Black Autumn

by Jeff Kirkham

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Jason slapped Jeff on the back and walked him out of the conference room.

  • • •

  Jeff left the office and Jason sat down hard. He leaned back in his chair and asked himself again, Is it really worth all this?

  In the stripped-down mathematics of survival, Masterson added up to more of a threat than any fifty guys trespassing across the Homestead boundary. Masterson had to be removed as a factor or his lust for power would get people hurt. The Homestead needed the neighborhood as a buffer against incursion, plus the extra manpower from the ward would significantly increase their defense. If looters began flooding the neighborhood, it would be better for everyone to mount a coordinated effort. Masterson was slowing that process down, and they might not have time to work through his game. People in town were getting hungrier by the moment.

  Masterson must have known in advance that there wasn’t a chance the Homestead would dump all their resources into the neighborhood collective. He must have known that sticking point would kill their chances of working together. Jason concluded that Masterson had come up this morning intent on poisoning the well, keeping the Homestead and the church apart.

  If Jason was reading this correctly, Masterson would pay any price to remain in control of the local church leadership. If the Homestead disagreed with his plan, then Masterson would control hundreds, even thousands, of the local faithful. And the stake had way more men than the Homestead.

  Of course, not all men were created equal on the field of battle, not by a long shot. One man like Jeff or his SOF guys equaled fifty regular gun guys. And one guy trained and commanded by a man like Jeff, even if that trainee was a civilian, would equal twenty untrained men. Homestead forces could wipe out a larger army, for sure, especially after Jeff added mercenaries from the refugee camp down below the barricade.

  But Masterson had no way of knowing that and he might precipitate an armed conflict with the Homestead based on faulty confidence, and the resulting rift between the Homestead and the Mormon Church would be irreparable. The Mormon Church had a deep history with armed conflicts against “Gentiles” and they had a long, long memory.

  Jason suspected, long term, the Mormon Church would rise up and take the reins of power in this region. The Homestead must preserve a good relationship with the LDS Church, no matter what. The Church was the one large organization with any hope of holding things together. It might not matter so much right away, since the Mormon Church was still pining for government help. But later, when the Mormon Church took matters into its own hands, being friends with the Mormons would become a survival imperative.

  Jason got up from his chair and went looking for his dad. He might need his dad’s help to avoid the biggest mistake of his life.

  He found his old man tinkering with the water turbines, trying to pull electrical power from the Homestead’s water loop. A spring almost a mile up the canyon supplied the loop, and it accumulated tons of water pressure on its way down the hill. Burke wanted to turn some of that pressure into electricity.

  Burke Ross couldn’t help but tinker, even if it meant needlessly complicating a project. The water turbines were the kind of thing that would keep him up at night, fantasizing about all the “slick” gizmos he could put to use.

  “Yo, Dad. You get that done yet? You know it’s the Apocalypse already, right? Time’s up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  Jason always needled his dad about being slow. For decades they’d worked together doing metal fabrication projects. Their predispositions were set. Their opinions about each other were well-established, their banter well-worn and comfortable.

  “Can I bug you for a minute?” Jason wanted to talk about something other than Homestead gadgetry. He needed a Mormon thinker.

  Burke Ross spent his adult life in the LDS faith, serving in nearly every position in the church. Burke believed Mormon theology through and through. He also knew from personal experience that, even in the “true church,” things could go wrong. When it came to loggerheads with the predominant religion, or even the neighborhood, Jason turned to his dad for perspective.

  “Okay.” Burke turned up his hearing aids.

  Jason retold the conversation with the bishopric and Masterson, leaving nothing out.

  Burke waded in. “I know Masterson. He’s an asshole.”

  Mormon or not, Burke had been a metal worker most of his life. He barely hesitated when it came to swearing. “Masterson’s the kind of guy who uses priesthood authority unrighteously whenever it suits him.”

  “Jeff Kirkham’s going to recruit new militia from town. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with Mormon politics or the neighborhood.”

