by Jason Ross
In the face of Jensen’s livid speech, Mat’s plan to send rats out chasing FEMA camps sounded tepid and weak, even to him. The three jars, in all their terrible glory, promised the resurrection of a dead god: the god of science. They looked like an old lady’s canning jars on the outside, but the slurries they contained heralded miracles of modern technology—mass solutions for mass problems.
Mat shook his head to break the spell. They were weapons of mass destruction, and they only looked good on paper. Mat had never seen WMDs used, but he knew there was a damned good reason mankind had universally deemed them evil. But Mat didn’t have a presentation with visual aids and polished talking points. If he disagreed right now, he’d sound like a gun fighter arguing that guns were the answer. His FEMA plan had already been approved. He had no other grand strategy to offer in counter-point to Jensen’s poison potions.
Sheriff Morgan cleared his throat. “What are you proposing, Jim?”
Jensen waved his hands around like a showman. “We all know there’s no future for anyone living in the refugee camps. We can’t care for them, and food isn’t going to suddenly appear in government trucks. The danger to us isn’t that they’ll die. The danger to us is that they’ll die too slowly—by disease, theft, murder, and God forbid… even cannibalism. The refugees will bring all of these to our doorstep as the winter deepens. After that, they’ll still die, only we’ll be dead too.”
Jensen was winning. Mat now saw how words were weapons, sharper than steel and ferocious as a Viking army. Jensen commanded a platoon of dazzling options, a brigade of ideas and an army of verbs stretching to the smoke-riven horizon.
Jensen picked up the jar of mud and looked upon it fondly. “The botulinum toxin is not difficult to grow. It spreads via food, and it’ll take the fight out of the rats within a week, maybe days.”
Greg Schultz raised his hand, “Mr. Jensen, are you proposing we give the refugees poisoned food?”
“I am,” Jensen said confidently, without even a hint of embarrassment. “Some of you already know a bit about clostridium botulinum. Perhaps you’ve learned how to protect against it when canning fruit. I’m sure Mrs. Morgan’s famous blackberry jam is safe as can be. But the spores of botulism are all around us, in the air and in the soil. I’ve concentrated a small amount in my lab and I could grow more. Much more.”
Greg Schultz spoke again “I don’t know if I’m comfortable poisoning people. There are children out there.”
Chris Jackson stood and Jensen eased himself into a chair, almost as if this were a planned hand-off. The grieving father addressed the wall on the far side of the room. His eyes hovered like spotlights over the committee.
“Two of the rats had handguns. At first we thought they’d just take our food. We’d have to rely on the town to eat, which would still be okay. Marta begged me not to fight them. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, so I told the rats where to find the canned food.” His eyes glistened and his mouth worked soundlessly, like he’d forgotten how to speak.
“Then they grabbed our Nan, we… we could hear her crying, calling for her daddy.”
Jackson dropped back into his seat, but missed. The folding chairs were set close together, so he fell half-way into the lap of Marjorie Simms. She propped him up as he sobbed, and steered him into his own chair.
“I should’ve made them shoot me. I should’ve fought to the death. Anything would be better than this,” Chris Jackson wailed. Marjorie Simms and Greg Schultz helped Jackson into the next room. The crying tapered, then muted as the door closed behind them.
Mat now fully understood the sheriff’s misgivings about Jackson on the committee. When big feelings were involved, anything could happen. After Jackson’s horrific outburst, the committee would gladly put botulism in baby food.
After the group composed itself, Scientist Guy—now “Mad Scientist Guy” in Mat’s mind, continued. “The rats will starve. The only question is: how many of us will they murder first?
Mat didn't need to drench himself in a father’s grief to understand the value of devastating weaponry. He’d spent his career under the canopy of hellfire missiles and AC-130 gunships. Winning was always better than losing, whatever it took. Nevertheless, Mat could see that many, if not most of the people in the room needed some justification to use chem-bio weapons; they couldn’t move forward without an easing of their consciences. Mat had little respect for politicians, but he appreciated the Mad Scientist’s skill. He’d struck the perfect note to sway the civilians on the committee.
But lethal force wasn’t like Chick-fil-A: the more the better. Escalation was a two-way street. When one side introduced nasty shit, the other side would see their evil and raise them an atrocity. The rats hadn’t tried half the nefarious shit Mat would’ve tried if he’d been one of them instead of an employee of the town.
So far, the rats hadn’t gone to war—certainly not the kind of war they’d bring if they were attacked with anthrax. These days, Mat’s men could still patrol the countryside with no more than an awkward wave to the refugees. The town wasn’t under siege. Not yet.
“I like bad ass weapons as much as the next guy,” Mat spoke up. “May I point out, that having weapons of mass destruction and using weapons of mass destruction are two different questions? We can approve this guy,” Mat pointed at Jensen, “to produce chem-bio weapons, but we need to think long and fucking hard before we use them.” Marjorie Simms gasped a little at the swear. “My apologies, ma’am. If we jump to weapons of mass destruction, I would expect the survivors to fire bomb the town or some proportionately-forceful response. Trust me: even using anthrax or mustard gas, there will be survivors. Lots and lots of survivors. They will be outraged and brimming with revenge. If we kill their families, the gloves will come off.”
