“Not only did this fucking scumbag cause us misery and pain,” Vicio said, “but he made a personal enemy in me. Now I show you how I treat my enemies!” He nodded his head and the two men on the tabletop with Jerry threaded the baton through the handcuffs and lifted it, partially raising Jerry up by his arms. “Hold his head still.” Vicio ordered a fifth man as he slid the blade into the skin at the base of Jerry’s neck. Like a master artisan, Vicio slid the blade in a bloody circle around the big man’s neck, careful not to cut anything vital. Jerry struggled, but all he could do was yell impotently. The circle made, Vicio made a slit from just below the crown of Jerry’s head and ran it down his neck bone to join with the circle. He gently peeled back where the corners met. When he had enough to give him a sure grip, he jerked up, over, and down. Jerry screamed a soul searing yell as his face came away in Vicio’s hands. Vicio held up the face as a trophy to his gang. He saw several of them shrink back in horror at what he had just done. More than a few of the men he had once thought of as hard turned away and dry heaved. Yes! He thought to himself. Fear is how you control and motivate hard men. They are mine!
As the crowd calmed, Vicio launched into the speech he had been planning for over a week. Fear gave him a hook into the men. Now he had to solidify it with something almost as powerful, hope. “Mi Amigos, these guards came here to kill us today.” He said gesturing with the mask in his hand for effect. “They came to kill us because the world outside has crumbled and fallen! They wouldn’t have made this move if they were not weak and beaten. This was desperation! If they had any strength left, reinforcements would have come in and put us down when we killed the guards. This is our freedom. Freedom, not just from this stinking shithole prison, but true freedom! The world outside will be lawless and ripe for the taking. It is now a world where hard men can remake it in our own image, and I know of no harder men than the inmates of Wabash!”
The men roared their approval. When the roar died down, one lone dissenter yelled out a question. “They had no food for us. How is hard men gonna make it without food?”
“You say we got no food? I say we have a feast!” Vicio said.
“Fuck you. What feast?” The man yelled back.
Vicio resisted the urge to go gut the man right there. This called for patience, a virtue he had never really had but was learning to cultivate. He looked out at the man. Let it be for now. He told himself. I can always find him once things have settled and make him my bitch. The thought made Vicio smile at the man. He grabbed the dripping skull of the whimpering white supremacist and turned it toward the man. “This is meat, mi amigos! From where I stand, I see several piles of meat waiting for our feast!” Several of the famished men looked around and saw the bodies of the other inmates and the guards as food for the first time. Smiles spread across several faces. Vicio smiled back, the violent thug now transformed into a monster, the monster now transformed into a tyrant.
Officer Carlos Ricco lay on the floor with his back against the wall of the control room. He faced the door but couldn’t see Vicio as he made his speech. The angle didn’t stop the words. He looked down at his busted hip. He couldn’t feel his leg, much less attempt to get up to walk. He bled, but it wasn’t coming in bright spurts. He took that for a good sign. The shot must have missed the artery. He might be able to save the leg if he got help soon enough. It hit him that there would be no help. He was cut off from the outside world. Even if he could get out, he couldn’t find any help with the state of the world outside. Being devout Catholic, he did what he had always done when he was afraid. He prayed. He mumbled a prayer to Saint Matthew when he heard a laugh at the doorway. Lost in his prayer, he hadn’t heard them ascend the steps.
He looked up and met the dark, almost inhuman eyes of Vicio. The beast, surrounded by his newly won devotees, smiled at him and held up hand draped with a human face like a sock puppet. Vicio pretended to talk to the face and stuck his thumb out of the puppet’s mouth like a tongue. Vicio laughed again. The face turned toward Carlos and stuck its tongue out at him. Carlos reached for his sidearm. He considered trying to kill Vicio but knew it was useless. The damage was done. The monsters freed from their cages. He couldn’t stop them. The only thing he could stop was a fate worse than that of Jerry. Carlos closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed for his wife and little girls. He prayed for forgiveness for what he was about to do. He hoped Jesus and Saint Matthew would forgive him for being too weak for face the slow, painful death he knew he would find at Vicio’s hands. He felt the cold metal barrel of the forty-caliber Glock on the roof of his mouth right before he pulled the trigger. His life ended before he heard the shot.
Chapter 12
JJ and Clay manned the barrier on the north side of the block. Clay thought back over everything that had happened since he had arrived in the neighborhood eleven days ago. The place had changed quite a bit.
Tom Dabrowski had established himself as the unquestioned compound commander. His experience as a former Air Force security forces sergeant gave him just enough credibility that his over-assertive personality went unchecked. No one else in the neighborhood, with the exception of Scott on old Mr. Perkins, had any military experience. Tom kept a keen eye on every aspect of the compound and could always find fault with something someone did. In short, he was a condescending, micromanaging prick. Neither Clay nor JJ liked him; but since everyone else in the neighborhood kissed his ass, they played along.
Tom had enlarged the compound to include another block of the neighborhood. He convinced or coerced most people to donate their resources for the good of the community. Everyone went along since he had delivered and now controlled their main food supply, the stolen food truck. Seeing the masses of hungry people streaming by the neighborhood as they escaped the burning wreckage of Chicago served to affirm Tom’s authority.
