by Nathan Jones
So far there hadn't been any. In fact, over the last few days he'd almost been able to forget he had the unenviable task of stopping anyone who did come and turning them away from the town.
It looked as if his good luck had run out, though, because about halfway along the route going back towards the highway he poked his head up above the hillside behind some sagebrush to see a wisp of smoke rising on top of the next hill north. A quick inspection with his binoculars showed him a small and tidy camp, already broken down, and three men with heavy backpacks picking their way down the hillside roughly in his direction.
Trev watched them with nervous apprehension, not so much worried about what they might do as what he now had to do. Guess it was time to do his job. Taking a deep breath he rose to his feet and tucked his binoculars back in their case at his belt, then checked his 1911 in its underarm holster and his rifle slung on his back. After he was satisfied he could get to them quickly he picked his way down the north side his own hill towards the three men.
Over the last few days he hadn't had much to do aside from think about any eventual encounters with people he might have. He'd planned ahead to how he'd respond to specific dangerous situations, but more of his time had spent trying to find the best way to tell frightened, desperate people that they needed to go away.
He'd come to the conclusion that the best way to do it was to treat any wanderers as if they were lost and point them to the highway in a way that would take them around Aspen Hill, hopefully without even realizing it was there. That would prevent any potential confrontations in the first place if they really were lost or had no destination in mind.
So as he got within shouting distance he raised a hand in greeting, friendly but at the same time wary for any sign of one of them going for a weapon. “Hey guys!” he called. “Looks like you might be lost. Highway 6 is just a few miles east of here and that should get you wherever you're going. You can follow this hill behind me right to it.”
The three men kept coming, not aggressively but to make conversation easier, even as they exchanged confused looks. “We're not lost,” the older man in front called back as he raised his hand to display a handheld GPS. Judging by his build and facial features he was probably the father of the other two. “This is taking us right to Aspen Hill. FETF directed us down there for shelter and aid until things calmed down, even gave us the coordinates.”
Blast. It looked like the first ones to show up along his patrol were people he was going to have the hardest time turning away. Trev stood trying to think of something to do, and as he did the three refugees finally got close enough to be in more normal talking distance and stopped, confused by his standoffishness. “Look,” one of the younger men said in a reasonable tone, “if we're trespassing on your land we can go around. We're just trying to get to Aspen Hill where we can finally get our first decent meal in days.”
Trev sighed. It was probably best to be direct. “It's not about trespassing. Aspen Hill has closed its borders. We're not letting anyone in.”
This time the looks the three men exchanged were dismayed. “The FETF official in Provo told us to come here,” the older man protested. “Us and everyone in our neighborhood and others. She assured us Aspen Hill knew we were all on our way and would be ready for us.”
It was almost physically hard to force the words out in the face of the hopeless expressions in front of him. “We're not ready, I'm sorry,” Trev said. “We weren't in much better shape than Provo when this all happened and we're struggling to survive ourselves. I hate to say it but there's no help in Aspen Hill. You'd be better of finding someplace else.”
“That's BS!” the man who hadn't spoken yet burst out. He was only a bit older than Trev, his dark wavy hair grown nearly to his shoulders and tangled from travel. “You can't turn us away when we've been promised a place.”
Trev hated confrontations. Hated them so much that until Nelson's attempted mugging he'd never even been in a real fight. But this was what he was here to do so he was going to do it. “The town's decided, I'm just here to turn people around if they come this way. I can't make the decision of letting you through.”
The young man pointed angrily at the radio clipped to Trev's belt. “Why don't you call them up and ask, then?”
It was a reasonable request, but letting them talk to someone in town would just increase their chances of being let through. The three men looked like decent people, but hourglasses had a way of filling one grain of sand at a time and it would be the same with the refugees if the town started making exceptions. “We'd just be wasting everyone's time since they'll tell you the same thing I'm telling you.”
The older man rested a hand on his son's shoulder to calm him down. “What if we tried to just walk past you?” he asked quietly. “Would you shoot us?”
Trev immediately shook his head. “I'm only armed for self defense. But if you try to enter the town I'll have to call in for backup and things will get unfriendly fast. The town is closed, just take my word for it and look for somewhere else to go.”
“That's not going to work. We came ahead to give Aspen Hill advance notice and help prepare the town for our group, almost sixty people. Where would we all go if the town we were supposed to get help from turns us away?”
In the end Trev had to look away from the man's calm stare. “I'm telling the truth, we don't have anything for you. If we tried to take you in we'd all be starving that much sooner. You need to go somewhere else.”
The three men exchanged despairing looks. “Tell your town about us,” the older son said harshly. “Tell them you'll have to live with what you've done, with the kind of people you've become.” Trev couldn't think of an answer, and with that the three men turned to follow the hill east to the road. As they walked away the guy about his age slowed until he was walking behind the others and turned to give Trev a rude gesture with both hands.
Doing his best not to shake at the adrenaline of the situation Trev started back the way he'd come, to the spot just below the top of the hill on the south side so he could continue his patrol. As he went he lifted the radio to his mouth. “This is Trevor Smith on the north border. I just turned away three men sent to Aspen Hill from Provo by FETF officials who say they've got a group of more than 60 coming behind them.”
