
“For Jesus said this, ‘There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’ You see, not only did Clark sacrifice his physical body in battle, he also sacrificed his health during sleepless nights working to patrol the darkness against the Enemy. He used his mind to figure out ways to help all of us instead of enriching himself. Admittedly, that changed him some. He tried to keep the jovial nature we all loved before the Reset. But the weight of this world was truly a burden to a person who cared for his fellow man, and his country, so much.
“But when power did come to him over the years, he did not abuse it as many others have outside our oasis of calm. He did not use excuses to afford himself more power but only took what was needed then gave it back at the soonest possible moment. He helped build a Republic that tries daily to bring more self determination to its citizens. Not the yoke but the plow. A chance to build a life that is our own and not forced labor for a tyrant.
“No one claims Clark Olsen was a perfect human; certainly he would be the first to admit his faults. But my friends, Clark was able to meet his Creator with a ledger weighted overwhelmingly to the good. The innocent lives he saved over the years cry out today – maybe a little in sorrow, for we will miss him – but mostly in thanksgiving, knowing that today we survive because Clark Olsen was once again willing to risk what most would not.
“Please pray with me…
*****
For the first time since the day of the New American invasion, Alex and Eric sat in the same room. No one else had been invited to join the two men and no one would have volunteered. This was the one last attempt to reconcile before Eric shipped off to Mt. Vernon, the capital of the Republic’s recently-assimilated Little Egypt province.
Neither said a word for an uncomfortable moment; both shared a lack of patience for meetings. Finally, Alex broke the silence.
“Do you have everything you need for the move to Mt. Vernon?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I understand that your mother intends to join you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. She’ll be an asset.”
Eric said nothing, simply glaring at Alex. Few would have had the courage to act with such disrespect to their country’s leader. Even in the old United States, a supposed free country built on the strength of the individual, people could be arrested for even joking about the President. Eric didn’t seem to care, almost as if he were daring Alex to act out against him.
“Eric, I won’t play your games. We’ve got a tough job to do in a very dangerous world. You’ve been raised with that, you should know as well as anyone,” Alex said coldly.
“We were also raised to look out for each other, remember? You sacrificed Dad just so you could finally get Walsh. I think we now all know you’ll do anything to get what you want, no matter who you hurt,” Eric replied.
“I was trying to end a war that had dragged on for years. If we didn’t stop it now, the bad blood would have been generational. Now we can worry about the real threats from outside. Almost every American has already signed a loyalty oath to the Republic. Without Walsh, those Americans are just like us. And you let that tyrant get away and cost us time and lives!” Alex pounded the desk, his voice increasingly rising from first word to last.
“You’re so full of yourself you really believe that crap you’re spouting these days. All you had to do was leave Walsh alone and he would have left us alone. But you and your speeches about crusades and crushing evil left him no choice. You brought this on us with your dreams of building an empire. Sound familiar?” Eric asked.
“You don’t really believe that. You were right there with me and agreed to the plan we had. Heck, you came up with half of that plan yourself!” Alex said with shock at the accusation.
“That was when I thought all you wanted to do was to protect the Okaw. I didn’t know you wanted to use our homes as a jumping-off point to something bigger and grander,” Eric said with exaggerated arm waves.
“Convenient timing. You wait until you screw up to bring me your concerns.”
“If I’m such a screw-up, I’ll gladly resign my commission and you can find someone else to babysit the Buckles. I’m sure there’s plenty of boot-lickers around here that would gladly jump at the chance to make their Founder happy,” Eric said sarcastically.
Alex swallowed the next words that came to his mind. This truly was the end of their friendship. Even if Alex forgave Eric now that Walsh was dead, his former friend would never reciprocate. Decision time came for the Founder of the Republic, not Alex the friend.
“No, Lieutenant Commander Olsen. Your assignment remains the same. Little Egypt is critical to the success of our Republic. You will execute your duties to the best of your abilities. The Olsen family is in the lifeblood of the Republic. As such, we need you to use your considerable talents to help make that area into a safe and productive land. Are there any questions about your orders or your responsibilities?”
“None.”
“Very good, then you are dismissed. Against the storm,” Alex said.
Eric gave a crisp salute and a vicious smirk, “Eternal republic.”