Mad Scientist Guy went to interrupt and Mat held up a hand. “Let us remember: the refugee camps drift around out there in the forest and fields. It’s tough for my patrols to even keep track of them all. They’re spread over fifty square miles. I couldn’t attack them all-at-once if I wanted. We, on the other hand, are very easy to locate. We’re stuck to this spot. All they gotta do is decide on a day and a time and ten thousand pissed off rats with nothing to lose will come screaming over our junkyard wall. I am very reluctant to give them a reason to do that. Revenge, by the way, has started more wars than money. Keep it in mind.”
Mat delivered his whole speech leaning back in his chair while Mad Scientist Guy stood at the front of the room twiddling his thumbs. When Mat finished, Mad Scientist Guy seized control.
“The supply depot trick is too risky to be our only plan. If it works at all, it’ll move a small percentage of the rats away from town. The majority—thousands of them—will still think of us as their meal ticket.”
“All right,” interjected Sheriff Morgan. “Let’s vote.”
“Wait a minute, Sheriff. We haven’t heard from you,” Greg Schultz said. He always voted with the sheriff.
“No, you haven’t, and I plan on keeping it that way. I’ll be the seventh vote. Who votes to approve the manufacture of biological and chemical weapons, with approval specifically denied for the use of those weapons until we have another vote?” The way Sheriff Morgan framed the vote, it contained nods to both experts; Mat and the Mad Scientist.
Chris Jackson drifted back into the room, now composed. Five of the committee voted “yes.” Mat raised his hand as the sixth. The sheriff didn’t vote.
Mat looked over at Mad Scientist Guy. Jensen would’ve probably preferred that his weapons get carte blanche from the committee, but this was almost as good. He had permission to make the nasty shit in his basement—every science nerd’s dream. For his part, Mat was glad that the sheriff had put Jensen on a leash. Something about the guy felt askew, like when a confidential informant in Afghanistan compulsively picked his ear while giving up intel.
It was obvious by their body posture; the committee members regarded Jensen differently than before—like a demigod wit
h terrible powers of destruction. The man’s street cred in the community had risen dramatically, and the shifty tosser seemed well-aware of it. He barely suppressed a grin as he scooped his jars off the table and placed them in a plastic bottle carrier, each jangling like a milkman walking up the step. Mat didn’t know the first thing about the manufacture of those substances, but he figured it must be difficult, and must require a long list of chemical agents. The slick prick hadn’t made mustard gas from Liquid Drano, baking soda and Axe body spray. Mad Scientist Guy had produced not one, but three weapons all by his lonesome in his damned basement. Mat wondered what other secrets he might be keeping.
13
Cameron Stewart
“Nevertheless I long—I pine, all my days—to travel home and see the dawn of my return.
And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea, I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure.
Much have I suffered, labored long and hard by now in the waves and wars.
Add this to the total—bring the trial on!”
Odysseus, The Odyssey
Grafton Ghost Town,
Southern Utah
* * *
Cameron jerked awake to screaming, but the first thing he noticed was the hunger, thrumming in his ear and thundering in his overtaxed heart. His blood felt like mucus and his mucus felt like sand.
“What, wha, what’s happening?” he asked the darkness, but the single room of the pioneer home jolted from sleep into chaos, a melee of shouts and cries.
“Stop talking,” Isaiah shouted. “Where’s Leah?”
Nobody replied.
“Leah?” he called, terror vibrating in his voice.
Nothing. Cameron could hear the cries of his own two boys, as familiar to him as the sound of the wind.
“You in there,” a man shouted outside, from a distance.
Cameron struggled to orient himself toward the door. He stepped on a child in a sleeping bag as he scrambled in the pitch black for the Mosin-Nagant against the door frame.
The magazine carried five rounds and nothing more. His pockets were otherwise empty. He knew it for a fact since he slept in his pants now. As thin as he’d become, he wore every article of clothing to bed to keep warm.
Cameron slammed into Isaiah on their way to the door. He pushed the polygamist out the door first.
The moon flooded into the room. Cameron finally found his rifle, next to Isaiah’s twenty gauge shotgun, he grabbed both and stepped onto the porch behind the polygamist.
“You in there,” the voice repeated. “We have your girl. If you want her back, give us a box of food. A heavy box.” A muffled girl’s scream carried between the tree line on the river and the homestead. Cameron guessed they’d grabbed her when she went out to use the privy.
“We’ll give you everything we have, but it’s not much,” Isaiah shouted into the darkness. “Just give her back.”.
“No we won’t,” Cameron hissed.
“They could rape her,” Isaiah argued.
“We don’t have enough anyway. They won’t give her back, no matter what we do.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do. Men who take a girl would kill a girl.”
“You don’t know that,” Isaiah repeated himself, panicked.
“Give us the food now or we take her as our toy,” the man in the trees threatened.
Cameron rushed back into the house, and a chorus of barks and shouts followed as he bumbled through the dark, searching for the last of their food. All they had left was a few handfuls of wheat and one can of beans.
