by Glen Tate
“See,” he said looking at his thumb. “That’s a one.” Then he looked at the remaining two fingers, and the five on the other hand, and said, “That’s a seven.”
He looked up and smiled, “The 1-7, y’all. The 1-7.”
“That’s our gang sign,” Grant said. Some people were stunned. A Patriot guerilla unit with a “gang sign”?
“That’s right: our gang sign,” Grant said. “We’re a gang here at the 17th. A good gang.”
Everyone was smiling and nodding while flashing each other the “1-7” sign.
Grant sat back and watched his unit bond. They were a good gang, indeed.
Chapter 205
This Can’t Go on Much Longer
(July 24)
Steve Briggs got up at 4:30 a.m. as usual. He didn’t even need an alarm clock anymore. He went to bed early because there was nothing else to do in the evening. No TV. Well, there was TV on the air, but it was all propaganda and truly mindless sitcoms and reality shows, with all the “commercials” being “public service announcements” from the government containing more propaganda. Steve couldn’t watch TV anymore. Even when he would lose himself in some classic sitcom from the past, he would be jolted back to reality by the obnoxious propaganda ads that interrupted the show. That wasn’t relaxing.
“Same ole’, same ole’,” Steve said to himself as he got dressed for work. “Work” was solving problems all day in Forks.
They still hadn’t seen any semis roll into town. It was a hundred miles to the closest town and no one was surprised that the authorities hadn’t made little, isolated Forks a high priority.
People in Forks were living on fish and game, mostly elk and deer. It seemed like everyone had a garden by now. Most people were sharing and trading food.
Most people. There were still some loners who didn’t. They tried to live off of their own food, and some of them stole from others. The town’s deputized civilian police force kept that down to a minimum. Actually, the fact that almost everyone in town was armed kept it to a minimum. There had been over two dozen burglars shot by homeowners since the Collapse, out of a town of about three thousand.
But things had become “normal” in Forks. It was a new normal, granted, but Steve was worried about what was coming. Winter. Summer was easy living, but that wouldn’t be true in a few short months.
Things were different, but somewhat the same, two hundred miles away in Olympia. Back in the Cedars subdivision, Ron Spencer was a “gray man,” a saboteur against the government who kept to himself. He stayed under the radar. He didn’t even tell his wife he was doing it. Ron’s contribution to the cause was to spray paint graffiti messages at night. His favorite was “I miss America.”
His “job” — the thing that put food on the table — was operating an underground taxi service running on barter, driving people around to important things. Ron had some silver he’d squirreled away before the Collapse which he used to buy gas from the “gang gas” station. He would then drive people who had no gas and, in return, would get food and other things.
And, in all this driving around, Ron would observe things that might be helpful to the Patriots. He learned when the shift changes were for the pathetic FCorps guards at the police station. Ron had made contact with Matt Collins who was a Patriot and would pass along things to him, like the shift change and other tidbits. Ron laughed at the pre-Collapse Homeland Security slogan of “See something. Say something.” He was doing that alright, but not for the side Homeland Security had been talking about.
Ron’s other “job” was volunteering as an FCorps accountant because he had been a CPA before the Collapse. His FCorps accounting job was a joke because the FCorps was corrupt as hell and didn’t exactly keep good records of its corruption. Ron didn’t care. In fact, he used the volunteer job to get his family a decent FCard allowance, although food shipments were pretty unpredictable to the “regular” stores that the little people like him could shop at. The politically connected people got to go to special stores that were always well stocked.
Ron supplemented the FCard food and the taxi service barter items with the small amount of food his family had stored. They were Mormon, after all. People assumed they had lots of stored food, but they didn’t. They had some, though. Far more than most, especially in “commieville,” as Ron called ultra-liberal—and thoroughly dependent—Olympia.
In his travels around Olympia and the surrounding areas, Ron could clearly see how this was going to end. The government was becoming more corrupt and desperate. The socialist economy was definitely not working. Ron could tell that the government was running on fumes. They had some money left in everyone’s retirement accounts that the government was using to buy food, much of it from overseas, and some diesel to get the food out to the stores. But this wouldn’t last long. More and more people were saying little things to him that let him know that they were turning from Undecideds to Patriots. They weren’t about to go out and join some Patriot guerilla band, but they were not lifting a finger to help the “legitimate authorities,” as the Loyalists preferred to be called. It seemed as though everyone was waiting for some event. Some huge, dramatic event that would be their chance to go out and finish off the Loyalists. Ron knew it was coming. He knew it, and he felt it. He just didn’t know when.
Just sixty miles north in the Loyalist stronghold of Seattle, Ed Oleo was another “gray man.” The former real estate broker who had been the target of a vicious and corrupt state regulator was now getting by with his little side business of small home repairs. Ed was, to all outward appearances, a Loyalist. He had the “We Support the Recovery!” yard sign in his front yard like everyone else. He didn’t talk about how much he hated the government. Not even to his wife. Ed would go over to his Russian neighbor, Dimitry’s, house and ask him to tell stories about how the gray men resisted the Soviets back in the day. Ed would take the wisdom from Dimitry’s experiences and think about how to apply it to undermine the American government.
