Black Autumn

by Jeff Kirkham

  “Sorry. Sorry, guys.” Winslow jogged up from the bunkhouse. “I screwed up. I couldn’t find you when I came in last night from duty, and there was no one to tell about this.” He pointed at the body.

  Jeff stared at him blankly. Jason watched the crowd.

  “I had to shoot him. It was me. He pointed his rifle at me and he was over the boundary. We did a warning shot. Well, Crandall did a warning shot and this guy wouldn’t stop. I didn’t have to shoot the other guy…” Winslow rambled. He had probably awakened from a dead sleep, remembering that he had left a body in the driveway.

  “Stop talking,” Jeff interrupted him. “Don’t say another word.”

  In Jeff’s mind, there were two kinds of people. Brothers, and all the rest. Winslow was a “brother.” Pretty much everyone else standing there, except possibly Jason, fell into the category “the rest.”

  It was possible that Winslow had serious legal troubles. On the other hand, legal troubles weren’t what they used to be. Maybe a man could kill someone in the mountains without legal repercussions now. This wasn’t Iraq, but it might be pretty close. Jeff’s mind swam with the repercussions of the killing, and he had to admit he simply did not know.

  In any case, it sounded like Winslow had followed orders perfectly. Jeff needed time to think about it. He had known this moment was coming, but planning for something and experiencing it were two very different things. A surprise dead body in the back of an OHV would not have been his preferred outcome. He would have much preferred that Winslow bury the body somewhere on the hill or dump it over the boundary fence. But Jeff only had himself to blame. He hadn’t gotten out ahead of this issue and he knew better.

  Alena pointed her finger in his face. “You are responsible for this, mister shoot-first-ask-questions-later. This innocent man—LOOK AT HIM—he was probably just searching for food for his family, and your MEN gunned him down. LOOK AT HIM! This is no criminal. This is no ATTACKER. You killed him! All of you. Both of you!!” She glared back and forth at Jeff and Jason.

  Jeff didn’t know what to say, and mostly he didn’t care. He looked at Jason, who was staring down the driveway.

  Men from the neighborhood were arriving to start combat training on the Great Lawn. Bishop Decker had put the word out that men with guns would receive basic military training at the Homestead today. A number of the neighbors broke away from the group and drifted up toward the crowd, curious about what was happening.

  Jason jumped into action to prevent a political calamity. “Jordan, please take that… man… down to the infirmary immediately. Cover him up. Do it now. Everyone else, would you please join us in the office?”

  Jordan pulled the tarp over the body, fired up the OHV and nudged through the crowd. As the people filed into the office, the men from the neighborhood gradually headed back toward the Great Lawn. There was some intermingling of people—Homestead and neighborhood. Undoubtedly, a few words of gossip were exchanged.

  • • •

  “People, I know this is serious, but we need to talk about it in an orderly fashion.” Jason packed the group into the office and everyone talked at once.

  “Rules of order, folks. One person at a time.”

  “I’m concerned, really concerned about this.” It was Jason’s brother, Donald Ross. “The lights have been out for what? Eight days? We’re already killing people. I just want to know; did this have to happen? Was this necessary?”

  The room burst into a melee of conversation. Jeff could see the strain on Jason’s face. If it had been anyone but his brother, a member of the steering committee, this would have been easier.

  Jeff had observed this already about Jason and the Ross family. Every one of them had big opinions. Regardless of the effect on other people, they would jump into analysis and crank up a passionate position, certain they were right. That was probably why Jeff and Jason got along at all. They came from the same bolt of cloth—the same kind of family. Jason had largely learned to cloak his opinionated streak through decades of business politicking. But he still had the heart of a crusader and, given the chance, he’d glom onto big opinions just like the rest of his clan.

  Another one of Jason’s brothers, Walt Ross, shouted everyone down. “Guys, someone died. That’s about as serious as it gets. Let’s hear Jason and Jeff out. Why did this guy have to die?”