*****
Gone. Totally and utterly gone. Maryanne Olsen stood and stared at the six-foot
tall obelisk bearing her husband’s name under an etched diamond shape with a cross overlaid. The symbol of the Unified Church still looked a little odd to her as a lifelong Catholic. But Father Steve administered last rites for Clark and prayed the prayers of the old Church, many of which had been adopted by the new common faith. The limestone monument also bore a sword, a symbol of Clark’s vocation after the Great Reset. Clark had still been referred to as Sheriff Olsen, but in reality, the man became a military leader and de facto ruler of his own fiefdom.
The last few years had not been easy on the Olsens. Clark had changed since the Reset, and not necessarily for the better. He was still a good man, but in many ways had grown distant and cold towards Maryanne. Witnessing the collapse of the country he was born in left lasting scars. Then after the death of people he swore to protect, and in particular his best friend, Clark’s only focus had been completion of their Fortress Farm on the site of the village of Tower Hill. Except that the work was never done. Clark insisted on continuous improvements and expansion, spending piles of Quarters and even once pulling rank on a neighbor in a land dispute.
With access to the most powerful man in the Republic, Clark also developed a taste for business. Trade had finally picked up in the last couple of years and Quarters were flowing into the Republic from trade with places like the Blackhawk Confederation and ARK. Clark had been a simple small-town sheriff before, never concerned about money. But now with Tenants to care for and building projects always ongoing, he constantly sought sources of revenue to fund his ever-growing Fortress Farm.
Maryanne also knew that Clark enjoyed the attention his powerful position and wealth afforded him with the ladies living around the capital. Her gentle giant was always faithful, and she had never once had a reason to question his fidelity. However, in recent years, the Olsens might often spend a week or better without even crossing paths. Clark was always working on a project for the Republic or on Tower Hill. When they were together, there was no longer any of the warm connection enjoyed before and immediately after the Reset.
Still, her heart died the day that the ditchmen hordes swarmed the walls of Tower Hill. She was in Shelbyville when the citadel fell, Clark’s final act of love to her when he ordered her to evacuate on the last bus taking non-combatants east to the supposed safety of the capital. Somehow at that very moment, she knew she’d never see Clark again. She cried as the bus pulled away, distraught that they'd shared not so much as a smile before she left.
Her husband’s death had been honorable, a noble deed done for his friends, family and countrymen. Still, she couldn’t shake images of the terror he must have felt as the savages closed in around him…she shivered and welled up in tears. The tears turned to rage as she pictured the man she held responsible for Clark’s death and the destruction of Tower Hill. If only Alex Hamilton had been able to set aside his hatred for New America long enough to send reinforcements west to stop the ditchmen, he would have saved Clark and all of his deputies from their horrible fates. Instead, to avenge his own father’s death at the hand of the Grays, Alex had sacrificed her son’s father.
The look on Eric’s face when he learned of his father’s death still tore at her heart. The father and son’s relationship had not suffered like Clark and Maryanne’s had. In fact, the two both seemed to enjoy sharing the trappings of power afforded by their position in the Republic. Everyone knew that someday Eric would take Clark’s place as Sheriff, the right-hand man of the Founder; an advisor as well as the one responsible for internal security for the Fortress Farms spread out for hundreds of square miles. Eric and Alex served together as junior officers, and Eric had been instrumental in the consolidation of Alex’s position as Founder shortly after Phil’s death.
All that was in doubt now. Eric would never forgive Alex for not sending help to Clark when he needed it most. And Alex was beyond furious about Eric not following his plans and allowing Darian Walsh to escape. Of course, many of the powerful Land Lords in the Republic respected Eric’s decision to stop and help Hank Tripp and the others fight for their survival instead of closing the trap on Walsh. In fact, many people felt expendable after that battle, like Alex might be willing to do anything to win no matter what the final cost.
But instead of becoming the second most powerful man in the Republic, and maybe Founder himself someday, Eric was now relegated to taking a bureaucratic position in Little Egypt. That backwater wannabe country finally begged for help from the Red Hawks and Alex was there waiting with open arms. Another doubling in territory and population came to the Republic even before the victory over New America. So while Martin Fredericks basked in the glory of killing Walsh and Alex took credit for saving the Republic from the evil Grays, the Olsen family was demoted to playing babysitter for a bunch of religious nuts.
