Collapse

by M B Wood

  "There's only two things that go down for sure--death and taxes. An' in my administration, if the citizens don't pay their taxes, they're dead."

  Skid was on a roll. "Knuckles. This's for real, I gotta do it. Come on, man, look for the, y'know, the thing that makes it legit. Aw, what's it called? The Mayor's official seal. Understand?"

  "Uh, oh, er, sure." Knuckles chewed on his fingernail as he wandered into the anteroom next to the mayor's office, with a large mahogany conference table and credenza. A stack of papers caught his attention.

  "Yo, Skid, I got it. I got paper, an' all kinds of stuff with the Mayor dude's name. In color, too." He held up a sheaf of paper.

  Skid grabbed the stationery, took one glance and threw it into the air. "Man, is my name Alijah Moohamed Brown?" He rolled his eyes heavenward. "Is that my name?"

  "Uh, no, er, yer name's Skid."

  "Do I look like a fuckin' melon? You see me tellin' the boys my name is now Alijah fuckin' Moohamed Brown so I can be Mayor?" Skid said. "No fuckin' way. I ain't gonna change my name into a fuckin' watermelon name like that." Flecks of spittle flew in all directions. "Understand?"

  "Uh, I'm sorry." Knuckles backed away. "I thought that was what you was lookin' fer." His lower lip quivered.

  "Man, this shit's no good, I want something to make me Mayor. I'm not gonna pretend to be someone else, especially a fuckin' watermelon. It's gotta be a seal I can put on a piece of paper after I've signed my name." He glared at Knuckles.

  "Uh, I see." Knuckles lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, I din't know that's what you wanted." As he turned away, he put his hand to his mouth and started to suck his thumb.

  "Aw, cut that out," Skid said. "It isn't the end of the world."

  In the storage room off the anteroom, he emptied a filing cabinet. "Knuckles, lookit! Shit, I've got it." Skid waved an embossing tool over his head. "I'm gonna be Mayor."

  "Uh, right on, Skid." Knuckles slapped his hand and finished with a high-five handshake.

  "I'm gonna run this City for real. My orders are gonna be signed and sealed with the authority of the Mayor of Cleveland."

  "What kinda orders?"

  "I’m gonna make laws so I can tax the chumps, er, the citizens, deputize the boys and take anything I want, all legit-like. There's nothing I can't do, 'cause I'm now the law in Cleveland, the law." Skid's voice rose an octave. His eyes took on a bright gleam.

  #

  Skid recalled how the winter in Berea had started off okay until those Park assholes fucked with him. They'd pay for that, he vowed. In a way, the move had worked out, for after he'd incorporated the Diablos into the Deacons, they were still below their earlier strength. They'd taken over the Rodina Gang, those crazy Russians. The way the Rods' leaders had trusted him and had come unarmed to a 'Summit' meeting made him laugh.

  It had been so easy to ambush and waste them. The rest of the Rods joined up with the Deacons soon enough. Still, for a while things had been tough. Good thing that 'Fast Eddy' MacArthur and his Rubber City Road Warriors joined up and increased his gang to more than two hundred men.

  It was also a lucky thing Stubby Knox had been a laborer on the construction of a false wall in the basement of the gun store. He didn’t believe Stubby at first when he swore the basement had another room. When they broke in, the owner had tried to shoot it out with them.

  He chuckled. He was just like a cornered rat, 'cept more fun. He didn't last any longer than a rat, either.

  There were a hundred SKS semi-auto rifles, which proved to be a useful addition. But the ammo--twelve full cases--twelve thousand rounds, that was the ace of spades. There’d been other guns too, UZIs, MAC-10s, some nine-millimeter stuff.

  Skid preferred high-velocity assault rifles. In a rumble, he liked to back off out of a nine-millimeter's effective range and pick 'em off. He fingered the bulletproof jacket that was his personal memento from the gun store. He wore it all the time - just another edge.

  He’d used the nine-millimeter guns to make deals with the black gangs, but kept them short on ammo to ensure their cooperation. It wasn't a real solid alliance, but the ammo helped. He wasn’t gonna tell the melons how to run their turf. When he needed them, they'd better pony up. Besides, downtown and the West Side were more comfortable. His kind of ethnics.

