by Joe Nobody
Mr. Gospel’s eyes bored into Nick, almost daring the envoy to debate his logic. But the bait wasn’t taken.
Spreading his hands, Nick sighed, “As you wish.”
Nick rose from the card table, extending his hand to Mr. Gospel. The gesture was ignored. Instead, Standowski turned to his second in command and began whispering orders.
The gathered throng divided, allowing a path for Nick to make his exit, many of the onlookers staring rudely at the foreigner in their town. Glancing at his watch, the big man realized the negotiations hadn’t taken nearly as long as he’d planned. Kevin and the rest of the team wouldn’t arrive at the rendezvous point for another four hours.
It was supposed to have been a simple introduction to the Alliance, one of a dozen ongoing operations occurring throughout what had been the state of Texas. Small teams were spreading out, scouting the local populations, introducing the new government to any leadership, and extending a friendly hand to let them know that a recovery was in process. Given its fascination with labeling everything with an acronym, the military had dubbed the peaceable missions SAINTs – or Scout, Approach, INtroduce, and Transition. Members of the teams charged with performing such assignments referred to them as “Pandoras” instead, because the emissaries never knew what to expect.
Cartersville also was important strategically to the Alliance’s future growth. As Mr. Gospel had stated, the town was located in a prime location for transportation, and more importantly, it was key to the region’s most prominent natural resource – timber.
Recovery meant rebuilding, and that required lumber. Trees had to be harvested and milled, the finished product then transported to distribution centers where end users could access the desperately needed raw material. Cartersville boasted massive numbers of semi-trailers, close proximity to major interstates, and resided smack-dab in the middle of the Great Piney Woods.
When Nick’s SAINT team had been tasked with the critical assignment, the council’s planners had referred to the small berg as a “twofer,” meaning the Alliance could receive double benefits from one mission – if they pulled it off.
Since the collapse, the Alliance had encountered a variety of social hierarchies that had formed to fill the vacuum in leaderless communities. When federal, state, and local government collapsed, it was only human nature for some form of organization to occupy the void.
They had confronted everything from escaped convicts combatting church groups to local business leaders using their corporate assets to establish control. Law enforcement assumed command over some areas while rogue military units had become dominant in others.
While the Alliance teams had no way of predicting the specifics for any given town or community, a few reoccurring trends had quickly emerged.
Groups sporting a chain of command and organizational structure before the collapse were provided an advantage afterward. Almost every replacement “administration” they encountered had existed in one form or another before the world had gone to hell. It didn’t matter if the chain of command was based on religion, race, gang affiliation, or business… having an in-place hierarchy, known leadership, communications, and some level of trust allowed these groups to rise to power, establishing their positions faster than any random caucus of previously unassociated citizens.
The second trend was the most troubling. In the hell on earth of the aftermath, democracy had ceased to exist. Darwinism had prevailed in practically every hamlet and metropolitan area across the wasteland that had been the United States. The strongest had not only survived, but also subjugated their surrounding areas. Often this resulted in brutal dictatorships enforcing draconian measures on the meeker population. Wolves and sheep, Nick thought. It’s always been that way, always will be. Some days, I feel like a sheepdog, leading the downtrodden to safety.
At first, it had been easy for the Alliance leadership to criticize these desperate reformations of society. Brute strength, the best firearms, or possessing the most ammunition seemed such anti-American processes of establishing leadership. But as time wore on, it became apparent that in many cases, there simply hadn’t been any viable alternative. The heavy-handed corporate executive may have taken over the town out of desperation, perhaps rallying survivors to bury the bodies so the entire population didn’t succumb to virulent plagues. Maybe gangs of nomadic raiders had been robbing the locals blind, picking them off one by one, thus forcing the community to form a militia to defend itself.
The third trend occurred naturally. Power is a seductive temptress, and many of the leaders encountered by the Alliance simply didn’t want to give up their hard-won positions any more than they would like walking away from a sensual woman. While there were exceptions, those were far and few between. Once tasted, men develop an undeniable craving for control and influence. Galveston Island had been one of the more notable examples as of late, as were Meraton and Fort Davidson. Even then, the lack of communications, nonexistent infrastructure, and a healthy dose of distrust made initial contact with each of these communities difficult, if not dangerous. Thousands had already died due to early missteps and mistakes in the reintegration process.
“So much for getting lucky,” Nick whispered as he negotiated the town. “Figures I’d run into one of the more Machiavellian groups. Damn it, Bishop... of all the times for you to want to work on your tan.”
He headed toward the small city park where he’d been instructed to pitch his tent. All of the town’s motels or hotels were occupied, converted into apartments to accommodate the influx of truck drivers that descended on the tiny berg. There wasn’t a boardinghouse or inn available. Visitors were allowed to camp, the temporary housing area scrutinized carefully by several armed deputies. Everyone referred to the place as “Shantytown.”
Deciding he’d grab a quick meal and then catch up on some sleep, Nick was actually pleased with how the operation was progressing. A seed had been planted. Whether or not it grew was out of his control. He’d done his job, accomplishing an introduction without bloodshed on either side.