  Burke thought about that for a second. “Bad idea. You should do whatever you can to keep Bishop Decker and the stake president cooperating with the Homestead. We should be working together, not competing.”

  “I agree. So what should we do?”

  Burke leaned over with a grunt and a tipsy lurch, trying to reach his tools without bending his stove-up knees. Jason helped him pick up the tools, returning them to the tool bucket.

  “Let’s go for a walk. Better yet, can we take one of your OHVs?”

  “Sure.” Jason headed back to the house, looking for an available OHV.

  After a couple of stops around the neighborhood, Burke Ross figured out where the stake president lived.

  Jason looked about nervously as he and his dad passed through the Homestead barricade, eyeballing the crowd of hungry people who had gathered just outside the gate. Jason had grabbed his gun belt and an AR-15, sliding the rifle into the scabbard of the OHV. When they passed through the concrete barricades, Jason reached around and pulled the rifle across his lap. The barricade, and the park next door, were packed with squatters. For no apparent reason, hundreds of people were camped at the entryway of the neighborhood below the Homestead. Even the rumor of food, apparently, drew a crowd.

  “You might want to leave that gun in the OHV when we knock on the stake president’s door.” Burke glanced at the assault rifle suspiciously. Jason’s dad didn’t mind guns, but he wasn’t a big fan of the military temperament that had overtaken the Homestead. He’d done his time in the military, but he didn’t have much use for guns in his golden years.

  A few minutes later, they knocked on the stake president’s door, and his rotund wife answered as though nothing had changed in the last week.

  Burke led out. “Good morning, Sister Beckstead. We’re hoping to chat with President Beckstead. Is now a good time?”

  “Good morning. I think he’s in the garden. Come on in.”

  She led them through the house. Jason noticed white buckets of food storage cracked open on the kitchen counter. A hand-powered grain grinder stood next to an electric grain grinder, but only the hand-powered grinder had wheat dust around its base.

  Sister Beckstead caught him looking at her kitchen mess. “I’m baking fresh bread. If you’d come an hour later, I could’ve offered you a slice.”

  That made Jason curious, “How’re you baking bread with no electricity?”

  “Oh, Randall fixed the oven to run off natural gas. The gas still works. I’m not sure what I’m going to do if it goes out. Oh, well, the Church will fix things by the time that happens, right?”

  Jason nodded unconvincingly.

  Out back, President Beckstead, wearing a gigantic straw hat, knelt beside a row of cauliflower. He looked up and grinned.

  “Gentlemen, forgive the sombrero. Looks like the gardening I’ve been doing all these years is finally paying off.”

  “Indeed, President,” Jason spoke first; he was an unrepentant gardening geek himself. “My name’s Jason Ross and this is my dad, Burke.”

  “I know who you are, young man.” President Beckstead stood and extended his hand. “You own that beautiful place up the hill. I’ve heard you have one heck of a garden.”

  Jason loved to talk gardening. “
I do try.”

  “Brother Ross Senior…” The stake president shook Burke’s hand. “What can I do for you this morning?”

  “President, we’re hoping to help the neighborhood pull through this mess.” Burke cut right to the chase.

  Beckstead nodded. “Right now, Church headquarters isn’t providing any food assistance to our stake. They have wards and stakes in worse shape than us in the poorer areas of town, and those members come first. We’re on our own for now. I’m frankly concerned. A lot of our members didn’t prepare very well, and I’m seeing that none of us is totally prepared, not even Sister Beckstead and myself. I’m not sure if my wife can even bake bread once we lose gas to the stove. Without our stove, what will we do with all the wheat? That’s most of our food storage.”

  “Have you asked the wards to pool their food?” Burke drilled down, hoping to poke holes in Masterson’s story.

  “No, I’ve left decisions like that to the bishops. So far, I don’t think any of my wards have pooled food. Some homes are more prepared than others, and it’s definitely not fair to force them to take food from their families and give it to families who failed to heed the prophets. But, if a ward decides to share, that’s between them and their bishop.”