Ed was doing a minor gray man mission. He was figuring out who the serious Loyalists were—the “true believers” as the Patriots called the hardcore Loyalists. The true believers were the ones who were actively helping the government. The true believers were not the majority of people in his neighborhood who were just mouthing the government slogans to keep their FCards. There was a huge difference.
Ed would go around to houses in his subdivision and a few of the surrounding ones and ask if people needed home repairs. Most didn’t. Well, probably needed some repairs but they didn’t have anything to trade for a luxury like fixing something. Ed used these visits to get to know people. He had nothing else to do all day so he figured he would chat with people and gather intelligence.
Pretty soon, Ed had a good list of the true believers in the area. He drew a map of the subdivisions and put an X on the homes of the true believers. He numbered each one and had a corresponding note with information on that household. He tried to make sure he knew which people in a household were guilty and who were innocent bystanders. He couldn’t always get to this level of detail, but he tried.
Ed noticed that the Loyalists’ hold on power was slipping. Once in a while, the semis wouldn’t make it to the local grocery store, and this began happening more frequently. Crime was getting worse. More and more people were openly complaining about how scarce everything was. Some were even talking openly about how the gangs were gaining even more control.
Ed thought to himself, “This can’t go on forever.” Just like Ron, Ed knew something was coming. He didn’t know when, but he knew he had that old shotgun in his basement and he would do his part when the time was right. He knew who in his neighborhood had it coming.
Back in Frederickson, John Bennington also knew who had it coming. His boss, Commissioner Winters, did. Bennington was growing increasingly disgusted with what was going on in his rural county. Before the Collapse, Winters had always been a politician, and that was bad enough. But now Winters wa
s a dictator. Corrupt, power hungry, spiteful, petty and sadistic.
There was one thing in particular Winters did that Bennington couldn’t stand. Winters hurt women and girls. It started with Winters’ receptionist, Julie Mathers.
Julie was the gorgeous receptionist Bennington saw when he took Rich Gentry to see Winters. Bennington got to know her.
“Can I talk to you?” She asked one day, as she started to cry.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. Most men are incapable of ignoring a crying woman. It was hard wired into them.
“I needed a job,” she said, sobbing. She described how she needed a job before the Collapse and Winters gave her a very cushy county one. But there was a price.
“He makes me…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. But, Bennington knew exactly what it was.
“I hate doing it,” she said, trying to quiet down her crying in case anyone heard her.
“One time he said that if I didn’t do it,” she whispered, “then I’d have to ‘live outside the wire,’” referring to living outside the barbed wire-fortified courthouse.
Bennington knew that if she was outside the wire, she’d be dead in ten minutes. So many people outside the wire hated Winters and resented anyone with a big fat government job. Winters knew she couldn’t leave. She was in a prison and he was in total control of her.
Bennington figured that Winters never enjoyed sex much without having control over the person. Now that he had absolute control over her, it made sex exactly what he’d been looking for his whole life. Power and control.
Winters did more than just sleep with Julie. He humiliated her. He took pictures of her and showed them to his political buddies. He made her do things in the pictures. Bennington had been shown one by a fellow cop at the courthouse. It was terrible.
The worst part was that the men at the courthouse who saw the pictures would then see Julie every day at work and she knew they had seen the pictures. She had to sit there, knowing what all the men were thinking.
This was intentional. Winters made it known in the courthouse that anyone who saw the pictures of “his pet” could comment on them to Julie. Underlings were told that Winters viewed it as a sign of loyalty to him—and a way to get favors with him—to ask Julie to do the things they saw in the pictures and then laugh at her. She had to sit there and take it. They all knew they couldn’t touch her, but they could say anything they wanted to her. Making Julie cry got someone big points with Winters. He felt warm inside when Julie cried.
Winters didn’t stop with Julie. He had a thing for Mexican girls. Young ones; sometimes, very young ones. He would get them from the gangs as a prize. He wrecked about one life per day and loved it. He was out of control.
Bennington had a little girl of his own. She was living with her mother in the Seattle area after the divorce. He could see Winters coming after his daughter if Winters got a chance.
Bennington knew what he needed to do.
Chapter 206
Greetings from the Think Farm
(July 25)
Life at the Prosser Farm had become routine. The farm was producing lots and lots of food; plenty for the Prossers and their guest families.
At first, Jeff Prosser was concerned that people in his area would figure out who the guest families were and rat them out. However, people taking in families became so common during the Collapse that no one thought much about it. The local families, all relatives of the Prossers, could keep a secret. The Prosser relatives were all Patriots, anyway. They had suffered through the insane environmental dictates of the government and had a very healthy dislike of the Loyalists.
The kids of the guest families were getting used to farm life and even enjoying it. The wives of the guest families were adapting in varying degrees, as well. But all were grateful to be there, away from the police who wanted to take their husbands to jail and the mobs of Loyalist protestors who wanted to drag them into the street and beat them to death. The men at the farm were adjusting to farm life, too. Once a week, one of them would leave for guard duty at Delphi Road for a full week.