He meandered across the town square, nodding politely to passersby, smiling at anyone who made eye contact. His path took him through what the locals called the “Exchange,” two closed streets that resembled Meraton’s now-famous market. Unlike the West Texas community’s place of commerce, the Exchange was closely monitored and tightly controlled. Taxes were collected, fees charged, disputes dealt with harshly. Mr. Gospel and his men ran the whole show. They had even taken to printing their own currency.
Wishing he had more time to study and observe, Nick made his way down the bustling street, hawkers offering him everything from dry goods to homemade remedies for whatever ailed him.
It was all so interesting. Here, in rural northeastern Texas, was a textbook example of a city-state under feudal rule of law. Cartersville had a king, noblemen, coin of the realm, and even a castle-keep of sorts – the downtown area being walled off with roadblocks, patrols, semi-trailers, and guard towers. It was a microcosm of Europe’s Middle Ages, unveiled right before his eyes.
As he ambled through on his way to Shantytown and his camp, Nick studied the faces of customers and vendors alike. These citizens submitted willingly to Mr. Gospel’s rule, supporting the primitive form of government by their mere presence and participation. They all seemed content enough, buying, selling, and browsing through the open-air bazaar.
But Nick knew there was a difference between these people and the residents of the kingdoms of old. He was surrounded by freeborn Americans, individuals who had tasted liberty, had experienced democracy. They accepted the status quo because it was a safe harbor from the anarchy and barbarianism just beyond the walls. But now, if the Alliance leaders and he were right, all of that would gradually begin to change. Now they knew something better was beyond the fortress, an existence that would, hopefully, stir memories of a better life.
General Owens and the military forces under the council’s control could take down the loc
al king in an afternoon. Irregular militia, equipped with small arms, didn’t stand a chance against tanks and gunships. But the Alliance had learned a hard lesson from previous engagements – the loss of life could be significant, and that wasn’t what the new government was all about. Bishop’s recent encounter in Brighton, Texas had exposed the unintended consequences of a brash, heavily armed approach. That community was still suffering from the mass causalities, hundreds of families continuing to mourn the loss of husbands, brothers, and sons. Even under Alliance rule, life was severe there, food hard enough to put on the table, despite the presence of able-bodied men in the household. Widows and orphans stressed the resources of the entire community, their struggles significantly more difficult and painful. Resentment still lingered just under the surface of the societal façade.
Nick stopped, the smell of boiling corn drawing his attention. He retrieved a small amount of local currency out of his pocket, smirking at the image of Mr. Gospel’s stoic portrait residing on the poorly manufactured paper money. “How much for two ears?” he asked the middle-aged woman working the small booth.
“Aren’t you that stranger talking about a recovery?” she inquired, eyes squinting with pessimism.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”
“Is it true… what they’re saying? Are there really towns nearby with electricity and real jobs?”
“Yes. It’s true,” Nick answered, amazed at how quickly word had spread.
The vendor scanned both directions, checking to see who was within earshot. “Can I move there? Do they allow strangers to settle there?” she whispered.
“Yes, you can. We welcome newcomers. Every town has a relocation committee.”
Again glancing both ways and finding the coast was clear, she pulled a significant wad of King Gospel’s currency from under her apron. “I’ve got money,” she declared. “People say my vegetables are the best in the Exchange. But I want to get out of here. Mr. Gospel keeps raising the taxes and taking a bigger cut. You have to be cautious what you say here… careful about who might hear. My boy got in trouble for speaking out last week, and now the deputies are watching him real, real close.”
Nick nodded his understanding, a dozen questions forming in his throat. Before he could ask, two armed men came into view, one of the many patrols working the outside market. His new friend’s eyes dropped down to the pot, not daring to make eye contact with the passing enforcers.
“The maize is two Gospels per ear,” she said louder than necessary, no doubt for the lawmen’s sake. “I don’t give a discount unless you buy at least four.”
Nick played along, having no desire to get anyone in trouble with the authorities. “I’ll take two,” he responded, counting out the required bills.
The steaming corn was delivered, complete with husks still intact. Nick moved on, thinking his extra-large frame could use a little more sustenance and sick to death of the dried food in his pack.
Eyeing a table stacked with tomatoes, he sensed a presence behind him. A slight turn of his head revealed the two deputies, each assuming a tactical position on either side of the display.
Nick ignored the local enforcers, checking the firmness and color of several vine-ripened examples on the table. The vendor, an older gent who had smiled warmly at his approach, backed away. That reaction was immediately followed by the sound of tap, tap, tap… one of the deputies slapping his palm with a nightstick.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Nick said politely, turning to face the two men. “Can I help you?”
“We’re wondering why you haven’t left yet,” replied the older of the two. “Our understanding was your business here in Cartersville was complete.”
Nick sized them up, the confrontational body language making their intent clear. Both would be considered large men by any standard, their thick shoulders and wide frames so prevalent with law enforcement types. While the ex-operator’s 6’4” barefoot height and considerable mass dwarfed either of the locals, he didn’t want any trouble. Besides, they were armed – he was not.
