by Reed, N. C.
First, anyone who wanted to leave could do so. No hard feelings, hope things work out for you, here’s everything you brought with you plus the clothes on your back, bye-bye now. The catch to that was if you got outside and found you couldn’t make it; you would not be allowed to return. He painted a grim picture for the assembled inmates in each unit, which really amounted to just telling them the truth. Things were bad and they weren’t going to get better. Learn to deal with it and move on.
Second, those who stayed would be considered employees of the farm from that point forward. Initial payment would be simply food and board but would be better as time went on. He reminded the inmates that the officers who remained would be getting the same thing. Those with families close by, be they inmate or officer, could bring them to live on the farm. Housing would be put together for them as rapidly as possible. It wouldn’t be fancy, but it would be shelter. They too would be fed, and those old enough to work would be given jobs, even if it was just milking cows or gathering eggs on the prison’s farm.
Third, inmates who proved they were worthy of the kind of trust that had earned them the name ‘trustee’, would be taken along on jobs on the outside. Lucrative jobs, Cartwright had stressed, making sure that they understood his tacit approval of looting and pillaging, without having outright said so. The exception to that rule was that no looting of any kind would be done within the four counties that the prison’s lands touched. The Waycroft facility lay squarely astride the four-corner area of four separate counties. This had caused no end of difficulty in getting the prison farm started, but bribes to the right people had finally prevailed.
Those four counties would not be touched in any way, by anyone, for any reason. Cartwright made sure to stress the ‘any’, every time he used it. The simple fact was that the four rural Georgia counties could crush the prison with little more than an afternoon of hard work, and Cartwright knew it. Thus, they would not only avoid victimizing their neighbors, but would also help with providing food, and serve as a reserve of sorts if the neighboring areas happened to have trouble in the new world they found themselves in.
A “win for everyone” was how Cartwright described it.
The prison had a handful of trucks that still ran, and sufficient fuel to run them for at least a short while. They also had plenty of horses, used by supervisors and officers to patrol the farm. There was a small herd of beef cattle to provide meat to their own prison, and a larger herd of dairy cows that let Waycroft provide milk to not only their own inmates, but to inmates in several other institutions within driving distance.
Even though the inmates held at the prison farm were of minimal risk, most within a year of their release from custody, Waycroft had maintained a large armory at the institution, as well as more ammunition than should have been needed. Waycroft explained this by noting that they had other institutions that held much worse offenders, and that officers from the prison farm might be called upon at any time to help quell disturbances in those facilities. No one in the corrections industry used the word ‘riot’. The excess armory equipment was merely written off the corporate taxes.
On the surface then, it looked as if things would be just fine for the Waycroft Prison Farm. Cartwright knew the opposite was true.
It was absolutely true that the farm could provide for itself. That was a given. It was also true that they could provide for the dependents who were brought to live on the farm with their family members. The farm should even have excess they could barter away, if managed properly.
The trouble was that every single person in those four counties knew that as well as Cartwright did. Rural southerners who were well-armed and had little love for a prison being put in their back yards. Many of them had worked actively against it and still did, even though the prison had become a reality.
Those angry, well-armed people would have to be appeased. Bought off just as their politicians had been at the beginning. That would mean more food and supplies than the farm could produce, which mean they would have to get them somewhere else.
At a staff meeting of the senior officials who had showed up to work, Cartwright presented this problem, looking for solutions. They would have to travel outside their own area and look for places that had largess that could be brought back. The limited trucks and fuel meant that they would have to develop some type of scouting force to let them know what was available, and where.
It had been at that moment that the chaplain had laughed quietly to himself, clapping his hands together once.
It was perfect, he said. So simple that no one else considered it. He the spoke for over an hour, laying out a plan that had Cartwright in awe. A way to get people to spy for them and to gain followers that would do anything to please their leader. A true cult of personality.
The cult members, for there was really no other name for them, would report back on what they found, and on how many ‘true believers’ they had managed to convert. On occasions where a large number of people were willing to follow, Cartwright sent his men in to eradicate those who were not willing, leaving a town of zealots, eager and waiting to go his bidding. Most of those who refused to follow were either killed outright or brought back to the prison for use as slave labor. Women were used as well, though at a different type of labor. Men who performed well were permitted to visit the House of the Rising Sun, named by the chaplain himself, and take any woman there they wanted. All of them were willing, or else they’d be dead.
Cartwright had been handed the solution to his largest problem on a literal silver offering plate. He had always known that the Chaplain was a charlatan, a literal wolf in sheep’s clothing, but he’d never had proof until now. When Cartwright had needed it the most, the proof had come. It was just the proof that he needed, and it worked. The chaplain’s plan might seem silly to someone watching on the inside, but all it took was one afternoon with those on the outside and you could see how well it was working.
First, the chaplain had invented a fictitious character, calling him Boaz. Then, using surviving radio equipment that had not been scrambled or fried by the Storm, he had begun broadcasting messages. Messages that attracted those who were hurting, hungry, and homeless. People who would follow anyone that could help them.
