by Glen Tate
This was a very easy case. The jury took about five minutes to come to a decision. Sandy needed to be confined; she was asking them to do it. She wouldn’t be in the mental house because there were raving lunatics there and Sandy didn’t need that. She would stay with the neighbors. Eli and Josh would stay with some volunteers—a nice couple whose kids and grandkids were trapped in Tacoma—and would get to see their mom as often as possible. Pastor Pete was organizing visiting parties to make sure Sandy had many visitors. She would have people around—many of them people she hadn’t known before the Collapse—to keep her spirits up. They would remind her that she was not alone and that the community was doing all it could to help her, because she mattered. And that she was a great mom for saving Eli and Josh.
The community, Grant thought. Yes, the community was taking care of Sandy and Eli and Josh. Was this the socialism that Grant hated? Not at all. People helping people wasn’t socialism; it was merely a reflection of a healthy society. People privately helping other people, without coercion, was a humanitarian society. The government forcibly taking money from people, wasting it on their politically connected buddies, and giving people the scraps from the spending, like Desyrel, was socialism. Grant had to admit that a constant supply of Desyrel would help, and at some level the former government did manage to make that happen, but Pierce Point would do a pretty good job of helping Sandy. Eli and Josh were young enough that they might not remember when they stayed with the nice people.
Sandy showed her appreciation by doing all the work she could for the community. She came up with a brilliant idea: the battery bank. She organized a drive where people took out all the batteries from things they no longer used, like the remote control for the TV, and sent them to the Grange. Sandy sorted them and put them in tubs. She put sheets of cloth between rows so the contacts didn’t touch and drain them. People who were working for the community and needed batteries could come in and get them. Plus, the battery bank gave Sandy a chance to talk to people and feel like she had a job.
The second commitment trial, for an old man named Walter Winces, was not a sad story. No one really knew much about Walter; he was a bit of a hermit. One day, Walter’s neighbor’s dogs started barking, like they always did. Walter told them to shut up. He came over with a rifle and said he was going to shoot the dogs if they didn’t quiet down.
He wouldn’t stop screaming at them. The neighbors got their own guns out and Walter ran away. Then he went, with his rifle, to the other neighbors’ houses in his area and started screaming. He started smashing their mailboxes with his rifle. A neighbor used his CB to call the Grange, but before the Grange could get anyone there, Walter dropped to the ground and started crying. A brave neighbor girl ran up and kicked his rifle out of the way and another girl grabbed it. Walter was in a fetal position wailing.
Rich came and handcuffed him, and then went into Walter’s house and found all the pictures of what appeared to be his wife on the kitchen table. She had died five years earlier. Walter wasn’t drunk and wasn’t on any medications. After he calmed down, which took over an hour, Walter told Rich that just couldn’t stand living like this anymore. The barking dogs sent him over the edge. Walter said he was sorry, but didn’t want to live anymore. When Rich asked if he thought he’d do it again, Walter said, “Yes.” Rory came out to Walter’s house and could not point to any apparent medical condition. It appeared that Walter had just decided he wanted to die and was going out kicking. He was a mean old bastard; pathetic but mean.
The jury, hearing all this evidence, decided to put Walter in the mental ward, at least for a while. He would get weekly evaluations by Rory and then Rory would report back. Walter didn’t seem to care. Whether he was locked up in the mental ward or stuck in his house with all those pictures of his late wife, he was just waiting to die either way. Walter later apologized to his neighbors, and then asked them to kill him.
Grant wondered whether Walter going nuts was from the Collapse. Maybe, maybe not. The stress of the Collapse was overwhelming. It felt like the world was ending. Some people could adapt to that mentality, that type of living. Some couldn’t and the stress impacted them in different ways.
Maybe, Grant thought, it just seemed like there were more people going crazy like Walter. That was probably part of it. In peacetime, the police, courts, and social workers just took care of the Walters of society. Most average people woke up the next day and had no idea that a man was screaming at his neighbors, except the people paid to deal with it. Now the whole community dealt with it, like the jurors sitting there listening to this.
It was lunch time. Grant ate lunch with the jurors since their cases were over and it would now be proper to interact socially with them. He loved meeting all these new people and learning how things were going with them, what they were eating, how things were being shared, and, in some cases, who wasn’t sharing. He gained an enormous amount of intelligence about the operations of the community from those informal visits.
Besides, Grant had to admit, he was an elected judge and had to take every opportunity to meet people voting for him.
It was time for Grant to talk to Al the immigrations guy.
Chapter 179
Undecideds
(July 8)
Grant hitched a ride down to the gate. There was usually a vehicle ferrying people every few hours between the Grange and the gate ferrying replacement guards and bringing them food.
Grant had originally planned on telling Al all about the Ted project because he assumed Rich and Dan would be on board by then, but they were still thinking about it. So, until they were on board, Grant couldn’t tell Al because that would be a little presumptuous. This delay was probably a blessing in disguise because Grant needed to get to know Al before he could trust him with life-and-death information, like the Ted project.