Cameron let Isaiah get all the way inside before shouting to the raiders. “We don’t have any food, so you’re just going to have to let her go.”
“Bullshit. The other guy said you have food,” the man fired back. “Give us whatcha got.”
“We have some. We have some,” Isaiah screamed from inside. “Just wait a minute.”
“Nah, we got jack shit,” Cameron cupped his hands around his mouth. “Do what you’re gonna do, fuckers. Get on with it.”
“Fine. Say goodbye to her, then, assholes. She’s ours now.” Three men in the cottonwoods laughed.
Cameron had put the bucket of wheat on a high shelf right before bed in hopes of keeping mice out. Isaiah probably hadn’t noticed, so his bumbling search continued in vain. Minutes later he found the bucket and bolted onto the porch.
“I have it. Hold on. I have it here!” his voice warbled.
Ruth burst out the door with Isaiah’s shotgun. Cameron grabbed her arm and restrained her before she flew off the porch, into the night and to her own death.
“They’re gone,” Cameron said. “You’re not going to stop them. Not with this.” He grabbed the little shotgun from her hands.
“No! I have your food. Take it!” Isaiah yelled from inside the house.
“Shut up,” Cameron hissed. “Just shut up, Isaiah. They’re gone. Put the food back inside. I’ll follow them. I’ll go after her. You stay here.”
Isaiah wept, “My girl. Oh, my girl.”
“Pull it together.” Cameron grabbed him by the shoulders and shook. “I need you in the game. Focus.”
Isaiah’s whimpering lessened. Cameron comforted him. “I’ll follow them, okay? You stay here in case they come back. Get inside and guard the door until I return.”
Isaiah searched for the shotgun around the inside of the doorframe. He couldn’t see it in Cameron’s hands because of the dark.
“Stop. Say it, Isaiah,” Cameron ordered. “Say that you’ll stay here and guard the rest of the family. I’m not going after Leah until you say it, and we both know who the better fighter is between the two of us.”
“I’ll stay,” Isaiah mumbled through the phlegm. “I’ll guard the rest.”
“Good. Hide the food. If we lose the food, we die.” Cameron stepped off the porch and cut a beeline across the pasture for the edge of the cottonwoods.
There were three men. Their three to Cameron’s one. But it was worse than that. It was God-knew-how-many bullets in their guns to his five. It didn’t matter, he had no intention of fighting the marauders.
The marauders kept moving all the way to the river, then upstream toward Rockville. He’d followed them mostly to keep Isaiah from giving away their remaining food. Without that food, they would all surely die. Cameron still believed they could all survive, and if not all of them, certainly his own family. With the girl gone, as tragic as it would be, there would be one less hungry mouth. Their odds of survival would increase.
Heck, the girl’s odds of survival were probably better with the marauders, raped or not.
The men couldn’t walk and cover the girl’s mouth at the same time, and they probably tired of carrying her and gagging her because Cameron could now hear her sobbing through the trees. It made them easy to follow. When they went to cross the Virgin River, he caught up. He poked his head out of the brambles and watched in the moonlight as two men waded across the river, one carrying the girl over his shoulder. A minute or two later, the third man crossed behind them.
Once on the far side of the river, the marauders gave up any semblance of stealth. They joked and talked, sticking to the dark fringe of cottonwood trees. Maybe this was Sherwood Forest for this fucked up Robin Hood and his Band of Merry Rapists. In any case, if they left the riverbed, they’d be in open country—with no more cover than occasional sagebrush and limestone monoliths. It made sense to stay under cover where nobody could see their silhouettes to make a shot.
When the raiders set up camp a half-mile south of the town of Rockville, Cameron stopped and listened.
He could’ve let the men go when they crossed the river, but he hadn’t. He’d crossed behind them and stayed on their trail. He could’ve doubled back and claimed to have lost them. Isaiah and Ruth would’ve made a fuss, but they would’ve come to terms.
The pitch dark of the riparian forest and the loud banter from the men had made it easy to
follow them, and by their conversation, it sounded as though they carried spoils of earlier raids. Cameron told himself he followed them on the outside chance of stealing their food. It had nothing to do with the girl.
He crouched against a tree in the dark, listening to them brag about their escapades. His stomach grumbled so loudly, he was afraid they might hear.
They talked about coming from Las Vegas, and bumping from town-to-town, picking at the dying outskirts of the communities of Mesquite, Santa Clara, Saint George, Hurricane and soon, Rockville. They slept during the day and raided at night; farm houses and survivalist “bug out locations”—too far from town for their victims to call for help. By switching to nocturnal activity, they found they could pick their targets with impunity.
Cameron hadn’t seen a glimmer of man-made light the whole time he followed them. He had no idea how they managed. His own night vision was so damaged by starvation, he was a stumbling wreck.
He found himself wondering what he’d do if they turned their attention to the little girl. Would he sit by and let them rape her? The asshole at the ghost town had said, “...or we take her as our toy.” Cameron remembered Leah’s words to him; cautious optimism not yet overcome by cynicism. “Are you the prophet here?” He pushed the thoughts from his mind. That kind of sentimental bullshit would get him killed.