  I’ve gotta move the Deacons into City Hall right away. We’ve lived in that hotel all winter and it’s gotten to be a real mess. My ol' lady keeps complaining about the smell. Skid vowed he'd keep City Hall clean and use it solely as his headquarters. "Heh-heh, this is way cool." He laughed out loud.

  #

  George C. 'Skid' Vukovitch, leader of the Cleveland chapter of the Devil's Deacons held his inauguration as Mayor of Cleveland by rounding up a group of citizens, who, confronted with the choice of electing him or dying, elected him by acclamation.

  "Hey, Skid," Fast Eddy MacArthur said. "You gonna lighten up a little, now you're Mayor?"

  "What d'you mean?" Skid narrowed his eyes. He wondered what had come over his ally. "Lighten up a little?"

  "Aw, man, you've been riding our asses all winter."

  "Oh yeah? Well, winter's been one long pain in the ass. What with the Rods, the Venoms, and those other melons, the Tombs, trying to push me around, an’ having to fight back, understand?” He took a deep breath. “Now I'm Mayor, I'm gonna get some real respect. Anyone who gets outa line is gonna go down, but good."

  "Easy, man," Fast Eddy said. "We're blood brothers, remember? There ain't no need to go all crazy on us."

  "When I take care of business, I don't let anythin' get in my way." Skid whistled the refrain from Pachebel's Canon.

  "Cool," Fast Eddy said. "Me an' the boys are on your side."

  "This is what we're gonna do..." Skid waved his hand over the heads of the assembled gang and explained how they would collect taxes. "If you don't do good as tax collectors, me and Knuckles will give you a job-performance review, understand?"

  "What's our turf?" Fast Eddy spat on the ground.

  "Lemme see.” Skid frowned. "Well, out to the 'burbs, but there isn't any law out there, is there?"

  "Naw. So, that's our turf?"

  "No, not really. You see, it isn't legit to collect taxes from an area where we don't have jurisdiction.” Skid paused and scratched his head. “Hey, hey, wait, that gives me an idea. Call the council into session."

  "What d'you mean?" Fast Eddy's eyes widened.

  "Listen. I'm gonna incorporate all of Cuyahoga County into the City of Cleveland, 'cause it doesn't have any government. Since we're the only surviving government, we're it. Understand?"

  "Sure, Skid." Knuckles’ words filled the silence. "Er, why do we wanna do that?"

  "We have the whole county as our turf so we got more citizens to pay taxes. If they don't do as we say, then they're the ones breaking the law." Skid clapped his hands. "Got it?"

  "Sure, man." Fast Eddy rolled his eyes.

  #

  John Phelps went straight from church to his fields. Overnight, spring’s gray, cold and wet days had changed to warm, windy weather, drying the fields quickly. Green stems waved in the breeze.

  "Taylor, what're you doing here?" Phelps asked.

  "Hi, John. I'm enjoying the day. It's a beauty, isn't it?"

  "See how the winter wheat is coming along? It'll be ready for harvest in no time.”

  "It looks fine, you've done well." Taylor looked at the field. "When did you plant this?"

  "We sowed eighty acres last fall." Phelps paused. "I'm amazed at how self-sufficient we've become." His face grew serious. "The only thing that scares me, is getting injured or sick. Sure, Encirlik and Weitzman work miracles with what little they have, but if someone is really sick, it's curtains. The thought of another battle scares the daylights out of me."

  Taylor's gut knotted at the memory of the rows of bodies: both close friends and anonymous faces.

  Oh, God, he thought, please, not again.

  #

  Taylor took a
sip of water. The Council room was warm, even with its tall windows open. The public section was filled, the rustle of clothing and shuffle of feet forcing him to raise his voice.

  "Next item. We got a letter from the Cleveland Mayor's office." He held up a sheet of paper with an ornate seal on top. "It states that Cleveland has annexed all the communities in Cuyahoga County, pursuant to ordinance so and so."

  "And?" A frown crossed Fred's face.

  "The letter goes on to say we must pay taxes to Cleveland based upon food inventories and agricultural output. Included is a survey form for us to list what we have." Taylor passed the letter to the Elders sitting at the long table.

  "Who delivered this letter?" Weitzman asked.

  "It was a person dressed like a cop." Chris paused. "The guards escorted him in from the perimeter. When I got a good look at him, the tattoos on the back of his hands and the fact his uniform didn't fit, well, his claim to be from the Cleveland Tax Collectors Office just didn't ring true."

