Collapse

by M B Wood

  After Taylor scribbled into a journal, he leaned back and his chair creaked. I want to send a message, he thought, a strong message that we don’t want anyone messing with our doctor.

  "Steigerwald, in lieu of three years exile, do you voluntarily accept three years servitude and a record of the crime tattooed on your back?"

  "Yes, sir. I do." Steigerwald lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears ran down his face. "Thank you."

  "You'll work for Dr. Encirlik. If you fail to serve to her satisfaction during servitude, you'll be exiled. Is that clear?"

  "Yes sir. I understand."

  "Next," Taylor said. "We've got three refugees who want to join the Clan. They've got no valuables or needed skills. Are there sponsors for these people?"

  "Yes." John Phelps looked at the papers in front of him. "Stolz will pay for Darryl Schwede in exchange for twelve months service as a laborer. Charlie DeGrandis will pay for Sara Schwede in exchange for twelve months as a house-servant."

  "I see." Taylor nodded. “Go on.”

  "Yes. Max Artun will sponsor Kimberly Delzani in exchange for eighteen months as a house servant."

  Taylor looked up. "Eighteen months? Isn't twelve months standard?" He frowned at Phelps. "What gives?"

  "I'm not sure." Phelps shuffled his papers. "I think this woman had difficulty in finding someone to sponsor her."

  "Why?" Taylor leaned forward.

  "Er, I heard that she's not very appealing."

  "Appealing? What d'you mean by that?"

  "Well, she's not young or pretty." Phelps looked away.

  "What's happening to the voluntary servitude concept?" Taylor asked. "Is this how Clan builds unity?"

  "Well." Phelps hesitated. "I've heard some of the indentured aren't treated well. Some owners abuse them, even force some of the indentured women to have sex with them. You see, there aren't any rules on how they’re to be treated." He looked as though he’d sucked on something sour.

  "That's slavery. We'll have to get a set of rules for you to review by next week.” Taylor tightened his lips.

  Some people, he thought, will exploit anyone. Pricks. "I'd like to believe future members of our Clan feel as though they're joining a community of equals, rather than being screwed to join."

  Weitzman raised his hand. "Taylor, that's an excellent idea. If you need any help writing the rules, let me know."

  "Thanks, Shel,” Taylor nodded, “I could use your help. The next item. Jerry Solnik accosted and robbed Susan Hathaway. A witness saw him knock her to the ground and rob her."

  "What did he take?" Phelps asked.

  "A bag of potatoes," Chris Kucinski said.

  "That doesn't sound too serious," Phelps said.

  "It wouldn't be if food were plentiful," Chris said.

  "Well, he sounds like a bully," Fred said. "He oughta be flogged and made to replace the stolen food."

  "Any objections to Fred's suggestion?" Taylor saw the Council nod agreement. "Chris, you heard the verdict, do it.”

  "I'll see it gets done."

  "Last on the agenda is a capital case. Since a verdict has been reached, we must act on a recommendation for capital punishment." Taylor looked around the Council room.

  "Pamela Johnson stabbed her husband, Gary, when she caught him in bed with Ingrid Gee. Mr. Johnson died three days later. It was a painful death, since there are no painkillers left."

  "What did Ms. Johnson say in her own defense?" Fred asked.

  "She claimed that her husband abused her, beat her and taunted her about his other women. Their neighbors confirmed they argued a lot, mostly about Gary seeing Ingrid. However, no one came forward to say that they saw Gary beat Pamela. Dr. Encirlik examined Ms. Johnson immediately after the assault. There were no bruises or other signs of a recent beating."

  Taylor looked up from his notes. "Does anyone want to question Ms. Johnson and the witnesses?"

  "Who conducted the investigation?" Fred asked.

  "Dr. Encirlik and Chris." Taylor passed several papers to Fred. "These are their notes with the final report."

  "I see." Fred shuffled the papers. "So, what do we do?"

  "We don't have much choice," said Taylor. "This was an assault that resulted in a death; that’s murder. While the victim did give provocation, his wife can't prove the allegation he beat her."