‘Boaz’ helped them. He gave them food, gave them clothing, indoctrinated them in the message of the New Earth, and then sent them out to ‘spread the word’. And while they were at it, to let the Utmost know if they found anything worthy of his attention.
Cartwright admitted that he had been skeptical at the beginning, though he wanted to be hopeful. It sounded like such a good way to get things done, and cheap as well. It had cost them a lot of surplus equipment that had been protected from the Storm by the way it was stored, but that was okay, since they weren’t really using it all, anyway.
Every day, ‘Boaz’ took to the airwaves and ‘preached’ his message. His followers, carrying receivers that would let others hear the Utmost’s message, would gather crowds to listen in. And damned if ‘Boaz’ didn’t start making new converts. People that were imminently useful as cannon fodder if nothing else. Meanwhile, the initial converts, called ‘Worthy’, were radioing their reports in on a regular basis, telling ‘Boaz’ where the ‘Army of God’ could find food, clothing and equipment, as well as righteous followers.
Cartwright had been near maniacal in his laughter when these ‘reports’ had started coming in. The chaplain had absolutely proven his worth on that one. He was still gathering converts and still ‘preaching’ his message, though now it was more for show and to frighten smaller communities into cooperating with salvage teams sent out from the prison.
Meanwhile, former officers from the prison staff were leading teams far and wide away from the prison, seizing goods and taking valuable prisoners, some for a new slave trade that had popped up among some of the less desirable areas of the region. Not that Cartwright cared about the slaves once he was paid. All he cared about was keeping his little sl
ice of power intact. His groups were constantly in the field with teams of officers supported by the most dependable of the trustees taking anything and everything they could find a use for.
So far, it was working. He was able to buy off the controlling politicians around him with food, slave labor, and with the occasional assistance with troublesome groups of people who didn’t want to fall into line. A small price to pay for keeping the wolves at bay, even as his own wolves prowled the world at large around them.
Cartwright pulled himself from his reverie to look at the map on the board once more. Charlie was right about one thing. Roberts had been way off course when he stepped so far over into Tennessee. Middle Tennessee at that. Roberts, or ‘Talent’, had enjoyed a great deal of success in Georgia and in northeastern Alabama in rural areas. This had apparently made him think that he was somehow blessed by Boaz to make his own decisions about where he would go next.
Which had led to the idiot killing himself rather than be persecuted by the heathen. Cartwright had to shake his head at that even now. How gullible could someone be? Had the country become so soft that all it took to control them was an empty belly? A little fear? He admitted that he himself hadn’t suffered like that, but even so he could see that there were options out there for someone willing to take them. Many had done just that, in fact. His men were constantly encountering groups not unlike their own that were taking what they needed to survive from whoever they could, wherever they could. He had lost men to those same groups, and his men had likewise inflicted casualties in return.
This Lewiston that Roberts had killed himself over was a long way from Waycroft. Almost one hundred and fifty miles. But maybe there was something there that would make it worth the trip. Maybe there was something there that Roberts had seen, or found, that he thought was ‘worthy’ of Boaz’s attention.
Cartwright certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint Boaz. The Utmost Worthy had been awfully good to him, after all.
-
It was two days later when Charlie once again knocked at Cartwright’s door with news from the field.
“Officer Haywood is reporting that they have made it to the target area,” the aide reported. “He says the town seems to be well maintained from what he can see from a distance, and that the people look to be in good shape. That leads him to believe that this town would be a good score, even if just the one time. He noted that he had encountered some livestock already, but that they could be driven back by his men rather than using the trucks to come for them.”
“What else?” Cartwright leaned back in his chair.
“The town does have defenders, and apparently even still has functioning law enforcement, but that’s all he can tell from so far away. He does note that while there is a goodly population going about their business, whatever it may be, there does not seem to be as many people as there should be for a town of that size. He suspects they suffered losses through the winter, or maybe due to attrition from other means.” Other means meant other groups like their own, usually.
“Haywood believes that he can use his riflemen to suppress the town’s defenses to some extent, while using others from his team to conduct in and out missions into the town to kill random citizens and leave them to be found,” Charlie finished. “He believes that if he can succeed, the town might well be intimidated into paying a ransom to be left in peace.” This was a proven tactic, as other small towns had willingly paid well to be left alone.
Cartwright considered all of this for a minute. He didn’t like it. He really didn’t. This was a long way from home to be conducting any kind of operation. But if this area had good livestock and had gathered a good harvest, then it might be worth the effort.
He needed supplies and he needed them urgently. It would soon be winter once again and with all the food they had used to buy off the people around them, to foster the goodwill he needed in order to operate without their interference, their own food stores were nowhere near what they should be.
Cartwright often felt like he was in the space between the proverbial rock and hard place. If he didn’t keep the towns around him happy, they might attack the prison just to be rid of it. If he didn’t keep his officers and the inmates who remained happy, they might decide a change of leadership was in order. Both groups had to be appeased in order for him to remain in a position of relative comfort.