  "The present Mayor of Cleveland," Ted Colagrossi called out in a loud voice. "Is that scumbag Vukovitch. He's the leader of the Devil's Deacons gang in Berea we thrashed last year. Either he's crazy, smoking too much dope, or both. Even his own guys--the scouts overheard them talking—they wonder which planet Vukovitch is on."

  "So, what d’we do about this? Ignore it?" Taylor asked. "Send back a funny reply?" He tried to gauge the Council's mood.

  "Maybe we should ask them for a copy of their ordinance," Weitzman twisted his hands. "Then we could send them a copy of our own incorporation or some other fantasy document that shows we're not subject to their rule."

  "Rule? That scumbag rules us?" Fred's voice cut through the rising tide of voices. "No fricking way."

  "Those, those bastards." Shirley O'Connor's brassy voice rang out. "You're not serious, are you?"

  "Tell 'em to pound salt." a voice called from the audience.

  Taylor rapped the gavel on the table for quiet. "Okay, okay, I hear you. That's enough. If what Ted tells us is correct--and I've got no reason to doubt his word--this is the same group who gave us trouble last summer."

  "So, what d’you intend to do about it, Mr. MacPherson?" Pat Rice asked in an icy tone.

  "I have to assume these demands will lead to a fight."

  "I hope you're wrong," Weitzman said. "We lost many fine young people last time. I don't want to see that happen again."

  "Being prepared for a fight doesn't mean we'll have one. However, if we're not ready--”

  "Won't our preparations send the wrong message?"

  "Well, Shel," Taylor said. "Why don't you draft the letter you mentioned, the one with the phony ordinance?"

  "I'll do it." Weitzman picked up the letter and studied it.

  "Good. Best case they leave us alone for a while. All it will cost is some paper." Taylor slapped Shel on his shoulder. "We need time to get our defenses ready. Sam Wylie, how's our bow production coming along?"

  "Well." Sam cleared his throat. "I've got a problem. There just isn't enough seasoned Osage Orange available."

  "Aren't there other woods that will produce the same result?"

  "Good, yes, but not the best. That Callioux hasn't brought me the Dacron twine I've been asking for. What's he doing on those jaunts?" Sam's voice quavered. "Sight-seeing?"

  "Sam." Taylor lowered his voice. "You've done a super job under difficult circumstances. I really wish we could get everything you need, but under the current conditions, we're grateful for anything we can get."

  "Well, if those scouts would just look a little harder."

  "Sam, how many bows do you make in a week? Not counting those made for children?" Taylor realized that Sam had aged significantly over the winter. He looked frail.

  "Well, last week," Sam said. "I finished twenty-four bows. They're the standard sixty-five pound draw weight recurve bows, which take a standard thirty-two-inch arrow."

  "Is that your normal production?" Taylor narrowed his eyes.

  "Are you asking me if I'm working as hard as I can?"

  Taylor flinched. "I want to know how many bows we have."

  "Well, let me see now." Sam stared into the distance. "In the past twenty weeks, give or take a day or two, I've made three-hundred and thirty-eight bows, more or less. All have my lifetime unconditional warranty." He smiled without warmth. "If you're gonna break them, you'd better do it soon."

  "We really appreciate your efforts," Taylor said. "With the threat of attack, we need more bows."

  "Well, I'm working as hard as I can, so you're out of luck."

  "We need another one hundred bows." Taylor forced a smile onto his face. "Let's talk after the meeting, I'm sure that we'll find a way. Next item.”

  #

  "Taylor." Ted Colagrossi ran into Taylor's cluttered office, out of breath. "There was a raid on the Oxbow."

  "What happened? Was anyone injured?" Taylor clenched his teeth in anticipation of bad news.

  "There's four people hurt, none of them seriously. It looked like a mob, a band of refugees backed up by a few gang members."

  "How many?" Taylor asked, scribbling notes.

  "We're not sure. The ones wearing colors held back and were hard to see in the woods. I'd guess that there were about sixty. The militia held them off at the entrance."

  "Something feels wrong about this." Taylor looked up as Chris came in the door. "What d’you think it was?"

  "It was a probe of our defenses. The City gang has got a lot of guns. I've seen them. Most of those guys in the attack just threw rocks."

