by Steven Smith
"Are you going to try to get back home?" asked Kelly.
Naomi nodded. "I was about to head back several months ago when our place was raided. Since then, I've been living out in the woods with Jerry and Carol and the kids, helping them get set up at an old abandoned barn we found. We knew we couldn't stay at the house after what happened, so we’ve been trying to figure out what to do."
"How have you been able to survive?" asked Ann.
"After Jerry came to that day, we hid the bodies, gathered up everything we could carry in the way of food and camping gear and took off. We had heard about what was going on at the school and we knew we couldn't hang around. We found the barn the next day. It was well hidden, but not very far from the house, so each night Jerry and I snuck back and got more stuff. During the day, we worked on the barn and now it's set up pretty well." She looked at Jim. "Plus, I've been teaching them how to fight."
"Are you still going to try to get home?" asked Christian.
"I'm going to try again in the spring. I don't want to make that trip in the winter, and Jerry, Carol and the kids could still use my help for a while. I think it will be okay to move back to the house now, and they should be in pretty good shape by then if the food holds out." She took another bite of pie and looked at Jim again. "Mr. Wyatt, did Christian tell you what I suggested?"
"Well, Naomi, first off, I already feel old on occasion, so if you could find a way to call me Jim that would be great. As far as your suggestion, Christian said something about taking control of the area?"
Naomi nodded. "Once you get a few miles farther south into the small towns and farmland things are okay. The people came together and set up defenses for their areas. In fact, in many ways it's better than before because outsiders aren't coming out or travelling through on the highways. They've salvaged trucks on the highways, as well as some trains, but most of the people were self-sufficient anyway, with plenty of livestock and land to provide for their current and sustained needs. The city burned and exploded, spilling thousands of people out into the suburbs where they killed and were killed by the suburban folks. Pockets in the suburbs have survived where strong leadership emerged, but most are dead from starvation, disease and violence.”
Seeing that everyone was paying close attention, she continued. "The city gangs that survived coming through the suburbs are mingling with, and in some cases fighting against, assorted country outcasts, bike gangs and other bands of misfits as they try to take over the soft areas between the suburbs and the small towns. These are the areas where large lot developments and isolated planned neighborhoods jumped a few miles past the suburbs so the up and coming new professionals could get first crack at the land before prices shot up. They had a high quality of life with their own schools and a sense of safety and detached identity, but this made them soft targets for the gangs. Most of them had never touched a gun, much less owned or fired one, and they found out that their Range Rovers, Rolexes and alarm systems weren't much good in stopping the kind of violence that showed up."
She paused, placing her fork on her plate and leaning forward, her hands clasped together on the table in front of her. "Those people will eventually fall prey to future attacks if they aren't brought together and trained to protect themselves and their communities. But if they are properly trained and led, they can not only protect themselves but serve as a first line of defense against any future threats from the city. You, Stonemont, can provide that training and that leadership."
The table was quiet, everyone looking at Naomi and Jim as they each leaned back in their chairs, looking at each other. After a moment, Jim pushed his chair back and stood up, walked to the large window that looked out on the compound and stood there with his arms folded. He thought about what Naomi had said as he watched the residents of Stonemont walk around the common areas, each on their own business. It occurred to him that in the old days, before LO, he would have had a hard time seeing them because of the glare from the inside lights. Now, even though they had electricity from solar, wind and hydro, they had developed a habit of keeping the lights low. He liked it better this way. It was more relaxing and made the separation of inside and outside less distinct.
Naomi was right, he knew. It was necessary to form the residents into a cohesive group capable of protecting and providing for themselves, as well as being able to assist other area groups. He had hoped someone from the community would step up, but no one had.
His gaze transitioned from outside to the reflection in the window of the group behind him. They remained silent, watching him, knowing that the decision was his to make. He thought for another minute, knowing that his decision would forever change the future of Stonemont and his family. He did not want the added responsibility and all he knew it would entail, but he knew that the security of his family might depend on it. Finally, he turned around, looking first at Naomi, then at the rest of the table. "Naomi is right. If this area is to remain secure, someone has to step up and assume responsibility and authority. Since no one else has, it falls to us."
He walked back to his chair, but remained standing. "Responsibility is a burden, and the authority that comes with it can be a doubled-edged sword that can harm those who possess it as much as those to whom it is applied. I have never trusted anyone who wanted power or authority over others. Nevertheless, authority is sometimes necessary in order to fulfill responsibility."
He looked around the table at each person before continuing. "If Stonemont accepts this responsibility and the attendant authority it requires, we must always hold responsibility above authority and strive to use influence before overt power." He looked around the table again. "Questions? Comments? Concerns?"
Everyone remained silent.
24
"It's not so much the structure of government that's important," said Bill as they walked toward the barn and corrals where Christian and Naomi were readying a scout squad to return to the school. "Certain monarchies and dictatorships served their people fairly well while some democracies and representative republics devolved into little more than mob rule and cronyism. Look at what our own country had become. The important thing is the moral strength and compass of the ruler or representatives."
