“What in God’s Holy Name are you doing, Chad Wade?” She stood with one hand around a drowsy baby and another hand on her hip.
“Uh-oh. Navy’s in trouble,” the Ranger mumbled into his tumbler of whiskey.
“Sorry, ma’am, we didn’t know our friend here had a missus waiting in the car. Please come sit down.” The old farmer was never too drunk for manners. He stood up and offered his lawn chair.
Chad looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Ex-wife, fellas, ex-wife.”
“Good evening, ma’am,” the Ranger half-stood and reached out with his huge hand. “I’m Reggie Tasker and this is my father, Curtis Tasker.”
“Hello, gentlemen. I’m not sure if it’s evening or morning. But how is it Chad found two friends this far out in… in such a remote area?” Audrey asked.
Ranger led out. “We only just became friends. Earlier I shot him and it didn’t take. So now we’re talking a little story.”
“Pardon me. Did you say you shot him?” she asked, incredulous.
Chad gave Ranger a sideways glance and Ranger squirmed a bit in his chair. “Well, it was more of a love tap, to be quite honest. And that’s before we got to know one another.”
Curtis, with more years of diplomacy under his belt, intervened. “Ma’am, we’ll take care of your traveling companion here and get him all fixed up with gas and grub. Would you like to bring the baby back to the guest room and get some proper sleep?”
Audrey’s face lit up as though she had been offered a first class upgrade.
“Could we please? A little sleep would do us both so much good.”
“Of course. Come on in, ma’am.” Curtis got up and showed Audrey and Samantha inside.
8
“THIS IS JT TAYLOR, ALCOHOLIC of the Apocalypse, coming at you with another night of fun and frolic at the end of the world. On a personal note, to the over-achieving Army bastards chasing me around the western United States, this is a pre-recorded show playing at random times. No need to blow up another repeater. Go home, boys. It’s Miller Time. I’m sorry for stealing your shit. Get a hobby.
“Beginning with the bad news first, since California is almost entirely on fire, it looks like the next release of Marvel Comic movies will be delayed by twenty years. On our list of burning cities, we add Seattle, Saint Louis, Atlanta, Des Moines, Las Vegas… I’m not sure why you had to go and burn Vegas, you fascists. What kind of person burns Las Vegas?
“The Saudis, Iranians and Egyptians have shot everything they have so things have quieted down a lot over there due to the fact that they’ve returned to caveman times. But then again, so have we.
“I’m in need of some female companionship and maybe some diesel fuel. If you’re a Drinkin’ Bro in the general area of the four corners region, and you have a hot sister, ring me up on 30 megahertz on the VHF band and I’ll drop by over the next couple of days…”
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
“You have a guest coming up the driveway,” Jason Ross’ radio squawked. Jason walked out on the colonnade and saw Bishop Decker coming up the drive.
“Good morning, Bishop,” Jason called out. Both Jason and Jenna had left the Mormon Church over ten years earlier, but once a Mormon always a Mormon. Unless a person made it explicitly clear they were leaving the Mormon Church—writing letters and submitting themselves to interviews—the Mormon Church considered them a member for life. For Jason and Jenna, that had been fine. They attended another Christian church but, if the neighbors wanted to count them among their number, Jason and Jenna saw no reason to disagree. Being part of a neighborhood and part of a ward in Utah were pretty much the same thing. With the world falling apart, the Mormon Church might be the closest thing to civilization that still had a pulse. Jason hoped the bishop would organize the surrounding streets, maybe even the surrounding communities. Neighborhood organization, in these times, might be the difference between life and death.
“Morning, Brother Ross.” The bishop smiled. Apparently, he knew using the “brother” moniker was pushing the Mormon thing a bit.
Jason laughed. “It’s good to see you. How’s the neighborhood holding up? Come inside.”
“Well, we know we’re living on borrowed time when it comes to water. We checked the cistern up on Elkwood Street, and we’re down to the last five feet. We expect the faucets to go dry tonight or tomorrow.”
Jason scratched his stubble. “We have our spring up and running. We can’t do anything to provide water pressure to the homes—we only have about fifty gallons a minute—but we can provide drinking water from a spigot. I can have a line extended down to Meadowlark Drive if that’ll help.”
“That would be fantastic,” the bishop said, his face brightening. “You have no idea what a load off my mind that is. What can we do to return the favor?”
Jason hesitated, wondering how to approach the topic. He decided to go step by step. “There are lots of ways we can help one another. First, tell me: how’re you doing with food?”
The bishop looked up and to the left. Jason noticed the glance and assumed the bishop would exaggerate the positive. “We’re pretty good. Most of our member families have at least three months of food storage.”
“What about the families without food?” Jason was thinking of the non-member families, wondering how this ward would handle people starving in their midst.
“We’re thinking about pooling our food… but there’re some members of the ward who aren’t in agreement. They have their year’s supply and they’re not happy with the idea of giving it away.”
“Hmm.” Jason wanted to know who the holdouts were. They might be trouble. They were definitely assets. In truth, Jason wasn’t about to pool Homestead resources with anyone, either. Ward holdouts, on the other hand, were people who had taken preparedness seriously. Every Mormon ward was bound to have a number of such folks―people with food and probably guns.
“Bishop, let’s see how things go. I might be able to scrape together a few hundred pounds of wheat to contribute to the cause, and we might have a couple of extra hand grinders, too, if it comes to that.”
The Homestead had set aside almost ten thousand pounds of wheat for neighborhood relief, but talking about it only seven days after the stock market crash seemed premature.
“Some of the men would like to talk to you about hunting up on the mountain. How’s that sound?”
“Bishop, you probably aren’t aware, but we’re being pushed hard by hunters and trespassers from Tellers Canyon behind the ridge. We have full-time guards and roving patrols every moment of every day and night. If the neighborhood men hike up there, we’ll have no way to prevent an accidental conflict. My security guys won’t know who’s who. That’s just not going to work. Plus, our patrols have probably pushed all the deer out of here by now”
“What do you mean, ‘accidental conflict?’” The bishop looked confused.
“First of all, I’m not counting on this situation getting better.” Jason motioned toward the valley. “In fact, I’m betting on it getting worse. Our patrols have already had to fire warning shots to turn people around.”
Bishop Decker’s eyes widened, and he settled into a chair in Jason’s conference room. “Maybe you better tell me what you think is going to happen here.”