Kingdoms of Sorrow

by JK Franks

  “Afternoon, Angel.”

  Without the subtlest of glances in his direction, she replied, “Hey, Scott. Are you just going to stare at my ass, or did you need something?” She turned and looked at him closely, then eyed the bag in his hand and grinned. “What varmints you bringing me today?”

  Her distinctive rapid-fire speech pattern was a fresh distraction from the slower southern drawls he heard most days. He laughed, a little sheepishly, at her accusation, then raised the bag and reset his face to the more serious business. “Fish . . . catfish mostly, but I did skin and clean ’em for you.” He set the mesh bag down in an empty sink and turned to face her. “Let me ask you something. How are we doing on supplies?”

  “Terrible,” she said.

  “Can we hold out until crops come in?”

  She looked him in the eyes, all business herself. “I assume you mean without getting too deep into the emergency rations—the soup and freeze-dried supplies from the train?”

  Scott nodded.

  They had brought in cases and pallets of dry and canned goods that they added to the other staples already on the Aquatic Goddess. Due to the number of residents, they had used a lot of those supplies over the winter. Even with rationing, the percentage they had set aside for long-term emergency supplies was very literally being eaten away.

  “We’re okay until spring as long as we can keep adding some protein several times a week like this,” she pointed at the fish. She pulled a chair out at a nearby table and motioned for him to sit as well. She knew this was a serious conversation. She also was beginning to see why people looked up to Scott. He was bright, but he also had a knack for seeing the potential in people. “To be honest, we’re in better shape than we estimated. Mainly . . . well, mainly due to the number of people we’ve lost . . . fewer mouths to feed. We do need fruits and vegetables bad—our vitamins and supplements are nearly gone. Currently, we’re mostly living on carbs and what little protein we can find. Our bodies are going to suffer if we don’t have more diversity. I’m not a nutritionist, but I know what scurvy and gout are.”

  Scott nodded solemnly. It was pretty much what he feared as well.

  “So, how long are we talkin’? Aren’t people just starting to plant crops? I assume it’s still months before we’ll be able to eat anything we’ve grown.”

  “Some crops were started early—the late fall crops we planted last year. Greens and such do well in cool weather, and our winter was pretty mild. Talking to the farmers around here, they say we should be able to start adding some veggies back into our diet soon, but I’m not sure it will be enough to feed us all.” Scott looked around the mostly empty and unused galley. The cruise ship was equipped to feed thousands. Now they were sitting in the area that had been used to feed just the ship’s crew. Even that was larger than the survivors needed. “Bartos mentioned that he heard rumor of an old recluse who lives up on the top of the bayou. Said he was supposed to know more about surviving off the land than anyone. I have a feeling we could find a lot to eat just foraging from the land.”

  “I will not be eating grass,” Angel said with a warm chuckle.

  He smiled at her joke. “Every modern vegetable was derived from something wild. We just have to get back to nature. I’m going to try and figure out where this guy lives and pay him a visit.”

  “Sounds like a damn good idea.”

  “One other thing, Angel.”

  “Yes,” she responded hesitantly.

  “The next time the council meets, I would like you to join us.”

  She was surprised. “Why? I barely know you guys . . . all I do is help cook.”

  It was Scott’s turn to meet her eyes. “Don’t bullshit me and don’t play down your intelligence. My niece saw it in you instantly, and everyone else does as well. You’re a leader. You’re smart, and even now you play one of the most essential roles in our survival. We need you. I need you to have a voice on the council. Okay?”

  She nodded but seemed unsure of what to say.

  “Just sit in on the next one if you want, just listen. If you feel like adding anything, feel free. If you never want to come back, that’s fine. I just hope you will consider it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jack’s return home was met with the normal laughter, beer drinking and good-natured ribbing. He introduced Abe to the rest of the men on board the Aquatic Goddess. “Todd here is our Chief of the Boat and unofficial Mayor. The big kid in the t-shirt over there is Scott. He’s the entertainment director. And Bartos here will be playing the part of the village idiot, Gopher.”

  Bartos snarled at Jack, “Did yo’ mama mean to have such an ugly kid, or was she being punished for something?” He reached out to shake Abe’s hand, “Nice to have you with us, man. Damn, you’re a big one.”

  Preacher Jack had already relayed the story of the encounter out on the Gulf. No one had believed him until they saw how shot up the boat was. “Nice trade on the .50 cals,” Todd said. “Those are a real nice addition. Take ’em down and clean ’em. Keep them stowed. The saltwater will do a number on them otherwise.”

  They all helped unload the new provisions into the storage hold of the cruise ship. The patrol boat was too large to maneuver inside the behemoth ship’s tender garage, but several of the access hatches were designed just for taking on provisions at sea. The one they were now using led directly into one of the secure storage holds.

  Now that the group had firsthand accounts of the Messengers from Abe, concerns began to rise. Abe had also mentioned the Marauders: specialized groups of Messenger’s soldiers that followed the Judges into an area, stripping it bare of resources, and conscripting recruits. “Maybe it was just in Slidell, I dunno. We had some gang problems coming out of N’awlins anyway, so most of us was already seein’ shadows everywhere. These Messengers, though, their shit is for real. Like ordained by God or sumpin.”

