John Cathey inspected New York City from the top of the United Nations Headquarters.
He didn’t like what he saw.
As the city descended into complete lawlessness, refugees fled to the one source of law and order they knew.
Him.
He hadn’t intended on becoming Mayor, or whatever they called him. Some called him General, but he discouraged it. He knew he didn’t know what he was doing.
He had learned quickly that taking a building was easier than holding it.
His single desire had been to strike a blow at the aliens who had wrecked his country. Convincing the mob surrounding the United Nations compound that the aliens were the real enemy, then convincing the police who protected the compound of the same thing, had been easy, but had also, somehow, turned John into a leader.
He had never wanted that. He’d never even considered it.
But now, others looked to him for protection and he didn’t want to let them down.
He descended from the roof and began his daily walk through the building. He’d started it so he’d know firsthand what was going on everywhere, but others told him it was a brilliant gesture, moving among his people every day. It kept them calm and purpose driven, rather than emotion driven.
Those who told him these things seemed to know more about leadership than he did. But people wanted to follow him, not them.
In a large conference room on one of the upper floors, his Three Judges held court. He stopped to listen.
A man with twins was accused of hoarding diapers. Supplies were growing low for the entire building and several had complained about him. The man pleaded his case. His babies, deprived of their mother, needed diapers. And more formula. They were twins and used more than other babies.
As John watched the Three Judges in action, he remained impressed with their compassion. They didn’t sit up on a raised dais or even behind a table. They sat with the accused and accusers in a circle in the conference room. John had even seen one of them get up and sit next to an accused individual, putting their arms around him and consoling him.
Selecting them had been brilliant, John had been told again and again.
In the beginning, after they had first taken over the building, people came to him constantly for resolution of petty disputes and John quickly felt like he had no time for the things he should be doing. He picked out three ministers, an older Catholic priest, a younger Presbyterian minister, and a black man who claimed to be a Mormon bishop. He asked them to judge the people’s disputes, but he had one condition.
Their decisions had to be unanimous.
John didn’t want any grouping of two to one, the two young members outvoting the old member, or the two men outvoting the woman, or the two whites outvoting the black. They agreed even though the Mormon said that’s how his church preferred to do their business. John chuckled inwardly at the memory. The two ministers from traditional religions objected to the Mormon at first and didn’t want to have to agree with him on everything. Another two to one possibility.
Things worked out well, however. That all three of them were forced to agree meant that the three couldn’t judge based on personal agendas. They were quickly recognized as fair and compassionate and their judgments were respected.
John watched the Mormon carefully counsel the frightened father, telling him that everything was being done to procure sufficient food and diapers and no one would let his children suffer unless everyone suffered. They were all in this together.
Pleased, John moved on.
The next twenty or so floors were residential; offices and conference rooms turned into living spaces, people setting up tents on carpeted floors and eating meals at mahogany desks.
The lower levels were reserved for food preparation and defense.
Most of the Stinger launcher John had used to fire on the aliens had been destroyed in the alien counterattack, but bits remained and were now on display in a trophy case in the lobby.
Armed guards were everywhere, the show of force the best deterrent to a counterattack.
In building an armed force, John had targeted military and police, both active duty and retired, to be leaders. He organized them in squads and platoons, eschewing Air Force terminology like flights and squadrons. The Mormon bishop suggested he sounded like a historical figure from his scriptures, Captain Moroni, organizing captains of ten and captains of fifty.
They never went foraging for food in less than platoon strength. That kept looters and other tribes away.
People were allowed to leave his group, but they couldn’t bring their weapons with them. Some sneaked out anyway, taking weapons, but no one did anything about it.
More joined the group than left.
Those joining brought stories of warlords, former gang leaders and crime bosses, and the terrible things they did. John worried that if any of the warlords became too powerful, they would overwhelm the three hundred or so fighters who now defended the UN. If any of the gangs obtained heavy weapons, like the Stinger John used against the aliens, he knew they would be defenseless.
He also knew food would run out in the city soon and then things would get really ugly. It was only a matter of time.
Not many inhabitants had been killed in the alien attacks, but the infrastructure had been devastated. Without thirty thousand plus tons of food being shipped daily into the city, supplies were dwindling quickly. It had become the foremost item on his advisory council’s daily agenda.
Some even advocated fleeing the city and looking for a safer location. The Mormon bishop suggested they walk to Zion, but everyone discounted him as crazy.
John greeted the soldiers at the base of the building and they saluted him. He saluted and smiled in return, walked the perimeter of the grounds with a patrol, then returned to the building for his next advisory council meeting. Before going through the doors, he took a look up at the gray skies, dark clouds threatening rain.
He went inside.
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