Clark’s sham funeral was an insult. Just another opportunity for the Hamiltons to look like noble rulers in front of the masses. Even the casket wasn’t real; in truth, an urn with Clark’s cremated remains sat inside the elaborate wooden box on display like some religious artifact. There had to be Alex’s personal henchmen carrying out a big showy display. Then for Father Steve to not even mention Eric or her by name during his eulogy! No one would ever make that mistake by accident; Alex must have made him hold their names out in one more act of retaliation against Eric. Maybe she had misjudged her priest…maybe even her own faith.
Perhaps all wasn’t lost. Maryanne had decided to join Eric and help him turn Little Egypt into something more than what it was now. With her knowledge of the Archives and powerful connections throughout the capital, she would help design an economy that would allow them to buy influence all over the Republic, and even outside of its borders as well. Alex fully supported the decision for Maryanne to move, assuming she would provide a calming influence on Eric’s ill temper. Maryanne also suspected it would allow Alex to forget about the pain he caused to her family; her face wouldn’t be around the capital to remind him. Even the ending of Eric’s engagement to Lori Hamilton was supported by everyone involved, especially Eric and Lori.
For now, the Olsens would be good little citizens and do their part for the Republic and the almighty Founder. But she would make sure no one ever forgot how their service was repaid.
Appalachia
Crisp mountain air burned Lamar’s throat a little as he woke. Eyes still sore and scratchy peered up into the sky as he lay on his back. Every inch of his body ached; some more than others but in all pieces in concert created a general feeling of agony laying on him like a sheet. He coughed out some phlegm to clear his voice enough to speak. “Roy?” he rasped.
“Roy’s out on patrol, Lamar. They left me to watch you. I’m supposed to let them know when you wake up. How do you feel?” Pina’s voice had honest concern in it.
“Never better. Still didn’t make a run for it?” he murmured.
“Not yet,” she chuckled. “Apparently you’re not the worst these woods have to offer.”
He reached up and touched a bandage wrapped around his head. He didn’t remember being cut there. Apparently, there were plenty of wounds he hadn’t discovered yet. He raised himself up to sit.
“Okay Pina. Thanks for looking after me. Glad the Creeks got here when they did or else none of us would be here. How many of our people did we lose,” Lamar asked, gasping as his leg began to throb more.
She didn’t answer his question, instead replying with one of her own. “Who are these Creek people? They’ll hardly even look at me, and I haven’t had a chance to ask Roy or Ty. Are they friends of yours?”
“Not friends, not enemies. Not allies but not adversaries,” he replied in a saying he picked up from Pastor years before. “The Creeks don’t like strangers, so don’t take it personal. And they probably figured out you were one of the Cog prisoners.”
“They knew about us?”
Lamar nodded painfully. “They’ll be taking care of the General from here. That was part of our deal. They have the supplies we need
to head on west, and we’ll be under their protection. This is their territory, although they don’t go for things like borders.”
“Wait, what will they do with the General?” Pina gasped.
“Don’t know, don’t care. Probably use him for leverage against the Cogs. They butt up against them lots of places,” Lamar replied.
Pina stared at Lamar in astonishment. “You mean you used me as a bargaining chip? I thought you actually cared about what happened to me!”
“My first responsibility is to my people. Don’t misunderstand my concern, you’ll just be disappointed,” Lamar said coldly.
“Well I’d say you failed your people pretty miserably Lamar. There’s only about half of us left… wait I guess I’m not considered ‘us’ am I?” she demanded.
Lamar let the words sink in, wondering who had been lost and who was still part of the group. Had they all been killed? Captured? He allowed his mind to wonder who the attackers might have been the night before. Bands of rovers – scarecrows - were stamped out by groups like the Creeks and the Congregation wherever they found them; many would eat anything or anybody they could get their hands on. But the woods and mountains were immense, and civilized people few and far between at this point.
A Creek man interrupted the argument, approaching Lamar with a sure footed stride that spoke to comfort on the forest floor. He wore patched denim overalls, the kind made famous by farmer stereotypes from before the Reset. A dark collared long sleeve shirt was held together by large buttons that disappeared under his long beard. A large brimmed hat was pulled down to just above his eyes, and folded down over hair that covered his shoulders. Uneducated folk would see the man as a hillbilly; Lamar knew better.