  Council members avoided each other’s eyes. The fading sun barely lit the room through its grimy windows. Silence settled on the room. The sound of the wood burning in the stove, popping and crackling, now seemed loud. The faint smell of wood smoke, wet wool, and unwashed bodies filled the air.

  Taylor looked up. The faces around him, thin, gaunt and gray, stared at him like birds of prey.

  Pat Rice cleared his throat. "So, what're you going to do?"

  "What am I going to do?" Taylor looked at each member of the Council. "I'm putting this to a vote. Do we accept the recommendations of the investigators? Those in favor, say aye.”

  "Aye, aye, aye.”

  Shel Weitzman abstained.

  "Please ask Father Scaravelli to pray with Pamela Johnson tonight. Tomorrow, at dawn, she will hang."

  #

  "Taylor, we’ve got to set up a monetary system," Franny said as she passed a plate of food to him across the table. "There's no way that I can allocate supplies equitably anymore. The Clan is so large I can't keep track of who's working and who's not."

  "What d’you think we should use for money?"

  "Oh, there's lots of ideas," she said. "Those who have wads of paper money are screaming for a system that uses the existing currency. If we did that, we'd have a revolution on our hands. We need a system that ties into the value of labor. Like you said, it's the only way to keep people working hard. We need something now."

  "What about using previously issued coins for money?"

  "Only if it were coins the Clan issued," Franny said. "You know, money issued by the Clan treasury."

  "Make our own coins?" Taylor frowned. "That's not easy."

  "Well, no. Use existing coinage."

  "How?" Taylor crossed his arms and cocked his head.

  "What about gold, silver, copper and composite coins, you know, copper-nickel laminates, only with a special Clan mark?"

  "Sounds like you've got this already figured out.”

  "I've got some ideas." Franny pursed her lips.

  "Okay, do you want to make a presentation to the Council when it meets next?" Taylor watched her from the corner of his eye.

  "Me?" She slowly chewed a morsel of meat. "Won't people think you're showing favoritism if I do this?"

  "Franny, who did this work? Who can explain it better?” He waved a fork. “No matter who presents it, there's bound to be opposition. If not from the paper money crowd, then it will come from the lawyers. Maybe someone else will try to figure out an angle so they can come out ahead. So, put on a thick skin and just do it." He got up and went behind her, putting his arms around her. "Smart and sexy, what a great combination. I'm glad I found you."

  #

  "One hundred dollars in U.S. silver coins will exchange for any one ounce gold or platinum coin. This will be the basis for all currency used in the Clan." Franny looked over the long table around which the Elders sat. She paused to take a breath.

  "For day-to-day transactions, copper pennies will exchange at a rate of one thousand for each silver dollar. One hundred pennies equals one composite dollar and ten dollars in composite coinage for one silver dollar is a fair rate."

  "What about paper money?" Pat Rice asked, elbows on the table and head propped in his hands.

  "No. There's too much out there." Franny shook her head. "Just think of the impact on those who've got none."

  "Um, yes, I see what you mean." Pat Rice nodded.

  "How does this tie into the value of labor?" Taylor asked.

  "We set the base wage at one silver dollar per week for a laborer. That means two composite dollars pays for one day's labor, or tw
enty-five copper cents per hour." Franny glanced up.

  "What about discoveries of coin hoards?" Weitzman asked, hands waving. "Won't that cause inflation?"

  "An excellent question. The Wylies will put marks on the coins issued by the Clan." She pointed to John Wylie. "They've got some unique metal punches, which they think will make a permanent mark on coins issued by the Clan. Right, John?"

  "Yes." John Wylie scratched his bearded chin. "I've got a punch set that produces textured letters. Apparently, it was made for a government contract. I've never seen another like it anywhere. To make a punch like it, well, it'd take some pretty sophisticated machining. As long as the punch bites deep into the metal, it will be very difficult for someone to reproduce the mark by hand work."

  "Where do we get the coins?" Carver Washington asked.

  "I gave my coin collection to the Clan, no strings attached," Taylor said. "I bought gold and silver bullion coins before the Collapse as an inflation hedge. I've got no use for them now."