  “I see.” Burke paused, not sure how to approach the question of guns. In the old world, a week ago, talking about protecting a neighborhood with guns would’ve been unseemly. But today? “President, have you thought much about defense?”

  The stake president’s expression fell. “Yes. Yes, I have. Guns aren’t something the Brethren have spoken on, but we’ve already had a number of break-ins in the stake. We had a family held at gunpoint for an hour not three streets over. Luckily, nobody was hurt. But the family lost everything—all their valuables and their food storage. Some wards are posting guards now, but many of the streets in and out of the stake have no protection now that the police aren’t taking calls.”

  “We’d love to help, President,” Burke said. “We have Special Forces soldiers at Jason’s place, coordinating defense and training security guys. They know exactly what to do and how to train the men to protect the neighborhood. We have plenty of military firearms and ammunition.”

  The stake president nodded, wise enough not to commit to a solution, especially considering that Jason Ross was, in all practical respects, not a church member. His dad was a member in good standing, but President Beckstead knew Jason had fallen away, and that gave him pause.

  Burke continued. “But there’s a hiccup. Our bishopric asked today for us to give them command of all security, both their men and ours. As you can imagine, we’re reluctant to do that. It’d be crazy to remove experienced Special Forces soldiers from command and replace them with church leaders who have no combat experience. Did you ask them to do that?”

  President Beckstead’s expression subtly changed now that he seemed to understand the purpose of this visit. The Ross’s were asking him to run interference with Bishop Decker’s bishopric. If he was like most Church leaders, President Beckstead would be slow to contradict one of his bishops, no matter how good Burke Ross’s solution sounded.

  “Brother Masterson mentioned they might request that of you when they visited a couple of days ago.”

  President Beckstead wasn’t just a church leader. He had worked in business for decades. He was obviously beginning to see that he had been used by Masterson to gain leverage, but Beckstead wasn’t going to contradict another anointed church leader.

  “That seems like a reasonable request, at least to discuss. However, I wasn’t aware you had professional military with your group. That might change things.”

  Burke pressed his advantage. “We have four Green Berets, three Navy SEALs and numerous Marines in charge of our forces. Would you consider authorizing those men to train, arm and lead all security forces in your stake?”

  Beckstead waffled. “I think it’s a good idea. But, Brother Ross, you know how this works. Bishops aren’t called by me. They’re called by the Lord. As stake president, I don’t direct the bishops. I support them. The final answer on this question rests with Bishop Decker.”

  Beckstead was overstating the independence of the bishops. Both Burke and Jason knew it. President Beckstead could direct Bishop Decker in this matter. But President Beckstead had already exposed Masterson’s exaggeration—the stake president hadn’t requested pooling of resources, nor had he requested that Bishop Decker command security forces. Masterson had lied.

  Neighborhood violence would increase, given enough time. President Beckstead would eventually ask the Homestead to take over neighborhood security, but one or two families would have to die first. Even considering that reality, pushing the discussion at that moment would galvanize the stake president’s position and further delay a resolution. Jason ended the meeting on a positive note. “Very well, President, we needed some direction from you. Thank you for the time away from your garden. If you need anything, have your ham operator reach out. He knows our frequencies.” Father and son reached over to shake President Beckstead’s hand.

  When they climbed back in the OHV, Jason grabbed his rifle and slipped it beside his seat.

  Burke said, “That could’ve gone better.”

  Jason’s first impulse was to disagree. “Even if President Beckstead gave us clear approval to handle defense, we’d still have to deal with Masterson. He’s not the kind of guy to go down without a fight. In any case, your church can’t move any faster than it’s moving, Dad.”

  “It’s your church, too,” Burke said. Burke never missed a chance to point out that Jason was still Mormon, at least by baptism.