  Jason jumped into the gap. “We’ll never know. I’m sorry. We could get Winslow in here, grill him, then grill Jeff—Jeff wasn’t even on the property when the shooting took place—and we still wouldn’t know if this was necessary.”

  Frankly, Jeff had no idea where Jason was going with this. He didn’t seem to be helping much.

  “This is murder and we’re all complicit,” Alena shouted. “I can see no reason to kill people to keep them away from our stuff. Do we know we couldn’t have just asked this man to leave? Did you see his face? He’s not the kind of man to come in here and shoot our kids for food. I’d rather die than live like this. My family is leaving!”

  The crowd roiled—some agreeing with Alena, some disagreeing and others shouting that she should go ahead and leave.

  Jason broke in. “Folks, can I ask one thing of you? Please wait. Wait a day or two. Your families’ lives depend on making the right decision. Waiting a day or two before you go out those gates won’t hurt anyone. If things get better in town, you’ll be better off waiting. If things get worse in town, you may decide that shooting intruders to protect your children is necessary. It’s possible, right? Those fires down there,” Jason motioned toward the valley, “they’re not campfires. The big ones are savage violence. People are dying down there. Wait a day. Wait two days. And God help us if it keeps getting worse.”

  With that, Jason moved toward the door and opened it, signaling the end of the meeting. Jeff had the feeling that more talk wasn’t going to lead to more understanding, and he agreed with Jason that the meeting should end.

  Personally, Jeff would rather let all the loudmouths leave. He had no idea why Jason cared if they stayed or went; the plea to stay made no sense. The Homestead didn’t need those people, and more food meant better odds of survival for those who remained.

  But he had his own job to do, so he’d let Jason handle the politics… for now.

  • • •

  Jeff sat down in a chair after everyone filed out of the office. Jason turned to him.

  “Jeff, do you have time to meet with Bishop Decker? He should be here any minute.”

  Jeff looked out the windows and saw four men walking up the driveway, greeting folks as they approached.

  “Were you expecting four guys?” Jeff asked.

  “It’s the Bishop, his two counselors, and someone I’ve never met before. I’m not sure how to feel about that,” Jason said.

  The four men walked up to the office wing and stamped off their feet before coming inside.

  “Bishop, gentlemen, good morning.” Jason shook their hands. “This is Jeff Kirkham. He’s our head of security.” Jeff didn’t know why Jason invented that title, but he probably had a reason. They had never discussed a title. Everyone knew him as the committee guy over defense. “Head of Security” was a new twist, probably something for the Mormon leaders’ benefit.

  Bishop Decker stepped forward. “Good morning. This is my first counselor, Brother Ingram, and my second counselor, Brother Todd. This is Brother Masterson. He’s the executive secretary from the Cherry Harvest Ward below us on the hill, and he’s on the county emergency committee. I hope you don’t mind that I brought everyone along for our morning meeting.”

  “Of course not. Come on in,” Jason said. All the men shook hands, and Jason showed them into the conference room.

  “Did men show up from the ward for training today?” Bishop Decker asked, even though he already knew the answer.

  In Jeff’s mind, this was a bad start―Decker highlighting that he had done them a favor. Now, the bishop would ask for something in return. Jeff couldn’t think of a si
ngle thing he wanted to give in exchange for the privilege of helping the neighborhood protect their families. Apparently, the bishopric was still under the impression they had a negotiating position. Correcting that mistaken assumption meant conflict, and conflict could cost lives.

  “Yep, your ward men are down on the lawn training right now,” Jason answered.

  “Excellent. We spoke with the stake president last night, and we’d like to cooperate with your group as much as possible.” Bishop Decker’s eyes flicked to Masterson.

  “Great,” Jason answered.

  It seemed obvious to Jeff that there was a “but” in there somewhere.

  Masterson spoke up. “The stake president had a couple of requests, and we think they’re good ones.”