Tom had set guard schedules and roaming patrols for the makeshift compound. He organized neighborhood meetings each evening to assert his authority and to make the people feel informed and involved. He planned and organized groups to go out and secure cars from the neighborhood and the surrounding area to beef up the defenses. They scavenged cars and removed anything of value such as batteries, tires, and gasoline. They stored these items at the central house. The bodies of the cars were taken apart. They turned cars on their sides and used the seatbelts and wiring to attach doors, hoods, and trunks to the upper sides of the overturned cars, giving the wall extra height. A few men would roll a car to a spot, strip it down, turn it over, and secure the scraps to the top. They could raise ten foot or more of barrier in less than forty minutes. Organizing four crews, Tom completed the makeshift walls in three days. Tom had houses that joined in the wall boarded up on the outward-facing exterior to complete the defenses.
Tom kept everything of value in one of the larger brick homes on the block. He called it the “central house.” He had taken it over as his headquarters and personal dwelling when its owners couldn’t be found. Tom moved in and set up bunks for guards and storage for common supplies such as the food, weapons, and salvage. His men had found an old generator and hooked it to the house to provide power. Tom had the only house in the neighborhood with electricity, maybe the only one in Chicago for all they knew. He shared little. Every day, Tara would go to the house to beg some ice to put in the cooler containing her insulin. The power was used to cook the communal meals. Beyond that, Tom rationed resources with strict control.
Lots of folks had passed by the neighborhood over the last week and a half, trickling by in small groups. Some begged for assistance or to be let into the community. Others had demanded. In every case, they had been turned away. After Clay and Leesha had arrived, Tom had given strict orders that the guards were to turn away anyone who wasn’t immediate family or lived in the neighborhood. He made a good case about not being able to take care of every stray that happened by. Their food and supplies were limited. Water began to run low. The community had to watch out for itself, Tom preached; and tha
t included protection from people that would deplete their strained resources. JJ found himself agreeing with Tom on that point. Clay remained wary. To Scott, the barriers worked both ways. They kept people out, but they also trapped him and his family in.
They only had one serious incident when a middle aged man had tried to force his way into the compound and secure a new home for his family of six who stood behind him. It had gotten so bad that Tom had appeared on the scene to deal with it. When the stranger had tried to grab one of the guards, no one said a word when Tom pulled out a forty-five caliber pistol and shot the man. The man’s family had scattered into the urban wilds, now fatherless and alone. JJ doubted their chances of survival.
Most of the “wandering dead,” as Scott termed them, stayed clear of the compound. The barrier and guards made an effective deterrent for most folks looking to escape the city. What few malignant bands they encountered had decided that the compound wasn’t worth the trouble while less risky salvage existed. It was all a bluff; but as long as it held, the compound stayed unmolested. Scott had argued after seeing the first of such bands that it wouldn’t be long before starvation and desperation would band together enough folks to rush the compound. The barriers and guards that provided intimidation and defense against small bands would turn into a signal beacon of people protecting something better than what was on the outside, an invitation for attack. The few guns and other rudimentary weapons would lose their potency as a deterrent, and the compound would be overrun. Scott kept the family secretly preparing to leave if the opportunity presented itself.
The first squad of National Guard troops had arrived at the compound four days ago. The four Humvees had driven up to the gate late that afternoon. The sergeant in charge said they were coordinating relief efforts and relocating people to FEMA shelters and relief centers. He threatened that he was authorized to remove people with force if necessary. Tom arrived at the gate once the news of the contact spread. Tom and the sergeant had gone off to the side to talk. Tom convinced the man that the community was ok for now, hadn’t had any trouble, had a week’s worth of food, and would love some assistance. The residents of the compound didn’t need to be relocated but would direct anyone that came by to the shelters. The sergeant had his men unload a couple cases of bottled water and left, searching for less fortunate folks. They hadn’t heard from them since.
At the neighborhood meeting that evening several people had questioned whether or not they should go to the FEMA shelters. Tom reminded them of the situation and how bad Katrina had been. “How much food and supplies do you think there are at these shelters? We’ve seen on the news that similar things have happened all over the country. Some of the shelters have already been overrun with people.” He pointed out that there would be hundreds of thousands of people crammed into tents or living outside at the camps. “What would happen if there was a shortage? You’ve all seen how it can take the authorities days or weeks to get aid to small-town tornado victims. Can they control that many people? Would your wives and daughters be safer living in those conditions?” He argued. In the compound they were surrounded by friends and neighbors, people they could trust. He said he had made arrangements with the sergeant to have supplies delivered to the compound. There was no reason to go to the shelters. They could eat and live in their own homes until everything got back to normal. Most of the crowd found themselves agreeing with Tom. That was the one thing where Scott agreed with Tom. Neither one trusted the government nor the idea of gathering all the refugees into such concentrations.
The major news stations went off the air the next day. Only radios worked now and most folks had run down their batteries. They had no idea what the shelters were like and how other cities were faring. They hadn’t seen any more of the National Guard.