  "How many coins?" asked Phelps.

  "Fifty one ounce gold coins and two thousand dollars face amount in silver coins, mainly quarters and dimes. That should be enough to get started, anyway."

  "Do we accept these coins?" Fred asked, looking at the Council. "All in favor, say aye."

  Taylor abstained from the vote.

  The Council agreed with a roll of ayes.

  "John, when can you start marking the coins?" Taylor said.

  "Well, Sam and I talked about it. We figure it'll take about three or four days to get ready, but I'm not sure how long it will take to actually mark up the coins."

  "Does this involve building a machine?" Taylor asked.

  "Yes, it'll be a simple punch press, hand operated."

  "Better find a safe place to keep it, because it's going to be a real money-maker." Taylor smiled before a frown creased his face. "We're going to need a safe place to keep the Clan treasury, too."

  "Get Stolz involved," said Phelps. "He knows the details of every building on the hill, especially those underground."

  "I'll talk to him," Fred said.

  #

  "Taylor, the Council has awarded you three one-tenth acre tracts of land within the boundary of the old river bed," said Fred. "It's in recognition of your efforts on behalf of the Clan. One is on the Hill and the rest are in the Lower Hill.”

  "I don't need it--" Taylor began to say.

  "Yeah," Fred said. "We discussed it before we voted. The land’s yours. Don't look a gift horse in the teeth."

  #

  The news the Council had given Taylor land within the boundaries of the Hill caused complaints. Opposition coalesced around Pepperdine, a former lawyer, who demanded time in front of the Council.

  "The Clan does not have title to any of these lands, and as such, you have no legal right to give it away.”

  "You may be right, Mr. Pepperdine," said Fred. "Perhaps you should file a suit in the court of Common Pleas in Cleveland."

  "Well, since that court isn't functioning at the moment, I believe all legal transfers should be held in abeyance until a court of proper jurisdiction is established." Pepperdine smiled. "In lieu of that, I propose a pro-tempore system to maintain quasi-legal records and descriptions of all property transfers, notarized by an officer of the court until legal authority is duly organized. I'm happy to offer my services as an officer of the court so you avoid legal pitfalls."

  "Remember, the alternatives to Clan law are found elsewhere,” Phelps said. “If you don't like our decisions, you're free to leave.”

  "What you're doing is not legal--"

  "We'll even give you a ride into Cleveland if you want. You could take up residence there.” Phelps smiled. "The choice is yours, accept our law or leave.”

  "This is highly irregular, you have no legal basis--"

  "Mr. Pepperdine, do you want to live within the Clan?"

  "Well, yes, but--” Pepperdine’s face grew red.

  "Accept our law, or leave," Fred said loudly. "Next."

  #

  Franny solved the problem of getting money into circulation by having the Clan pay the militia when on duty and hiring construction workers to build the common facilities. At her recommendation, the Council instituted a tax system whereby all adults paid the Clan one day's labor per week, either in kind or at the going rate for labor. Franny monitored the receipts and expenditures. She recommended changes to bring spending into balance with the tax receipts.

  The ease of administering the tax system earned its grudging acceptance. The budgeting process evolved into a pie-slicing exercise, because either resources were available for what was needed, or it did not get done.

  Agriculture became an individual effort controlled by supply and demand. Still, the Clan bought a large part of the harvest, which maintained price stability. The standard workweek became four days, with the fifth day used to pay the Clan tax.

  #

  As Franny lay next to Taylor, she traced a pattern with her finger on his chest, "Taylor, do you love me?" She worried about their relationship because it had no formal basis. She loved him deeply and enjoyed the recognition of being the companion of the Clan’s leader. She was aware there were more women than men, many younger than her. She worried about the attention shown him by attractive, unattached and nubile women.

  Taylor had started to doze. As his eyes opened, they slowly focused on her. "No, I lust for you." He reached for her.

  She pushed him away with a trace of a frown. "I'm being serious." His answer had put her off.