  Jeff gave it fifty-fifty odds that the stake president hadn’t come up with the requests Masterson was about to make. The moment Masterson spoke, Jeff knew he was the man in charge. Bishop or not, Decker didn’t have the horsepower to keep this man in check. Masterson controlled the conversation.

  To his credit, Jason said nothing, waiting Masterson out.

  Masterson continued. “If we’re going to combine with your defense, we think we should also combine supplies―food, water, equipment. We can share supplies and pull through this together until FEMA and the Church get here with relief.”

  Jeff couldn’t read Jason’s body language. Poker-faced, Jason stared back at Masterson, waiting. Nobody had ever requested combining supplies before. This was a new wrinkle.

  “If the ward’s providing the bulk of the men for security, we feel like Bishop Decker should be in command,” Masterson stated firmly. “It’s important for the Mormon men to know they’re being led by someone who holds the mantle of authority.” Masterson looked at Jason and Jeff with dramatized gravitas.

  As far as Jeff was concerned, the meeting was over. If Jason agreed to any version of this plan, Jeff and his men would find a plan of their own. To some degree, Jeff believed in this process—in this slow wheels of diplomacy. He knew war intimately enough to know that almost any alternative could be better. But sometimes there existed such a serious experience gap between men that they would never cross that gap. Not only were these four Brethren entirely ignorant about military command, but they had a pie-in-the-sky understanding of what was happening in the world. In Jeff’s experience, men who didn’t know what they didn’t know were the most dangerous kind.

  Neither the Church nor FEMA was coming to save them and recovery would, in all likelihood, take years or even decades. That stuff burning down in the valley—and burning in Los Angeles, Denver, Chicago, and St. Louis—that was America’s means of production. Without a modern means of production, America would hit medieval reality like a runaway train. There would be no turning back. The sudden loss of the cushy, American lifestyle had already sent Americans raging into the streets, and they were burning it all down. Recovery would be a long way off.

  Masterson’s fantasy might well get everyone killed. No matter what anyone said, and no matter how everyone smiled at one another across this conference table, Jeff would not let his family be murdered, raped and spit-roasted by barbarians. He would kill everyone in this room before he would let that happen.

  Jason smiled, still giving nothing away. “Okay, gentlemen. I’ll need some time to talk to my steering committee and consider what you’re proposing. Is there anything else you need right now? Anything more we can do for the neighborhood?”

  Bishop Decker answered, “Nope. We’re good for now. Shall we get back together tomorrow? Same time?”

  “That’d be perfect.” Jason stood and showed the men to the door. He tossed a glance at Jeff, indicating he should stay.

  Handshakes went around, and the men made their way out the office door and into the mid-morning sun, smiling vacantly.

  As soon as the door closed, Jeff lit into Jason, “If you agree to any of that bullshit, I’m out.”

  Jason turned to Jeff, now with anger in his own eyes. “I’m not agreeing to anything.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them ‘no,’ then?” Jeff fired back.

  “Because I want a day to think it through. I want to talk to you about it, and I want to hash out options. I may want to talk to a few of the Mormon people in our group. Waiting until tomorrow to respond to Masterson costs us nothing. If I had spoken up now, I would’ve spoken from anger, and that’s hard to fix. We don’t have time to mend fences, so I’d rather not tear through fences in the first place.”

  That, at least, made sense to Jeff. His confidence in Jason’s ability bumped up a small notch.

  Jason sat down and turned to Jeff. “What did you see happen in that meeting?”

  Jeff ticked off his observations on his thick fingers. “Bishop Decker isn’t running the show. Dickhead number four controls the group because he’s the only one willing to throw his weight around. We could probably work with the bishopric, but Masterson won’t rest until he’s in control of everybody and everything. We’re trying to help them and they’re responding by horse-trading with us. The big problem: they’re too inexperienced to know just how fucked they are, and that bullshit artist Masterson is going to drag the learning curve out, probably until everyone gets dead.”