He paused, settling his nerves, and then continued. “The first of the refugees are here.”
* * * * *
Matt learned about the refugees Trev had encountered when he arrived at Roadblock 1, the first one constructed on the north end of Main Street, for his shift at 4 in the afternoon. He confirmed it when he checked in with Officer Turner, who was sitting on a lawn chair on the hood of one of the cars pulled across the road staring northeast in the direction of Highway 6. The man had a beer in his hand, and the half gone six pack sitting beneath the chair suggested it wasn't his first.
The policeman shifted in his seat to look at him, taking a swig. “Yeah, that's what it sounds like. Advance warning for a group of 60 or so people. I sent a couple guys up the road to check Highway 6 a few hours ago. They're going to hang out there and and see if the group passes by or makes for the town.”
“What do we do if the refugees try to come in?” Matt asked.
“We do what the town voted on and make them turn around,” Turner said grimly. “It shouldn't come to violence, though. At worst I'll flash my badge and put a little law enforcement authority behind the town's resolution.” He shifted on his seat again, sighing. “I hope it doesn't come to violence. When I contracted out to Aspen Hill to become a small town policeman I never expected to be made the de facto leader of its militia in an SHTF scenario.”
The comment surprised Matt for several reasons. First off he hadn't really considered that the people at the roadblocks and on patrol were part of a militia, although he supposed that's technically what they were. He also hadn't expected a thirty year old, trained police officer to feel uncomfortable in charge. “I'm sure someone else could take ove
r if you wanted.”
“Like who?” Turner asked, snorting. “Anderson? One of the squabblers on the City Council? One of the few veterans in town, all from wars that happened decades ago? Like it or not I'm the best trained and qualified for the job.”
“And you're doing a good job,” Matt offered. He meant it: under Turner's direction the roadblocks had gone up quickly and efficiently, the guard and patrol rosters were taking shape nicely, and the officer had made sure the signs pointing to town along 6 had all been taken down. Matt wouldn't have even thought of doing that.
The man shook his head. “Yeah well sitting behind a roadblock isn't what I'm worried about. Ever since your buddy radioed in about the refugees I've been dreading our first visitors. I know I spoke for turning them away at the meeting but I hate having to be the one who actually does it.”
Silence settled as Turner brooded, finishing off his beer and tossing the can out beyond the roadblock. “What about the other towns in the area?” Matt asked. “Have we heard from them?”
The officer snorted and reached down for another beer. Matt couldn't say he was happy about the man drinking on duty. “Yeah, we can reach them on the radios. They're all taking in their refugees like good little citizens and some have even decided to take in all comers, not just the ones FETF sends their way. Price is even trying to set up a local network to get all the towns in the area working together to share the load.”
He popped the top on his beer and took several long gulps. “They're pissed at us, I can tell you that. I haven't been cussed out that bad since the Academy.” Turner abruptly swore and slammed his can down on a plastic armrest, making a bit of foam splash out. “Can you believe the town leaders, making that dirty deal behind our backs? And FETF sending a bunch of helpless mouths to feed our way! And while I'm complaining I'd sure like a crack at whoever blew up the Gulf refineries.”
Matt shifted awkwardly, not sure what to say. He glanced at the other men on duty, most of them to either side of the road sitting on the dressers pulled across the sidewalks, but they were all pretending they hadn't heard the outburst.
Before he could say anything Turner abruptly stood and reached down to grab the rest of the six pack. “You've got the hot seat,” he growled, yanking the radio off his belt and tossing it onto the chair. “Call if anything happens. I've got some business back at the office.”
Without another word the officer hopped off the car, stumbling on landing, and strode purposefully towards the town hall. Matt hesitantly climbed up to the chair and grabbed the radio, settling down on the plastic seat.
“The others in your shift are taking their time getting here,” one of the other men on duty grumbled. “Just because we don't have power doesn't mean telling time is suddenly impossible. Where's everyone's watches?”
Matt shrugged. Looked like Turner wasn't the only one on edge: maybe it was good a new shift was coming in before the refugees got here. Assuming they actually tried to get in.
A few minutes later the other people on shift with him began trickling in. Matt filled them in on the situation as the people in the earlier shift left, then together they all sat tensely waiting. An hour passed, then two, at which point he got some relief from boredom and tenseness when Sam came to visit him. The dark-haired woman had brought water, a gesture he appreciated even though he had plenty and the spring was a stone's throw down the street, and then she joined him sitting on the hood of the car facing out of town.
“You're awfully quiet today,” she said. “Worried about the refugees?”
Matt kept staring at the hills to the northwest, ultimately leading up to the mountain pass on the horizon that Highway 6 went through to reach Spanish Fork. “Kind of, but not really. I can't stop thinking about April and her family up in Midvale.”