  "If that's the case, then we'd better assume an attack is imminent. Every night, everyone inside the walls."

  "The wheat harvest will be ready soon." Phelps had silently joined the group. "We have to harvest it by hand."

  "We'll just have to take our chances on the grain harvest when it's time." Taylor made a wry face. "I hope the gangs don't know anything about farming."

  #

  Skid stared at seven leather-clad men standing in front of his desk in the former mayor’s office. They were his gang lieutenants, whom he’d appointed to his City Council. "Those assholes in the Park won't take any more refugees. We can't get our people inside," he said.

  His men listened silently.

  "They refused to let us inspect their food supplies. They won't pay their taxes. They're defying the law. We've got to do something about that. Understand?"

  "Sure. Like what?" Knuckles asked.

  "They wanna play hardball with me, fine. I've got the law on my side." Skid stared into the distance for a few moments. He jumped up. "I'm gonna raise a citizens' army and restore order."

  "Now just a minute, Skid," Fast Eddy MacArthur said. "What's this shit about a citizens' army? You gonna open recruiting offices or something like that?"

  "You think I'm a dumb-fuck?" Skid’s face began to twitch.

  "No, I didn't mean it that way." Fast Eddy held up his hand. "You ain't gonna give the citizens no guns, are you?"

  "I'm gonna raise an army. You know, round up citizens and tell 'em they're in the City's army. Understand?"

  Fast Eddy's face remained blank.

  "I'm gonna use them as our front-line troops. You know, give them clubs, whatever. They're gonna be the ones who'll march in front and use up those Park assholes’ ammo." Skid waved his hands. "A human tide, to wash away their defenses in a sea of blood. It's gonna be beautiful."

  "We don't do no fighting?" Fast Eddy's face brightened. "We don't hafta bust our asses enforcing the law?"

  "You'll have to fight. Most of all, I want you to keep the citizens in line. Make sure they do what I want."

  "Uh, Skid," Knuckles asked. "Do I get to kill anyone?"

  "As many of those assholes in the park as you can."

  Chapter 25

  Day One

  "What a beautiful day." Franny linked her arm through Taylor's and smiled up at him, eyes bright in the afternoon sun.

  The sky was intensely blue a
nd the new leaves--lush and vividly green--fluttered in the breeze. The road down the Hill to the main entrance was now wide and smooth, made from compacted stone. It was time for their afternoon walk.

  Taylor smiled. "You make it even more beautiful.”

  "Oh, Taylor." Franny said.

  She stopped and pointed over the wall. Three horses had come into view. Two of the horses cantered awkwardly--they had bloodstained bodies draped over them. “Look.”

  "It's Colagrossi. Someone's hurt. Get Encirlik and Weitzman." Taylor ran toward the bridge crossing the river, which functioned as a moat for the Hill. Franny headed back up to the Hill. He reached it as the horsemen clattered across.

  "The gang's on the move," Colagrossi yelled. "They're coming. There are thousands of them.”

  "How far away are they?" As Taylor spoke, Weitzman arrived on the run, puffing and panting.

  "Three, maybe four miles," Colagrossi said.

  "Taylor," Weitzman called. "Give me a hand with these men." He began cutting the straps that held the men on the horses.

  "Shel, I've got to mobilize our defenses. Get someone else." Taylor ran for the guardhouse. "You, with the hat," Taylor called to a guard. "Ring the alarm. Move it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You.” Taylor pointed to young Clan soldier. “Tell Kucinski, Phelps, Del Corso, and O’Connor to meet me at Lookout Point. You.” He beckoned to a short, stocky blond man. “Send runners to the gates and tell them to keep them open for our people only until the gang's army arrives."

  "Yes, sir." The young blond-haired guard ran.

  A bell boomed across the valley. Its sonorous voice--the tocsin of war--imposed a moment of silence. Soon, hundreds of shouting people, prodding livestock, streamed across the bridge and through the gates.

  Within an hour, only solitary stragglers remained outside the walls, dragging crying children and driving bawling cattle toward the gates.

  From the lookout point on the Hill, Taylor saw the leading edge of the on-coming army.

  Thousands of ragged men, many wearing bandannas pirate-style, flowed like an angry river in flood stage down Cedar Point Road into the valley. As they closed, they made a savage roar like that of an angry animal, deep and primal.