  Jason thought about it for a minute. “Going back to your analogy of the convenience store buried in volcanic ash… do you think Masterson falls in the category of a ‘selfish strong man?’”

  “I don’t care where he falls. He’s going to get us all killed. Problem is, that kind of guy never stops. He’ll never step back. We have our own problems right now. We can’t afford to be fighting enemies on multiple fronts.”

  “Solutions?”

  “We can have him shot.” Jeff got the obvious suggestion out of the way.

  “Do you have suggestions that don’t include shooting anyone?”

  Jeff thought about it. “Screw those guys. Let’s not use neighborhood men at all. Let’s recruit from the men camping in the tent city outside the barricade on Vista View Boulevard. We could select guys to train and give them food for their families in exchange for serving in our militia. Those new guys could be our first line of defense. Why rely on the locals if we can recruit hand-picked men?”

  Jason raised an eyebrow. “That’s definitely an option. My preference would be to draw from the neighborhood and feed the neighborhood since it ensures cooperation and it removes the need to guard the Homestead against our own neighbors. But I don’t see how we can get around Brother Masterson at the moment. I’m not going to agree to share resources, and I’m definitely not going to share military command with neighbors who know nothing about security.”

  Jeff wondered if Jason knew that same thing about himself. So far, Jason hadn’t interfered with security decisions, but would that hold? Most smart guys, in Jeff’s experience, assumed they are smart about everything. Jason—not having been in combat—didn’t know a damn thing about running a war. He worried that Jason might labor under the impression that being a “gun guy” before the collapse qualified him to have a military opinion.

  Switching back to the question of recruiting men from the barricade, Jason rubbed his chin. “Where would we get the food to pay recruits? I don’t want to feed them our freeze-dried or fresh-grown food. We need good food here to keep up morale.”

  “You smell that?” Jeff asked.

  “Yeah.” Jason glanced up. “What is it?”

  “The ladies figured out how to bake bread en masse. Somebody figured out how to grow yeast off the grape skins. Now they’re baking bread by the dozens of loaves per hour. We have four stoves and we could get them turning out loaves for trade. Baking bread only costs us wheat and a little yeast, plus ramping up production of bread will keep some of the loudmouths around here busy.”

  “Hmmm.” Still rubbing his chin stubble, Jason’s thoughts turned to diplomacy. “We could feed the hungry, do some good and increase our security at the same time. The wheat could come out of the reserve we set
aside for feeding the neighborhood. Baking bread for the hungry would definitely give our people something to do besides worrying about Homestead politics.”

  “You justify it however you need to. I don’t care about making the sensitive souls around here feel better about life.” Jeff found all of this distasteful. He preferred to keep it simple. If folks were too stupid to deal with the threats facing the Homestead, they should leave.

  “Fair enough.” Jason seemed to read Jeff’s thoughts, and he didn’t bother pitching him on doing the right thing. “Do you want to handle the selection process down at the Vista View barricade?”

  “Yep.” Of course Jeff wanted to control the process. He didn’t want to have to train any more prima donnas. He had already dealt with Homestead and neighborhood guys, and many of them were more trouble than they were worth. A lot of them were totally lost, still unable to get their minds around the fact that they had been thrust back into the eighteen hundreds. Jeff would rather work with men who would be fighting to feed their families and who Jeff could fire when they failed to perform.

  Training and leading neighborhood volunteers was like going to war with the cast of Glee. Most of these guys were still up to their eyeballs in emotion.

  “You don’t have any chain-link fence and razor wire stashed around here, do you?” Jeff asked.

  Jason nodded, obviously proud of himself. “That I do. It’s in the Conex boxes by the pond. I also have razor wire gloves and all the connectors and hardware. Do you need me to show you where?”

  “No, I’ll figure it out.” Jeff got up to leave. “This neighborhood thing… this is where you need to produce. This diplomacy is on you. This is where wars are usually won or lost and, if you can’t figure out solutions with the neighborhood, you’re going to need to consider alternatives, maybe violent alternatives.”