Things had gone well until three days ago when Lucy accidentally mentioned something about the family wanting to leave. Lucy had developed an interest in medicine and wanted Mrs. Gray to teach her everything. She had volunteered to help Mrs. Gray with any medical issues. Sherry and Tara asked Lucy to see if Mrs. Gray could tell them what kind of materials could be used as makeshift medical supplies. Mrs. Gray had given her several ideas and had asked why Lucy wanted to know all of this. Lucy replied that she just wanted to make sure that her family had all of the supplies they needed. One of Tom’s newfound lackeys happened to be in the house to get stitches in the hand he had cut somehow. The lackey reported back to Tom that JJ and his family were hoarding supplies that Tom had ordered to be held in the common house.
The family expected some sort of action from Tom. None came. Then things had come to a head yesterday when Tom had called them out at the neighborhood meeting, demanding that JJ and his family hand over any supplies that he might be hoarding. JJ told him that they had turned everything over, but Tom made a production of explaining how it was wrong to hold out anything when other folks had donated everything they had to the cause. Clay had corrected him, pointing out that they had given two cars (JJ’s car and the cab he had brought to the neighborhood) in addition to food and covering guard and patrol duties. Tom went on a rampage about to survive, everyone had to share and pool resources to make it through. Two of his lackeys moved to stand very close to JJ. Scott mused at how fast fear and panic allowed groupthink to overtake reason and turn good folks into mindless assholes. All it took for some folks was a guy with a half-assed plan, and they would follow it to the death. JJ came close to giving in, especially since he was conflicted about leaving. Scott stood up to the two men and had yelled back at Tom, questioned his right to take their personal property, and summarily told him to go fuck himself.
They knew Tom was a vindictive bastard. They had seen how he had dealt with a few other dissenters. He had publicly berated them and their families and withheld food and supplies. They had experienced the public accusations. JJ wondered when they could expect to see reduced rations. So far, nothing had happened. JJ looked down at the golf club in his hands and over to the small hunting rifle in the hands of one of the other guards. That was one thing that had happened. It would be a while before any of his clan would be trusted with a gun again. The only thing holding Tom at bay was that he didn’t quite have enough power to order people out of their homes or just take their stuff, but he was working toward it. With every decision the community accepted, Tom took another step toward his own little kingdom.
Another change was that Tom made sure to keep at least one of his loyal men at each of the two gates at all times. While Clay couldn’t prove anything beyond a hunch, he knew that they were to keep JJ and his family from running off with supplies as much as keep the others out.
Clay looked up as movement at the end of the street caught his eye. What caught his eye wasn’t a person. It was a running vehicle. A lone hummer slowly rolled toward the compound. “You think this guy is like the ones we saw the other day?” Clay asked.
“He looks like he’s alone. I thought they were going to be bringing in supplies. Can they carry very much in one Humvee?” JJ asked.
Scott walked up to the gate, which consisted of a car offset to the others so that it could be rolled out of the way. “Hey guys. I’m here to relieve you Clay.” He said as he approached. He looked down the street and saw the hummer pull up and stop ten yards from the gate. “What do we have here?”
“We don’t know.” Clay stated. “He just pulled up.”
Two men exited the hummer. They wore National Guard uniforms, carried M-16’s on their shoulders, and M-9’s on their hips. “Stay where you are!” Tom’s lackey in chief said. “What do you fellows want?”
The shorter of the two men stepped forward and said. “I’m Staff Sergeant Flores. I understand my aunt, Mrs. Gray, is still living here. This is my friend Specialist Hall. We’ve brought some supplies. We’re looking to move in with my aunt and join your community.”
“What kind of supplies?” The lackey asked.
“We got our guns, some ammo, a case of bottled water, a
nd half a dozen MRE’s.” Flores responded.
“I’ll have to get Mr. Dabrowski. He’ll want to see you in person. You two guard the gate while I go get Tom.” The lackey said to JJ and Clay as he turned and ran off toward the common house.
Scott stepped around the car that was their gate and walked up to Sergeant Flores. “How come you boys are out here looking to join with us? Shouldn’t you be guarding the FEMA shelter or whatever it is you do there?”
“And you are?” Flores asked.
“I’m Scott Reed. Nice to meet you.” Scott said as he extended his hand.
Flores took the offered hand. “The shelters are all but gone.”
“What happened?” Clay asked.
Specialist Hall began to speak but stopped short. He looked over at Flores as if asking for permission. “It’s ok, Kevin, they’ll find out one way or another.”
“Find out what exactly, Mr. Flores?” JJ asked.
“We deserted.” Hall said.
Scott whistled. “Just right on out with it there, son...That’s a big deal.”
“Not as big as you would think.” Flores said. “Shipments of food were getting less and less frequent. They were flying it in to Midway and O’Hare where we used the hangers and the airport buildings to set up the biggest relief centers. We were also delivering food to other smaller camps around the city. We were pretty short staffed at Midway since a lot of people didn’t or couldn’t report when called up, but we were managing. We had crews out clearing the streets to get to the camps and deliver the food. The guys assigned to O’Hare were doing the same. There were a lot more folks than the authorities had planned for. Folks were on half rations but making it.
Fifty Falling Stars Page 15