They took several steps before Jim answered. "I'm starting to favor no institutional government at all."
Bill looked at him curiously. "Anarchy?"
Jim shrugged. "I'm not really sure. I've never trusted anyone who wants power or control over other people, and they seem to always rise to the top in whatever type of government structure is used."
"But there must be some formal leadership, some authority, if any social group is to survive."
"Maybe, but the extent of that leadership and authority is what I wonder about." He smiled and nodded to a group of young people heading back to the commons from the corrals, then looked at Bill. "Let me ask you something. What keeps you from attacking anyone else around here, or stealing from them? Is it fear of punishment or a personal value system that tells you it's wrong?"
"I understand the argument you're making. Of course it's a personal value system. But that doesn't work in a larger society."
"Why not?"
"Because not everybody has the same values."
"Why not?"
"Well, because not everyone is raised the same way. They come from different family structures and cultures with different values."
Jim nodded. "Uh huh. When you and I were kids, most everyone, regardless of political persuasion, religion, race or economic level, felt pretty much the same way about major issues. That's changed dramatically, but one thing remains the same. That is that people do the right thing for one of two reasons: either they do what's right because that's simply what they believe in, or they do what's right because they're afraid not to. They're scared of the potential punishment, whether that's a fine, jail or ostracism by their community."
He stopped walking and turned to look at Bill, who had stopped beside him. "I had had it u
p to the gills with the fragmented society we were living in before everything collapsed. You had too. A lot of people had. We were disgusted by the way society had devolved into a no-values, no-responsibility socialist society that rewarded those who slept in the entitlement hammock and punished those who paid for it. That's not how our country was founded and it's not how it was ever intended to be." He looked around at the people bustling throughout the commons and corral complex. "Well, to the extent that I'm able, I'm not going to let that happen again, at least not in my world."
Bill stood with his hands in his pockets and looked at Jim. "I agree with you, and I think most of the people around here do too. So, what kind of government would protect against such a societal devolution occurring again?"
Jim looked up at the barn and surrounding corrals, lost for a moment in thoughts he didn't share with Bill. Then, almost as if he were talking to himself, "I've thought about that. I've thought about that a lot." He turned back to Bill and gestured to the commons. "Do you realize how little trouble we've had here? Why do you think that is?"
Bill thought for a moment, turning around to look at the commons. "Well, I guess it's probably because they're all living close together and working together. They all know each other and appreciate the fact that they're safe here at Stonemont."
Jim nodded. "That's a lot of it, but there's more. They see examples of common values here, they know our expectations, and they know that violating the rules will be dealt with. Plus, they know their contributions are important and appreciated, and they feel good about being a part of a positive, working community."
Jim turned and walked toward one of the corrals where a teenage boy and girl were working with a couple of fillies. "Look at those beautiful animals," he said, as Bill walked by his side. "On their own, they think of nothing but their own basic needs. But with proper training they are able to do amazing things."
Reaching the corral, he hung his arms on the top rail and rested a boot on the bottom one. "People are no different. Left on their own, they're not much good to anyone including themselves. That's what happened in the inner cities, and to a lesser extent in the rest of society. Parents were missing or too busy, lazy or stupid to provide the proper training to children who needed it and deserved it. Now we're dealing with it."
He turned to look at Bill, then back at the teenagers working with the horses. "It breaks my heart to think that every one of those thugs and gangbangers heading out of the city started out as a perfect and precious little child of God. They could have been anything, done anything, but they were damaged by bad parents and a corrupt and enabling society. We have to deal with them now, but more importantly, we have to make sure it doesn't happen again."
"Patrimonialism," said Bill.
Jim looked at him. "What?"
"Patrimonialism," repeated Bill. "I did a paper on it in a comparative justice class. It's the tribal ancestor of monarchies. Power originates in and emanates from a central leader, or father, who rules his domain as a natural and indistinguishable extension of his personal life. Think Alexander the Great, or Abraham in the Bible." He looked at Jim with a wry smile and a slight twinkle in his eye. "Or in more recent history, Joe Bonanno."
"Who?"
"Joe Bonanno. The old mafia boss they based The Godfather on, or so some claimed."
Jim squinted at Bill. "You know, you have a real interesting knowledge base." He pushed himself away from the fence and started walking toward the barn.
Bill laughed. "Well, look at what's developed so far," he said, falling in step beside Jim. "We're all living on your place, most of us having had our asses saved by you or yours. Our food comes from you, our shelter comes from you, our work comes from you and our protection comes from you. You had prepared so that your family would be protected and provided for, and, as a result of your leadership, you and your family have become the hub of a large and ever-expanding wheel. What would you call that?"
They had reached the barn, and before Jim could answer, Christian came out leading a large black gelding followed by Naomi leading a grey Arabian mare and six scouts leading horses of their own. Each had an AR slung over their shoulder and a holster carrying their preferred pistol on their belt, in addition to a rucksack and bed rolls.
