The crowd roiled—some agreeing with Alena, some disagreeing and others shouting that she should go ahead and leave.
Jason broke in. “Folks, can I ask one thing of you? Please wait. Wait a day or two. Your families’ lives depend on making the right decision. Waiting a day or two before you go out those gates won’t hurt anyone. If things get better in town, you’ll be better off waiting. If things get worse in town, you may decide that shooting intruders to protect your children is necessary. It’s possible, right? Those fires down there,” Jason motioned toward the valley, “they’re not campfires. The big ones are savage violence. People are dying down there. Wait a day. Wait two days. And God help us if it keeps getting worse.”
With that, Jason moved toward the door and opened it, signaling the end of the meeting. Jeff had the feeling that more talk wasn’t going to lead to more understanding, and he agreed with Jason that the meeting should end.
Personally, Jeff would rather let all the loudmouths leave. He had no idea why Jason cared if they stayed or went; the plea to stay made no sense. The Homestead didn’t need those people, and more food meant better odds of survival for those who remained.
But he had his own job to do, so he’d let Jason handle the politics… for now.
Jeff sat down in a chair after everyone filed out of the office. Jason turned to him.
“Jeff, do you have time to meet with Bishop Decker? He should be here any minute.”
Jeff looked out the windows and saw four men walking up the driveway, greeting folks as they approached.
“Were you expecting four guys?” Jeff asked.
“It’s the Bishop, his two counselors, and someone I’ve never met before. I’m not sure how to feel about that,” Jason said.
The four men walked up to the office wing and stamped off their feet before coming inside.
“Bishop, gentlemen, good morning.” Jason shook their hands. “This is Jeff Kirkham. He’s our head of security.” Jeff didn’t know why Jason invented that title, but he probably had a reason. They had never discussed a title. Everyone knew him as the committee guy over defense. “Head of Security” was a new twist, probably something for the Mormon leaders’ benefit.
Bishop Decker stepped forward. “Good morning. This is my first counselor, Brother Ingram, and my second counselor, Brother Todd. This is Brother Masterson. He’s the executive secretary from the Cherry Harvest Ward below us on the hill, and he’s on the county emergency committee. I hope you don’t mind that I brought everyone along for our morning meeting.”
“Of course not. Come on in,” Jason said. All the men shook hands, and Jason showed them into the conference room.
“Did men show up from the ward for training today?” Bishop Decker asked, even though he already knew the answer.
In Jeff’s mind, this was a bad start―Decker highlighting that he had done them a favor. Now, the bishop would ask for something in return. Jeff couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted to give in exchange for the privilege of helping the neighborhood protect their families. Apparently, the bishopric was still under the impression they had a negotiating position. Correcting that mistaken assumption meant conflict, and conflict could cost lives.
“Yep, your ward men are down on the lawn training right now,” Jason answered.
“Excellent. We spoke with the stake president last night, and we’d like to cooperate with your group as much as possible.” Bishop Decker’s eyes flicked to Masterson.
“Great,” Jason answered.
It seemed obvious to Jeff that there was a “but” in there somewhere.
Masterson spoke up. “The stake president had a couple of requests, and we think they’re good ones.”
Jeff gave it fifty-fifty odds that the stake president hadn’t come up with the requests Masterson was about to make. The moment Masterson spoke, Jeff knew he was the man in charge. Bishop or not, Decker didn’t have the horsepower to keep this man in check. Masterson controlled the conversation.
To his credit, Jason said nothing, waiting Masterson out.
Masterson continued. “If we’re going to combine with your defense, we think we should also combine supplies―food, water, equipment. We can share supplies and pull through this together until FEMA and the Church get here with relief.”
Jeff couldn’t read Jason’s body language. Poker-faced, Jason stared back at Masterson, waiting. Nobody had ever requested combining supplies before. This was a new wrinkle.
“If the ward’s providing the bulk of the men for security, we feel like Bishop Decker should be in command,” Masterson stated firmly. “It’s important for the Mormon men to know they’re being led by someone who holds the mantle of authority.” Masterson looked at Jason and Jeff with dramatized gravitas.
As far as Jeff was concerned, the meeting was over. If Jason agreed to any version of this plan, Jeff and his men would find a plan of their own. To some degree, Jeff believed in this process—in this slow wheels of diplomacy. He knew war intimately enough to know that almost any alternative could be better. But sometimes there existed such a serious experience gap between men that they would never cross that gap. Not only were these four Brethren entirely ignorant about military command, but they had a pie-in-the-sky understanding of what was happening in the world. In Jeff’s experience, men who didn’t know what they didn’t know were the most dangerous kind.
Neither the Church nor FEMA was coming to save them and recovery would, in all likelihood, take years or even decades. That stuff burning down in the valley—and burning in Los Angeles, Denver, Chicago, and St. Louis—that was America’s means of production. Without a modern means of production, America would hit medieval reality like a runaway train. There would be no turning back. The sudden loss of the cushy, American lifestyle had already sent Americans raging into the streets, and they were burning it all down. Recovery would be a long way off.
Masterson’s fantasy might well get everyone killed. No matter what anyone said, and no matter how everyone smiled at one another across this conference table, Jeff would not let his family be murdered, raped and spit-roasted by barbarians. He would kill everyone in this room before he would let that happen.
Jason smiled, still giving nothing away. “Okay, gentlemen. I’ll need some time to talk to my steering committee and consider what you’re proposing. Is there anything else you need right now? Anything more we can do for the neighborhood?”
Bishop Decker answered, “Nope. We’re good for now. Shall we get back together tomorrow? Same time?”
“That’d be perfect.” Jason stood and showed the men to the door. He tossed a glance at Jeff, indicating he should stay.
Handshakes went around, and the men made their way out the office door and into the mid-morning sun, smiling vacantly.
As soon as the door closed, Jeff lit into Jason, “If you agree to any of that bullshit, I’m out.”
Jason turned to Jeff, now with anger in his own eyes. “I’m not agreeing to anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell them ‘no,’ then?” Jeff fired back.
“Because I want a day to think it through. I want to talk to you about it, and I want to hash out options. I may want to talk to a few of the Mormon people in our group. Waiting until tomorrow to respond to Masterson costs us nothing. If I had spoken up now, I would’ve spoken from anger, and that’s hard to fix. We don’t have time to mend fences, so I’d rather not tear through fences in the first place.”
That, at least, made sense to Jeff. His confidence in Jason’s ability bumped up a small notch.
Jason sat down and turned to Jeff. “What did you see happen in that meeting?”
Jeff ticked off his observations on his thick fingers. “Bishop Decker isn’t running the show. Dickhead number four controls the group because he’s the only one willing to throw his weight around. We could probably work with the bishopric, but Masterson won’t rest until he’s in control of everybody and everything. We’re trying to help them and they’re responding by horse-trading with us. The big problem: they’re too inexperienced to know just how fucked they are, and that bullshit artist Masterson is going to drag the learning curve out, probably until everyone gets dead.”