  The smile faded from Taylor's face. "Franny, you're the medicine that cured my broken heart. Of course I love you. You brought me back to life. I haven't felt this alive since I was with Vivian. In my heart I still love Vivian; I guess I always will. Now you're my love.”

  "Really?" Her spirits rose. She wanted to ask him why he had not formalized their relationship, but realized it might be confrontational. She snuggled close to him. "Tell me more." She reached for his hand, separating his fingers with hers.

  "It's strange how we came together. You helped me come to grips with my sorrow. You make me see things to which I'm blind. You know, the social and political issues of the Clan. We complement each other. You're an effective foil for my ideas. You're not afraid to tell me when you think I'm screwing up. You're many people: My lover--ah yes, no doubt about that--a friend, an intellectual peer."

  "Yes?" Franny waited for him to continue, enjoying a warm, happy glow.

  His eyes took on a far-away look. "And," Taylor frowned slightly. "Almost like my mother."

  Franny sat up. "What? Your mother?"

  "Let me explain," Taylor said. "You treat me the same way my mother did. She guided me and forced me to defend my ideas. She was always there when I needed support. In many ways, she was my companion. You see, I had no brothers or sisters. In some ways, I missed a lot of the things normal children experience as the result of sibling rivalry. My childhood frame of reference was, in many ways, quite adult." He looked up and smiled. "You fill a big need in my life. You brought me back to life emotionally. Don't you see?" he held out his arms. He beckoned with his fingertips for her to come to him. "Of course I love you. Do you love me?"

  Franny folded into his arms. "I love you more than you'll ever know." She held him tightly to hide the tears that crept into her eyes.

  #

  As the days grew longer and the maple sap began to flow, Phelps pressed tanks and tubs into service as evaporators over hot fires. The sugar shack soon became the most active building in the Lower Hill. The workers sealed the excess syrup in sterilized jars and stored it in the underground food warehouses.

  The river rose several times during late-winter thaws, topping the dams. The first time, tree trunks and branches clogged the old river course and caused flooding in the low-lying areas. When the river rose in flood the second time, it vomited out the debris and flushed the old river course clean.

  The river rose for
a third time after a late-winter downpour. It became a turbulent, scouring current, which devoured the embankment of the old river course near the main entrance and washed away a section of the palisade. When the water subsided, Higgins made stopgap repairs with large stones to restore a continuous wall on the riverbank around the Hill. However, he could not replace the dirt embankment near the main entrance because the ground was too wet to work.

  As the winter faded, Phelps prepared forty acres of land for a vegetable garden as well as another eighty acres for grain. He’d saved seed for the spring planting, but there was not enough for the expanded farm area.

  He sent scouts out to farm areas to trade gasoline and maple syrup for seed. The scouts started a communications network in the rural areas, which brought news and manufactured supplies to wary farmers.

  Chapter 24

  The Office of Mayor

  "Pretty nice digs, eh, Knuckles?" Skid put his feet, clad in engineer boots, on the mahogany desk and puffed on a cigar.

  Once the office of the Mayor, the wood paneled room in Cleveland City Hall had survived the Collapse virtually unscathed.

  "Uh, sure, Skid, it suits you," Knuckles said.

  "I kinda like this set-up. In fact, I should be Mayor. No one else keeps order around here 'cept us, right?"

  "That's fer sure." Knuckles went on automatic agreement when Skid started on a rave. "Everyone's doin' what we say."

  "You know, this is a chance to take care of business, legit-like. I'm the Mayor and the boys are my administration. Get it, Knuckles? You can't fight City Hall. Heh-heh."

  "Uh, do we hafta clean the streets, pick up the garbage an' the rest of that shit?" Knuckles' eyebrows knitted together.

  Skid frowned. "Hell, no. The citizens gotta keep their own neighborhood clean and tidy. No welfare for the chumps. It's against my political philosophy, heh-heh."

  "Uh." Knuckles nodded. "Yeah."

  "The more I think about the idea of me being Mayor, the more I like it. I deputize the boys as cops and we collect taxes. That's a good one, the citizens paying me taxes."

  "Uh, why's that Skid?"