  Scoots took Abe to go get some chow and get settled into a bunk space. Todd looked at Jack, “You think they are as bad as he says?”

  Jack told them what he had heard from the Catholic priest. “I think we have to take this group seriously. They’re using religion as a cover to justify taking whatever they want.”

  “There’s a problem with that kind of campaign,” Scott said. “Once you rob a man and take his shit, there’s nothing left. You have to move on to find more. Not like the old days. The Messengers have to keep expanding in order to have resources to survive. To keep expanding, they need to keep growing their ranks. It’s a catch-22 that can’t end well for them. They aren’t producing anything, simply taking. Once there’s nothing left to take, they’ll be done. But until then, they’re going to be a plague for everyone in their path.”

  Bartos smiled, “I think we need to get more serious about our defenses. Give dem assholes a reason to go someplace else.”

  “Probably a good idea. Let’s hope they bypass us but have a plan if they don’t.” Todd paused to scratch his scruffy beard “Scott, you and your teams need to warn the farmers. They’ll be the people most at risk. We keep getting reports of raiders operating farther out. We may need to deal with that problem now. Otherwise, they might become part of a bigger problem for us. If it comes down to it, I want us to have our own message to deliver.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  DeVonte pulled ahead as the road began to decline. Scott and the young man had been taking the bikes out whenever possible to check on the farmers and several other families in the county. He was also anxious to find the man Bartos had mentioned—the forager. DeVonte had proven to be a good cyclist. Scott had adjusted his old Cervelo racing bike to better fit DeVonte.

  “Hey, assflap, this isn’t a race,” Scott yelled.

  Slowing down to let Scott catch up, DeVonte grinned, “You just slowin’ down old man. Besides, I want to get back before dark. Should we go down by Ms. Lutz’s house? She ain’t been into town in a while.”

  “DeVonte, you know damn well that girl is doing just
fine. She’s in better shape than any of us.”

  “I know, but she is fine, she be single and . . . she likes you, Mr. Scott.”

  “She is not single, she’s a widow. And a recent widow at that. What makes you think I need a woman anyway?”

  “Shiiiit, you just a grumpy bastard right now. I was talking to Kaylie. We decided we really need to find somebody to get nekkid wit chu.”

  “You . . . you and Kaylie were discussing this?” Scott was embarassed and a little out of breath. “I appreciate your concern, but Ms. Lutz is not gonna be that person. I am perfectly fine and can find my own female company, thank you very much.”

  “It’s okay, Scott, we know you ain't no playa. It ain't nuttin to be ’shamed of. We all need extra help from time to time. Not me, o’ course, but mos’ people.”

  Scott was no longer listening; something had caught his eye. They were nearing the driveway of the Thompsons’ farm. Jim Thompson ran one of the bigger farms in the delta region. He and his two sons had been some of the first people Scott had started trading and working with after the collapse. The town supplied them with fuel, salt and additional labor when the Thompsons needed it; in turn, they received a share of the crops. Scott pulled to the side of the road and motioned for DeVonte to stop.

  The two bodies hanging from the large oaks had clearly been there several days. They could have been Jim or his boys—there was no way of knowing. Jim had been resistant to asking for security or more help. Like most of the farmers and ranchers, he was an independent man. “Looks like another raiding party,” DeVonte said bitterly.

  “Yep.” It was getting to be somewhat commonplace. Gangs of thieves were having more success than freelancers. What had originally been groups of highwaymen stopping travelers on major highways had evolved into raiding parties; with fuel scarce and fewer people on the roads, the thieves had to go to them.

  The pair swung their rifles to the front and began walking the bikes up the dirt drive. The bodies were a cause of concern, but not necessarily a reason for alarm. Times had changed, and this may simply have been a form of frontier justice for a few chicken thieves. Just the same, Scott motioned for DeVonte to take cover as they neared the large farmhouse.

  Scott took note of the eerie calm as he circled the house and headed toward the main barn. Most days the area would be a beehive of activity. The large farm was home to three families and numerous day laborers. Jim and his boys lived on the property with their wives, children and several dogs. Today, none of them were outside.

  Scott called out as he neared the barn entrance. “Hey, Jim! Randy . . . Nick? Anyone home? It’s Scott, Scott Montgomery.” Getting no response, he walked into the barn, rifle held in a low-ready position. He moved around the edge of the solid door and stuck to the shadows along the wall. The vast open space was filled with tools, chains, trailers and tractors: lots of places for someone to hide, though he didn’t get the feeling anyone was here.

  Twenty minutes later Scott and DeVonte were even more puzzled. They had joined back up to search the various buildings: the barns, houses—even down the hill to where one of the boys had parked an RV they used as a hunting camper. No one was home. Inside the house, there did appear to be signs of a struggle, but there was no blood, nor any bodies. The chicken coops were empty, as were the pigpens and rabbit hutches.

  “What’cha thinking, man?”