The WAB guys—Tom, Brian, and Ben—continued to put out their Rebel Radio CDs highlighting the political situation and encouraging people to rise up. Dennis, one of Jeff’s cousins, would take the CDs into Olympia and get them to Adrienne who would make copies of the CDs and get them out to Patriots. Then the Patriots who would listen to them, make copies, and pass them along to trusted friends. It was an amazingly good distribution system.
Tom, Brian, and Ben had no idea if anyone was listening to the CDs, but Dennis would come back from Olympia and tell them which graffiti messages were spray painted in town. They were stunned when they realized the phrases they used on the Rebel Radio CDs were popping up on walls and overpasses in Olympia. Adrienne told Dennis that the phrases were being spotted in Seattle and elsewhere. For the first time, the WAB guys thought that people were listening and, surprisingly, their little podcast was having an impact. That made them work harder at making Rebel Radio even better.
Jeff was glad he had that five hundred gallon underground tank of diesel at the farm. It fueled his tractor and a few of the trucks that transported the guards from the other farms out to the guard station at Delphi Road, which was the only way in and out of the area. The diesel used to transport guards, and the one man per week for guard duty, was the “tax” the Prossers and their guests paid for their security. A very good deal, Jeff thought. Considering how badly other farm communities had it.
Jeff looked out at his fields and mentally counted all the food they’d be able to harvest. There should be more than enough for themselves and some extra to barter with. But winter was coming. Would they have enough? Would his kids go hungry? What would it be like to see his children die from starvation? Would his guests have enough to eat? Would they get weak from malnutrition and come down with the flu or some other illness that wouldn’t’ be a big deal in peacetime but could be deadly when bodies had been weakened? He tried not to think about it, but he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind.
The most interesting thing to happen out at the Prosser Farm happened at the Delphi Road guard station one bright and beautiful sunny morning.
Ben was doing his week of guard duty when a young woman came walking up to the gate. She was short and had curly brown hair. She had her hands up and looked very nervous.
The alert went up and the guards were ready to shoot her or repel an attack from another direction if she were a decoy. Things were tense. Ben aimed his shotgun with rifled slugs at her. He had never pointed a gun at a person before and it was a very odd feeling for him.
She stopped when she got about fifty yards from the gate and just stood there trying to get up the courage for what she was about to do. She was shaking.
“Is there a ‘Ben’ here?” she yelled.
Everyone looked at Ben.
“Ben who?” the guard commander yelled at her.
“I can’t really say,” she yelled back.
“We can’t help you unless you can tell us who ‘Ben’ is,” the guard commander yelled.
She started crying. Ben thought he recognized that cry. He motioned for one of the guards to give him some binoculars. Ben looked at the girl.
“Oh my God!” Ben yelled. “Carly! Come here, Carly!” Ben motioned for the guards to let her in.
“You know her?” the guard commander asked Ben.
“Yes, and she’s fine,” Ben said. “Let her in.”
Carly was a former WAB intern. She worked there when she was in college before she had to drop out because of the economy. She was a great kid. A conservative. A fighter. She was a true believer that the government was corrupt and destructive, especially to small businesses. Her dad owned a little logging company and had been run out of business by the taxes and regulations.
Carly, at the ripe old age of twenty-one, had been a key political strategist for WAB. She had this way of breaking complicated political and public policy issues
down into simple terms that regular people could understand. Before the Collapse she would have had a magnificent career as a political strategist. Now she was officially unemployed.
The guard commander yelled to the girl that she could come to the gate but to keep her hands up. She’d never had guns pointed at her. It was scary. She stopped crying when she realized that they were letting her in.
As she got closer, Ben came running up to her. She had lost a lot of weight so Ben didn’t recognize her at first. She looked terrified.
“Carly!” Ben said, thrilled that she hadn’t been captured. “What you doin’ here, girl?” They hugged. Ben could feel a gun in her belt.
“I’ve come with a message for you,” Carly squealed with delight. She was extremely excited. She didn’t think this crazy mission would work.
“How did you know where I was?” Ben asked. Now that their location was compromised, he was scared the WAB people at the Prosser Farm would have to move. Fast.
“I was there when you guys were at the office talking about buggin’ out to Jeff’s farm,” she whispered. “I was outside the door. I could hear through it.”
“But how did you know where the farm was?” Ben whispered to her. He didn’t want the other guards to know who he was or that Carly was from WAB.
“Oh, I came out once for an office barbeque,” she whispered back. “Remember? That one two summers ago? Your boy ate that hot dog off the ground. Remember?”
“Does anyone else know we’re out here?” Ben said, right as he realized he just gave away to her that Tom and Brian were also out there.
“No, of course not,” Carly said, a little offended. “Why would I do that? I know what they want to do to you.”
And my family, Ben thought. “OK, so no one knows?”
Carly shook her head with pride. “Yep, I told our guys that I could get a letter to you and left it at that. I asked to be dropped off at the Black Lake exit,” which was one exit away on Highway 101 and about three miles from Delphi Road.