When Grant arrived, he was glad about what he saw. Ever since the false alarm attack on the gate, the guards were even more organized and disciplined. They looked like a real army, except for the lack of uniforms and standardized weapons. But other than that, they looked like a formidable force. They weren’t the average Bubba guards; Dan had whipped these good ole’ boys and country girls into a very professional force.
While Grant was unloading the food on the truck he had ridden in on, Dan came up to him.
“To what can we attribute your visit, your Honor?” Dan asked Grant. He knew Grant was working on his goal of getting the Ted project going and that Dan was not yet on board. He was a little pissed that Grant was down there; probably trying to poach Dan’s best guards for the Ted project.
“I’d like to talk to Al,” Grant said, “about how things are going with people coming in and out of the community. Find out what’s going on here on the ground.”
Al heard his name and came over.
“Judge Matson,” Al said as he extended his hand to shake Grant’s. Al, like just about everyone else, had lost a little weight in the past few weeks. He was tan, too, which was new. When Grant first met him, it looked like Al’s sixty or so year-old balding self hadn’t been outdoors too much in the past few decades.
“Oh, please, Al. ‘Grant’ is fine,” Grant said.
“OK, Grant,” Al said. “What can I do for you? This isn’t about all the hitchhikers I killed, is it?” He said with a smile. Grant liked to see a sense of humor.
“Well, yeah, it is. You’re coming with me,” Grant said with a smile, too. “No, I just want to find out what you’re doing down here. How everything is going for you. What kind of people are coming to the gate.”
“Sure,” Al said, a little flattered that the “big wigs” wanted to see what he was doing out there. He had been doing this for several weeks and no one had shown any interest in it. Now he felt important. Al motioned for Grant to follow him into the fire station and the little table Al used as his desk.
“Well, most of the time I’m just a backup guard,” Al said, pointing over toward his shotgun which was agains
t the wall of the fire station near his desk. He had a revolver on his belt, too. Al, who wasn’t in great shape, wouldn’t be a frontline guard in a firefight, but he could sure help.
“Dan tells me what I can do to help,” Al said. “That’s usually making sure everyone eats, knowing who is on which shift, helping unload things, keeping an eye on the guards to make sure they’re not too tired or getting heat exhaustion. That kind of thing.”
Grant nodded. This guard force was a very well-oiled machine.
“There are two kinds of people coming to the gate: residents and strangers.” Al said.
“Wait,” Grant said in a panic. “Residents are coming and going?” Rich had said only approved people would go into town on the FCard runs; approved people who would maintain the story about the “fifty Marines.”
“Oh, no,” Al said. “There are the town run people. They’re the guys Rich and Dan have to go into town with the FCards. They bring back food. Dan said that only certain people go into town; the well-armed ones. Apparently, it’s really dangerous in Frederickson and along the road to and from.”
Grant was relieved. The town runs were made by the same people. Thank goodness.
“So,” Grant asked, “if residents aren’t coming and going into town, why are residents showing up at the gate?”
“They have been trapped in a city like the foot doctor,” Al explained. “They’re making their way here, which can take a very long time with all the roadblocks. Almost all the residents who are showing up now are cabin people. They have a place out here and didn’t get out of the cities when it was easier to do. Gas is so hard to get that some people had to save up gas until they had a full tank, which can take a while with what gas is going for in the cities. But eventually they are getting here. And they’re damned glad to be here.”
Hearing this reminded Grant how fortunate it was that his family came out when they did. He couldn’t imagine them trying to get out there now. He thought of what a gang’s road block might demand of his wife or even—God forbid—daughter to get through.
“Some of the people coming to the gate are residents or their approved guests,” Al continued to explain. “I tried to get a list of all residents, but one doesn’t exist, so I try to figure out who knows who. Who I can get a hold of to verify that a person is a resident.” Al pointed over to Heidi, the communications person. “It really helps having her. She can call into the Grange and connect us with someone who can verify if a person lives out here. Sometimes it takes a few hours to get a person verified, and they usually get mad having to wait. But, it’s my job to make sure some criminals don’t walk right in. Why have all these guards and this gate if dirt bags can just walk in?”
Grant nodded.
“Residents are pretty easy to verify,” Al continued, “even if it takes a while. The harder ones are the residents’ guests.”
“Isn’t there a list people provided of their approved guests?” Grant asked, remembering that this was discussed at a Grange meeting.
“Yeah, there’s a list,” Al said. “But sometimes relatives or friends who aren’t on the list try to show up. They remember someone had a cabin out here and they come hoping their uncle or friend or whatever will let them stay. That means we need to reach the resident and ask them if it’s OK to let the person in. The resident almost always says ‘yes’ when they are put on the spot like that.”
“That’s when the Immigrations Committee kicks in?” Grant asked.
“Yep,” Al said. “If a resident says they will sponsor a new person, we take it to the Immigrations Committee, which is pretty much me and Kate Henley. We get the information about what resources the resident has to support the new person. We take that information to the Grange and they vote on whether to let the person in. They approve people when there is proof the resident can take care of them.”