“Tell him to go ahead,” Cartwright nodded, his tone betraying his reluctance. “He should have enough manpower on hand to take care of that effectively. But,” he raised a finger at Charlie, “he is to go no further north. That’s already too far for us to project power, as you noted before. But if he can force them to bargain, do it. Make sure the trucks are ready to roll when he calls. If this town produces as good a ransom as he believes, then that would go a long way toward solving our problems.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Deputy Van Bronson heard the shot from inside the office. His mind acknowledged it even as he continued to read. People were always hunting, nowadays, so hearing shots in the distance was nothing new.
Hearing screams, however, that was unusual enough to break his concentration. He was out of his seat and moving before he himself realized it, heading for the door. Once outside, he followed the sounds until he found a woman whose name he could not recall for the life of him standing over the body of Hank Rigley.
“What the hell?” Bronson blurted. Hank was one of the men who worked the rooftops here inside of town, providing security for everyone else. It was obvious with just a cursory exam that he had likely been the victim of that lone shot and had then fallen to the street below. There was no question that he had not survived.
“Anybody see what happened?” Bronson asked the crowd around him. After the last year, death had become a close companion to most people, but this kind of violent death they hadn’t seen so much of that they were inured to it.
“Did anybody see what happened!” Bronson demanded again, looking around.
“Heard a shot,” one man was shaking his head. “Then heard Hennie screaming,” he nodded to the woman. ‘Hennie’ was short for Henrietta, Bronson suddenly remembered. Henrietta Caperton.
“Henrietta, did you see anything before this?” Bronson asked carefully. Calmly.
“He just fell out of the sky almost on top of me!” the woman all but screamed, nearly hysterical. Bronson decided at that point that he wasn’t going to get anything else out of her for the moment. One of the town’s nurses had arrived and Bronson asked her to look after the Caperton woman, who he suspected might be going into shock. The nurse nodded and moved in to take Caperton’s arm, another townswoman coming to her aid and taking the other arm. As they moved away, Bronson looked around at the remainder.
“No one saw what happened at all?” he asked.
“I know the shot didn’t come from town,” a man wearing dirty overalls reported. “Definitely came from further out. Couldn’t honestly say whereabouts, though,” he admitted.
“Same here,” a young woman wearing a camouflage tee-shirt bearing the name of a popular hunting apparel company nodded in agreement. “I couldn’t tell you the direction because of all the buildings around, but it was definitely from outside of town.”
Normally that would help Bronson, since there were not that many places someone could take a shot into downtown Lewiston. Hank had been on the roof of an old three-story Brownstone style office building, however, and would have been in broad view from all around if someone were looking through a rifle scope.
“Take him over to the clinic,” Bronson ordered one of the townsmen. “Get a crew together and get a grave dug. I need to go tell his wife.” Another deputy arrived just then, having heard the commotion from near the other side of town.
“Walt, warn everyone on roof duty that Hank was shot, probably from somewhere outside of town,” Bronson ordered. “Tell them to avoid profiling themselves against the sky. We can’t abandon the high ground, so we have to be smarter. Get going.�
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“Got it,” Walter Goggin waved and took off at a jog. He had been a deputy for a little more than a year when the lights had gone out. While he still had a lot to learn about being a police officer, he had been a steady presence since the disaster. Bronson watched for another minute as four men carried the limp form of Hank Rigley toward the clinic the town was using for what medical care they could still provide, then turned away.
He had to go and tell a woman that her husband had just been killed, and that Bronson had no idea who had done it, or why.
-
“Looks like you were right, Bossman,” Jose Juarez said as he walked into Clay’s office.
“Of course, I was,” Clay replied immediately. “I always am. You should write that down.” He paused for a moment before adding. “What was it, exactly, that I was right about this time?”
“Five,” Jose laughed. “Five of them decided to try their hand at working off the farm, if necessary. So far, I guess I should add. A few more seem to be weighing the decision, still.”
“Really?” Clay didn’t quite frown. “I will admit that surprises me. I was reasonably sure about two of them, but that was all.”
“Which two?” Jose asked.
“Lowery and Powers.”
“They both are on the list,” Jose confirmed. “Along with Talia Gray, Petra Shannon and Janessa Haynes.”
“Should have thought about Gray,” Clay nodded. “She had tried to bargain for us to go and get the others if you recall. Well, I guess we need to separate them out of the group and start them training for field operations. You’re going to have to restructure the teams we have now, I guess.”
“Already working on it,” Jose nodded. “I thought if any of them showed any aptitude, I’d have Tandi train them as a field medic.”
“Good call,” Clay agreed. While they had trained several people on the farm to do basic life-saving, and a few were capable of what some called advanced life-saving skills, they had yet to find anyone that could really fit into the role of combat medic. It was a demanding roll in and of itself, and with everyone filling more than one job already it hadn’t seemed like a good plan to keep piling it on. If someone new, someone that wasn’t already part of an existing team, could fill that need then it would ease a lot of strain.