  Jason smiled. “I’m not sure my church would be so slow to see the writing on the wall.” He thought about it for a second and recanted. “That’s probably not true. After all, my Christian church never even talked about being prepared for a disaster. At least your church preached preparedness.”

  “Ah, ha!” Burke seized upon the opportunity to be right. “So you admit the Mormon Church accurately prophesied this collapse?”

  “Yes. I suppose it did. So did Benjamin Franklin. And Rand Paul. And Ayn Rand. I’m pretty sure none of those folks were conversing with God. Hey, I’d be singing hallelujahs with your church if we could get the stake president to move things along.” Jason cocked his thumb at the president’s house.

  “Yeah,” Burke agreed. “Something terrible is going to have to happen before these guys take this seriously, I’m afraid.”

  Between the rumble of the OHV and his hearing aids, Burke wasn’t going to hear anything anyway so they drove home in silence.

  • • •

  Josh Myler commanded Quick Reaction Force Three, or QRF Three, as the guys called it. He hadn’t been a veteran. As a close friend of Jeff Kirkham, he’d had a lot of firearms training and, with the collapse, he had received a crash course in small unit command. With Jeff’s SOF guys running around the valley on missions, Josh had been tapped to lead one of the three elite teams of gunmen. Somewhere along the line, Josh heard that Emily Ross could shoot, and he wanted her for QRF Three. Emily had grown up in a family of shooters: her dad, a lifelong gun fanatic; her brother, a United States Marine; and all of her uncles were avid hunters. Emily killed her first deer—with a two-hundred-yard shot at nine years old.

  In one of her favorite pictures of herself, sixteen-year-old Emily posed with an AR-15, mugging for the camera in one of the canyon bottom gun ranges at the Homestead. She smiled her million-dollar grin with a triple rivulet of blood running down her face. She had shot a steel target in the trees, and she had been hit in the head with a chunk of copper jacket. Emily finished shooting the rest of the course before heading to the ER for stitches. The doctor found the chunk of copper jacket under the skin of her scalp, and she’d kept it in her jewelry box ever since.

  No panty-waist high school boy could hope to match her when it came to shooting. Emily smoked them all on the rifle and the handgun range, and that’s how she lik
ed it.

  Emily Ross, screwing up millions of years of gender bias.

  She supposed her medical training had something to do with it, but getting on a QRF unit in the Homestead definitely said something about her shooting skill. Almost everyone on the three QRF teams had trained extensively before the stock market took a dump. They were the gun guys but, more important, everyone on the QRF units previously trained on dynamic shooting, land warfare tactics, and all of them had maintained their personal fitness.

  Emily hadn’t done as much combat shooting as any of the guys on QRF Three, but she had been a distance runner and cyclist since the age of twelve. Also, the unit needed a corpsman—someone to treat battle trauma until they could get wounded back to the Homestead infirmary. Emily’s medical training, gun training and fitness made her the obvious choice, the weaker sex or not.

  The Homestead had almost overdone it with doctors and nurses, making Emily one of the lesser-qualified medical professionals. They had three surgeons and one ER doc, plus a gaggle of seasoned nurses.

  Emily would have rather been doing surgery, but a QRF slot was nothing to sneeze at. She would get top-notch combat training from the Special Forces guys, a few of whom were single and definitely hot.

  And she would no longer have to spend six hours a day in a dirt hole, endlessly scanning the hillside. Being on the QRF meant being off guard duty. Membership definitely had its privileges. The QRF guys spent their days on the Homestead grounds, training and alert for a call. She would have to wear military kit all day and some nights, including a battle belt with a gun holster, bump helmet, chest rig with magazines, and a rifle. But Emily could live with that. Being on QRF meant you were a rock star in this new world. Being a female on the QRF meant you were a rock star among rock stars.

  Some slice of her female brain lit up with the black guns, racy camo and macho coolness of it all. The handful of single guys around the Homestead thought of her as the ultimate bad-ass chick: gorgeous, smart and combat-ready.