That was, if anything, an understatement. When he'd spoken to his sister just before the phones died she'd seemed intent on riding out the chaos right where she was and had assured him that they had enough food storage to do it. But in spite of that he'd still been worrying about her a lot these last few days since making it to Aspen Hill. Especially following the chaos he'd escaped from in Orem, when his sister's family might be going through the same and he had no way to contact them and make sure they were okay. Learning about FETF sending refugees south had compounded his worries yet again, and now after hearing about Trev's news regarding the arrival of the first wave of refugees his worry increased even more.
“She has her food storage and a good house,” Sam said, doing her best to sound reassuring. The dark-haired woman knew April's situation since Matt's parents were worried too and his mom frequently mentioned her and reassured herself that they had what they needed, while his dad mused aloud about the difficulty of making the trip on foot with young children and how long it might take them.
Matt shook his head. “Trev had a lot of food storage up in Orem and he still decided it would be better to come south. The cities are dangerous.” She nodded, seeming unsure how to respond, and Matt fell into brooding silence again.
Even if April and Terry decided to stay in Midvale, what if FETF sent them south with other groups of refugees in spite of their wishes? Were they somewhere on I-15 or Highway 6 struggling to make the long trek with scant provisions and a two year old toddler and a five year old in tow? What if they'd been sent north or east instead of south? What if the small town FETF was evacuating them to was Heber or Goshen or Manti or who knew where? Would the task force coordinators be understanding about the fact that April had family waiting in Aspen Hill and help speed their way south, or would they try to insist they go where they were told?
A thought had started brewing in his mind last night and had stuck there all morning, that waiting and worrying wasn't enough. He should be doing something, and that something was going north to find his sister's family and help them get back to Aspen Hill. He cursed his decision to trade the remainder of the gas in his tank to Mr. Tillman to partially pay for his purchases, and cursed almost as much his decision to drive straight down here rather than heading up to pick up his sister and her family and bring them down. He would've had enough fuel in the tank to make the trip, and surely Sam would've understood the need.
But thanks to his thoughtlessness and shortsightedness here he was, over a hundred miles away and with no way to help April's family if they needed it.
Matt closed his eyes and settled down with his palms flat on the roof of the car, struggling to calm his thoughts. There was no reason to panic just yet. If FETF was coordinating relief up in the cities and sending refugees where they'd prearranged for them to go then they had to have the situation under control in spite of the riots. For all he knew there might even be FETF coordinators leading the groups of refugees and helping them get where they were going.
Once the refugees started arriving he could go out and ask the FETF people, or the refugees themselves if they were unescorted, what the situation was like and how well the task force had things in hand up north. Most likely the news he got would settle his fears, or at the very least give him a better idea of what action he needed to take moving forward.
Assuming he wasn't once again reacting too slowly to the destabilizing situation and it was already too late for April and her family. Matt violently shook his head to dismiss the horrible thought, abruptly climbing to his feet so he could carefully scan the area around them to make sure no one was coming.
“It seems like a bad idea to tear yourself apart worrying,” Sam said. She'd jumped slightly in startlement at his sudden movement, but after a moment she also got to her feet to stand beside him. “Why don't you tell me about April and Terry and their boys? I'm looking forward to meeting them.”
Matt shot her a grateful smile and eagerly accepted her distraction, telling her about his big sister, his brother-in-law Terry who'd just graduated medical school studying to be a surgeon and was interning at a hospital in Salt Lake City, and their two tow-headed boys Aaron and Paul.
Th
at opened Sam up to talking about her family in New York, a topic she'd avoided until now. Her parents were divorced and her mother was remarried, but she was still an only child. From her tone she didn't have too great a relationship with either of them, but in spite of that she sounded genuinely worried. Matt felt a bit bad that she'd had to suffer that worry alone up until now, and wished he'd thought to ask about her family sooner.
Before they knew it another hour had passed and Matt was halfway through his shift. About that time, though, Carl Raymond called in on the radio. He was one of the two men Turner had sent out to watch the highway, and he had news that they'd spotted a large group of refugees heading south in their direction.
For a moment Matt wondered if he should reply that Turner wasn't at the roadblock anymore, but before he could the policeman answered over the radio, probably using one of the ones recharging in his office. “Roger that. Stay out of sight and we'll see if they walk past us.”
“Understood,” Carl replied. “Turning the radio to silent for a bit.”
After that the silence became tense. “This is awful,” Sam finally said, lifting up on her toes as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the highway. “I hope they just go right by so we don't have to turn them away.”
Matt nodded grimly. “Me too. Do you think you could go let my parents know what's going on? Just in case.”
“Sure.” She fidgeted awkwardly, as if she wanted to say something, then abruptly blurted “Be careful, okay?” Before he could answer she lifted a hand in farewell and hopped off the car, hurrying down the street.
After that the tense minutes continued to tick by in silence for almost a half hour, until finally a squawk on the radio made Matt hurriedly straighten. “Officer Turner? This is Carl Raymond out on Highway 6. We've got a group of refugees trying to take the northernmost road to Aspen Hill.”
The radio almost immediately crackled with a response. “This is Turner. You've turned them back, right?”