“We also report to the Grange if people show up with food and guns,” Al said. “Oh, and if someone looks like they might have health issues, I get one of the medical people to look at them.”
“So most people coming in don’t get a medical screening?” Grant asked.
“Nope,” Al said, “they don’t. I think that needs to change, especially if the rumors are true.”
Grant got scared. “What rumors?”
“There is supposedly some flu or something going around,” Al said. “Mostly on the East Coast. The rumor is that it’s bioterrorism, but we hear so many wild rumors, I have no idea if that’s true.”
“At the next Grange meeting,” Grant said, “I will support medical screenings for all new people coming here.” Grant, by saying “I will support,” sounded like a politician. He caught himself sounding that way, but didn’t care. It was important to do whatever it took to prevent a disease from infiltrating Pierce Point. Grant needed to do what he could to make sure it didn’t happen, even if that made him a “politician.”
“So far, there haven’t been any ‘neck tattoos,’” Al said, referring to the Grange discussion a few weeks ago about a resident’s approved guest who looked like a criminal and whether to exclude them even if a resident wanted them in.
“What about strangers?” Grant asked.
“Like I said at the Grange,” Al answered, “we’ve seen a spike lately. Today, for example, we’ve had four. Three were kids. Well, college kids. The fourth was a homeless-looking guy. We turned them away. We let them fill their water bottles in the creek and told them to move along.”
Al paused and looked out at the gate. “The strangers that come by are telling us that there are people walking on the roads with their things. We should be seeing many more coming here.”
Al started getting a little choked up. “I hate turning people away, especially the little kids. I get nervous every time Heidi says someone is coming—how does she know in advance? It’s like there’s an observation post out there.”
Grant knew that Sniper Mike was calling in approaching people to Heidi, but Grant didn’t want that getting out, so he changed the subject.
“Do you work twenty-four hours?” Grant asked.
“No, I try to go home at night,” Al said. “We just hold onto people who come overnight and I sort them out in the morning. Since deciding who to let in is so important, and I’m the only guy who really knows who to let in, Dan thought it made sense for me to be the only one making that decision.”
Grant was surprised there weren’t more strangers trying to come in. He had always thought of a collapse resulting in roving bands of homeless people, but he hadn’t appreciated how different a partial collapse was. The government’s ability to supply some level of food to the cities and to keep the utilities on was apparently slowing that down. Grant assumed this meant there was probably more food in the cities than people could find out wandering around. Good.
“I’m former Border Patrol,” Al said. “Kinda comes in handy now.”
“When were you in?” Grant asked.
“Just three years, back in the eighties,” Al said. “I was in south Texas. The job sucked. I got out and went into construction. Did that for twenty some odd years. ”
Grant asked Al about his life story. Where he grew up, whether he had any kids. Al told him that he had been married and divorced, had three kids, and four grandkids. Leading up to the Collapse, Al had lived on various government programs, like unemployment, earned income tax credits, mortgage assistance, and food stamps. He was just like about half of Americans before the Collapse. Al, who was a baby boomer, was expecting a comfy retirement with Social Security and free medical care. It no longer appeared that this was a reasonable expectation. To supplement the government programs he was barely living on, Al worked side jobs for cash before the Collapse. Under the table, of course. He was a very typical American. His story was the story of how the American dream died. And why it died.
Grant wanted to know even more about Al than that life story told him, so he popped the question.
“Not that it matters,” Grant ask
ed, “but may I ask what your politics are?” Grant realized this might be a sensitive question, but he needed to know if he could trust Al with knowledge of the Ted project.
Al shrugged. “They all suck.”
Fair enough. Both parties contributed to the Collapse, one at a moderate pace and the other at warp speed. Still, Grant needed to know more about Al.
“So, what do you think will happen in the long term?” Grant asked.
Al shrugged again. “Dunno. Things will suck for a long time. America blew it. We had it all and pissed it away.”
Al was a tough nut to crack. Grant decided to try it from another angle; a more direct angle.
“You think the Patriots or Loyalists will win?” Grant asked Al.
“Depends,” Al said. “Are the American people worth a shit anymore? If people want freedom back, the Patriots will win. Assuming they hold onto the key military units, like I hear they are, then the Patriots have a chance. But, if the people,” Al pointed out toward Frederickson and Olympia, “just want ‘free’ food, then the Loyalists win.” He shrugged again.
Al was not giving Grant any indication which side he was on. Maybe he wasn’t on a “side.”
Grant realized Al was like the majority of people at Pierce Point: an Undecided. They probably wanted the Patriots to win. They were not a fan of the Loyalists, but were not willing to commit to the Patriots, either. They would wait and see who was going to win, and hope it wasn’t the Loyalists. Grant needed to plant some seeds of political thought in Al, even if Al was still a solid Undecided.
“What do you think would happen to us if the Loyalists somehow won?” Grant asked. He threw in the “somehow won” to indicate confidence in the Patriots.