"You all set?" Jim asked.
Christian nodded. "We're going to scout a circle around here and the school and should get there before dark."
He looked at Naomi, then back at Christian. "You letting her take the Arab?"
Christian nodded. "She took right to her. Says she can handle her."
Jim looked at Naomi. "Did my nephew tell you this girl isn't finished yet?"
Naomi nodded. "He did. But she's beautiful. I can finish her if that's okay with you."
Jim looked at Christian, who shrugged, then back at Naomi, who smiled. He nodded slowly. "Okay, but don't break anything."
"I'll try not to," she laughed.
Jim turned back to Christian. "Take your time and be careful. We want to get a better idea of what's around us, but we don't want to lose anybody if we can help it, okay?"
"Will do," said Christian, placing a foot in the stirrup and swinging up into the saddle. "I'll see you when I see you."
Naomi mounted the Arab, which gave a snort and a testing half-rear before dancing around in a circle. Naomi kept her seat and smoothly guided the grey back to position, stroking its neck and talking softly to it. The rest of the squad mounted up behind her.
Jim raised his hand in part wave and part salute to the group. "Y'all be careful."
All of the scouts nodded and a few returned the half salute as they trotted past Jim to fall in behind Christian and Naomi.
“By the way,” Jim yelled after them, “don’t get shot!”
25
Christian could feel the big gelding's excitement and held it to a dancing walk as they passed through the commons and across the south meadow. He felt a bit silly when he realized he was softly whistling Gary Owen, but allowed himself the fun of it, thinking how crazy this would have seemed less than a year ago, and how ironic it was that someone would be whistling the tune made famous by George Armstrong Custer, who had commanded the seventh cavalry at Fort Riley, Kansas, then been court martialed at Fort Leavenworth just north of where he now rode whistling the tune. He turned in his saddle as they approached the tree line, and, checking the squad formed behind him, signaled for the lead scout to take point as they entered the trees.
The coolness of the shade was welcome as they wound their way through the attack channels that had been designed and constructed months earlier, and the comparative quiet of the woods made the sounds of the horses' hooves and creaking saddle leather seem almost soothing. It made Christian remember a saying he had heard years ago, though he couldn't remember who had said it, about the best thing for the inside of a man being the outside of a horse.
When they reached the rolling hills beyond the trees, the squad halted until the lead scout had taken the point about a quarter mile ahead of them and the flankers had reached their positions to the right and left. When the squad entered the open area, the rear guard remained behind until they were about a hundred yards ahead of him, then moved out, maintaining his position at the drag of the diamond.
It had been a long Indian summer and the day was warm for so late in the fall. As they rode the waves of hills and prairie grass they saw occasional small groups of deer feeding leisurely and hawks drifting on thermals watching for a chance at dinner on the ground. By noon they had seen no one, though they had checked a couple of farm houses that appeared to have been abandoned for some time, and stopped at a small creek to take a break in the shade of a tall cottonwood to let the horses drink.
The afternoon brought them in a broad circle to the south, where they contacted several inhabited farms and a mounted Sheriff's posse ranging up from Linn County. The farm families seemed in pretty good shape, a couple of them having taken in stranded travelers, and reported no trouble other
than an occasional straggler trying to steal some fruit off of a tree or a chicken, which they gave them anyway before sending them on. The deputies told them that things were fairly stable as far south as Fort Scott, but that gangs from Wichita and Tulsa had been raiding west of Pittsburgh. They exchanged contact information with the posse and gave them an open invitation to Stonemont before moving on.
An hour before sunset they made camp at the base of a short cliff face slightly below the crest of a hill that commanded a three hundred sixty-degree view for miles around. Christian sent two scouts to the crest to dig in observation posts about fifty yards apart while the remaining scouts prepared what would be a dry and dark camp for the night. They tied the horses along a picket line that spanned their avenue of ascent and the two dogs that had accompanied them trotted in and out of the woods, interested in exploring the new territory but constantly checking that the scouting party was where they had left them. No one would be able to approach them during the night without their knowing it.
As the main party broke out their cold rations and situated themselves in their bed rolls along the cliff base, Christian climbed to the crest of the hill to get a look at the surrounding area before darkness fell and to join the first rotation of scouts on watch. Looking out across the miles of rolling hills of mixed forest and grassland, he thought again about how much he liked this part of Kansas. A hundred miles to the west started the vast prairie of wheat, golden in the summer and blowing in waves that made you feel like you were floating in a terrestrial ocean, finally rising gradually through cattle country until it met the foothills of the Rockies. But here, it was like a continuation of Missouri, with forested hills and rock outcroppings that overlooked the shallow draws and stretches of fields between them. The terrain had provided cover for the bloody guerrilla border fighting before and during the Civil War, and again he felt a sense of history, imagining Quantrill's Raiders, Bloody Bill Anderson and Jesse James riding the same hills and woods his group had travelled earlier in the day. He checked each of the scout's positions, finding them to be well situated and prepared, then settled down in a spot half way between them.