“I’m heading out soon enough,” he replied with a smile. “My people won’t be at the gate for a bit, and I wanted to get a bite to eat and then break camp.”
“Mr. Gospel thinks it would be better if you broke camp right now and ate along the road,” came the reply.
A frown of concern and fear crossed the big man’s face, but it was an act. Inside, he was secretly celebrating, Standowski’s loosing of his dogs a sure sign the man was worried. Nick shrugged, “Fine by me, I can wait for my friends outside just as well as on the inside. I’ll go pack up my gear.”
The verbal deputy seemed disappointed Nick had deescalated the encounter. “We’ll tag along – just to make sure you don’t get lost.”
Nick found his poncho-tent and pack undisturbed. Before breaking camp, he strolled to a neighboring bivouac and pulled out the remainder of his Gospel dollars. “Thanks for watching my stuff, Ray,” he said, handing over the small wad of money.
The two enforcers idled nearby, chatting among themselves as Nick stuffed items inside his pack. “Ready,” he informed the officers, swinging the ruck onto his back.
The gate was really nothing more than a barricaded street at the edge of town. Having managed the teamsters allowed Mr. Gospel access to a virtually unlimited numbers of semi-trailers, which became the breastworks and parapets of choice.
While erecting a castle wall around Cartersville provided security, it also created the same issues suffered by its European brother from long ago. Agriculture and livestock couldn’t exist within the city limits, yet the people inside the protective perimeter had to eat. It was impossible for the town to completely isolate itself - thus the blockaded entrance.
When Nick’s team had first been assigned to approach the humble berg, a quick scouting mission had uncovered the rules and procedures for passing through. Countryside residents were allowed access, but they had to be unarmed and possess goods for trade or sale. Anyone displaying the obvious symptoms of a contagious disease was turned away.
Handing off his weapons to Kevin and Grim, Nick had pocketted small amounts of ammunition as his barter. After spending three days checking out the local situation, he’d approached the men in charge and made his pitch about the Alliance. One thing had led to another, eventually resulting in this morning’s meeting with Mr. Gospel in the flesh.
In reality, Nick hadn’t expected much more from the local leadership. His presentation of the Alliance’s goals, history, and future had to be shocking to hear for the first time. Even if Mr. Gospel and his union boys didn’t relinquish their iron grip on Cartersville, eventually the people of the town would start to drift away. Freedom, commerce, security, and prosperity were powerful magnets to a distressed population.
Approaching the southern gate, Nick spotted two more deputies idling along the route. When they noticed the big man and his escorts, both enforcers stiffened, their body language indicating a higher level of alert.
Moving to block Nick’s path, the older ordered the big man to stop. “I need to see inside that pack,” he growled.
Having nothing to hide, Nick pulled the ruck off his shoulders and set it down on the ground. The two new lawmen began pulling his belongings out, a quiet crowd gathering to watch.
As they neared the bottom, Nick noticed one of the deputies try a slight of hand, something bright and red hidden in the man’s palm. A moment later, the enforcer raised that same hand, holding a tomato high in the air for everyone to see.
“That’s not mine,” Nick said calmly. “You already had that in your palm.”
“Bullshit!” barked the deputy. “You stole this from the market. We had a complaint.”
“Really? Seriously? You’re going to plant a vegetable on me and then claim I’m some sort of shoplifter? That’s all you got?” Nick responded, his tone making it clear he wasn’t taking the charge seriously.
“So this is what your so-called Alliance is all about,”
boomed Mr. Gospel’s voice as the crowd parted to let the local leader approach the scene of the crime. “You come in here all high and mighty, telling everyone that you stand for the rule of law, democracy, and a better way of life. Now we know that’s bullshit… you’ve just proven you’re nothing more than a petty thief.”
Nick understood the man was preaching to the gathered public. Two could play at that game. “That’s rich, my friend, especially coming from a power-hungry dictator who’s frightened of losing his subjects,” Nick replied. “You’re trying to frame me in order to keep your people from moving to a better place.”
“Arrest this criminal,” Standowski ordered, unwilling to be drawn into a debate.
Nick sensed the two deputies approach him from behind, the closest throwing his arm toward the big man’s neck, an attempt to grasp his throat and then pull Nick over onto his back. It was a standard law enforcement tactic and very effective against the average suspect. But Nick wasn’t average.
Catching the flying arm with both hands, Nick ducked under and twisted in the same motion. Before anyone else could react, he had the deputy’s arm behind the man’s back and was reaching for the holstered Glock on the lawman’s belt.
The other rearward enforcer tried to step in and assist his comrade, and that was a mistake. Nick torqued on his prisoner, spinning the now howling deputy into his mate, knocking him to the pavement. By then, the Glock was free of its holster.
Still maintaining his grip on the first guy’s arm, Nick crouched low, using the enforcer’s body as a shield. Both of the forward deputies were pulling their weapons when Nick shot the first man in the leg; the second took a 9mm slug to his Kevlar-protected chest.
Absolute bedlam erupted through the surrounding crowd. Women were screaming, men yelling warnings and the entire populace was trying to run somewhere… anywhere to get away from the roar of gunfire.