  Scott looked around the abandoned property. “Someone scared them. I don’t know, but I would say those two hanging down by the drive are attackers, not part of Jim’s brood. He probably hung them up as a warning but wasn’t gonna risk his family if they came back.

  Scott sighed, eyebrows raised. “Truth is, my man, I don’t have a clue. Maybe he just got tired of it all.” Scott turned to watch a lone crow land in one of the trees in which the unknown men were hanging. “We’ll brief Todd on it and see if he or the Cajun have any thoughts when we get back. We may want to put someone out here. Looks like they already have crops planted.”

  An hour later, Scott and DeVonte were back on their bikes heading to the next farm and hoping for a better outcome. Anything affecting the farmers and ranchers was as much of a direct threat to the entire community. The AG was the burgeoning hub in a symbiotic relationship. The farmers needed what the AG could supply in the way of fuel, labor, protection and other essentials; the AG needed the food from the farmers, not just to eat but to trade. The system was already profoundly improving lives well beyond their community. Groups from miles away were benefiting from the arrangement as Jack used the items in trade. The farmers’ side of it was production; Jack’s was distribution; and in the middle? Well, that was dinner for the AG. If production was under threat, something was going to have to be done.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Scott was thinking over his previous talks with Angel. She had made him realize some problems with the path they were on. While the community was in better shape than most other groups of survivors, they were not self-sufficient; that had to change.

  He began taking the time to review more of the Catalyst documents his friend Tahir had provided after the CME hit. The documents were collections of files assembled by a previously unknown organization. The downloaded computer files covered everything from the science behind the CME to how to deal with the aftermath. The Catalyst Protocols were ruthlessly efficient in their approach to saving the country: collect the best of the best into protected camps and watch while the rest of the world kills itself off.

  There were also contingency plans for nearly every kind of disaster imaginable. These guys planned to survive. What puzzled Scott was the fact no one had seemed to take the danger of a solar flare seriously before it hit. NASA had made a proposal to Congress calling for a billion-dollar solar shield that would protect the US power grid if such an event were to occur. But even after the House passed it, the Senate failed to take it up for a vote.

  More fucking politics. Scott shook his head in disbelief. A billion dollars, compared to this. A billion dollars compared to all the money wasted on worthless pet projects all over the country. A billion dollars compared to the 600 billion dollars they spent on defense every year. Now, none of that mattered. Too late to shut the stable door once the horse has bolted. How cheap that money would have been had it avoided all of this.

  What he was looking for today were the planning guides. They had been invaluable in setting up a basic council form of government in Harris Springs, as well as establishing emergency food rationing and—most importantly—maintaining clean water supplies. All the things they used to take for granted were life-and-death matters now. Modern society had practically none of the skills needed to exist in a closed community. Food, power, fuel, medicines—even communication—had all been delivered from distant suppliers and massive national and global systems. Now, the AG community was responsible for everything it needed.

  The Catalyst guides had been helpful in establishing trading groups, also. The success of the growing trade had produced a new need for some form of currency. A barter economy worked well as long as supplier and buyer had what each other needed and could agree on a simple value for each. Increasingly, though, supplier and buyer needed a third party to mediate and a more consistent manner of valuation: currency.

  No one would respect paper money or even coinage unless it was of gold or silver, and there wasn’t enough of that around to be widely circulated. For that reason, Scott was looking for other options. Ancestors of all cultures had resolved the problem their own ways at different times; any commodity item could be used as a basis for trade: which meant currency was less about what the item was than the perceived value it had. Bushels of corn or beaver pelts had worked in colonial times.

  Scott had once been an early adopter of Bitcoin, a crypto-currency that didn’t even exist anywhere in the real world. The currency was created, or ‘mined’, using special computers that helped control its scarcity, which in turn affected its valuation. The odd thing was that people had m
anaged to agree on what a Bitcoin was worth, and it had flourished. In time, you could buy nearly anything with the virtual currency. Scott would have liked to talk to his friend, Tahir, and see if something like that could be done in the physical world. It would be hard to get people to trust in anything that they couldn’t quickly identify as valuable, but to expand trading, something like it was going to be essential.

  The documents Scott was reading on his tablet indicated that the US government had faced a similar problem after the Revolutionary War. The national government was essentially broke, with very few assets. General Washington couldn’t even pay the troops that had helped save the country. Each of the thirteen states was in a similar financial state. What they did have was the advantage of being able to pass and enforce laws, so they began to coin money and passed laws that made it illegal not to accept it. The simple solution was to make coins that were backed by something tangible like gold, silver, bullets or diamonds, so that even though it might look like an abstract, worthless coin, you could bring it to the bank at any time and exchange it for gold or silver at the day’s rate. In time, the coins themselves would hold the value, and the gold that backed it, sometimes referred to as the ‘gold standard’, would be less important.

  While currency would be a good step, there was one other item that would make rebuilding civilization, at least on a small scale like the AG’s, much easier: electricity. The documents covered a great variety of ways to generate and even store electricity. What he read indicated that the main trouble spots that a CME would affect would most likely be the distribution channels. The Large Power Transformers, or LPTs, were the weak link in the national grid. Much of the actual power generation should be unharmed.