But that was just Trev’s paranoia infecting him. He’d lived in Orem for the last few years and these men were practically neighbors.
“Afternoon, officers,” he called.
The greeting didn’t dispel the wariness of the men at the roadblock. “We’re here to direct refugees to the Interstate,” an older policeman called back. “If you’re caught off I-15 you’ll be lucky to only get a face full of pepper spray, and if you’re caught looting or causing public disorder you’ll be shot on sight. If you’re looking for assistance go to the FETF camp on Antelope Island, directly northwest of Salt Lake City, or to the prepared relief stations in the towns to the south. You’ll find shelter and food at those locations, but here you’ll only find trouble.”
“We’re not refugees, sir. My sister lives up in Midvale with her family. We’re on our way to get her.”
The older officer’s eyes stayed narrowed. “FETF has resources for finding lost family members. Take the Interstate up to their camp and check there.”
“I will, thanks. But I’d like to check her house first since she may have stayed put.”
“She might not’ve had the chance,” one of the younger officers said. The other two policemen had let go of their guns after the first exchange but he was still fiddling with his. “The rioting was heaviest in SLC and Ogden and a lot of citizens in the area were evacuated to the FETF camp. You’re going to want to go there.”
Matt had a feeling he might end up at the camp anyway, but he still intended to try his sister’s house since it was on the way. No need to irritate the policemen by explaining that, though. He started forward again. “All right, I’ll try there first. Thank you.”
He hadn’t gone more than half the distance to the roadblock before the two younger officers, a wiry guy not much older than him and a slightly overweight man with a mustache, were darting forward to intercept them. “Put down your packs,” the wiry man shouted. “And keep your hands where we can see them.”
Matt froze. “What’s going on?”
“Contraband check,” the older officer said, making no effort to sound reassuring.
That only made him more worried. “What counts as contraband?” And more important, but not something he was about to ask outright, what was the punishment for being caught with it? He was uncomfortably aware of the Glock on his hip, and for that matter Trev’s concealed 1911. His friend might have a conceal carry permit but the officers might not be terribly sympathetic about that.
It was better to be up front about it. He carefully unbuckled his pack’s belt and moved his buttoned shirt’s tail out of the way so the 9mm was clearly visible. “I’m carrying a—”
In an eyeblink three guns were pointed at him. “Hands in the air!” the mustached man screamed. “Do it now!”
Matt immediately obeyed. “Is there a problem?” he asked, trying to hide his terror. “I was carrying it openly, at least the best I could while wearing a pack and a buttoned shirt.”
The guns didn’t waver as the mustached man inched carefully forward to pull the Glock from its holster and toss it aside. “The Governor issued a ban on firearms,” the older officer answered. “All law-abiding citizens are required to turn them in.”
“Since when is giving up our second amendment rights abiding by the law?” Trev demanded. He’d dropped his backpack but was making no move to reveal his own concealed weapon. His voice was also shaking, either from fear or anger. Judging by how he was handling this situation he seemed to be one of those people who managed disagreements badly and let his emotions completely overwhelm him.
The policemen noticed it too, and their fingers were starting to look itchy around the triggers. “There have been gunshot fatalities in the riots,” the wiry officer said. “You don’t want to run into an armed mob, do you?”
“No I don’t. Especially when I’m unarmed myself.” Trev was actually visibly trembling now. “Another sacrifice of freedom for security?”
For Pete’s sake, Trev, shut up! Matt thought frantically. They were going to end up in jail.
The wiry fellow started towards his friend, either to frisk him or to punch him in the face. Trev seemed to realize it too because his common sense finally kicked in. “I have a concealed carry permit,” he said hastily, raising his hands to the level of his head. “I’m carrying a 1911 in an underarm holster beneath my jacket.”
“Hands behind your head,” the man ordered, waving his gun. Trev complied, and a moment later his jacket was yanked aside and his gun drawn free. “Keep ’em there,” the policeman said, tucking the gun into his waistband. Trev was thoroughly patted down, then the officer backed away.
While his friend was being frisked the overweight officer ordered Matt back half a dozen feet and started rooting through his pack. A heavy hunting knife was tossed over to join Matt’s previously discarded 9mm, along with a few boxes of ammo and some spare magazines.
Before too long Trev’s pack received the same treatment as he was directed back to stand beside Matt. His friend watched his gun being set in the pile with an almost sick look on his face; that 1911 was one of his favorite possessions, and Matt had gone with him to the shooting range outside Aspen Hill a few times in the last few years so they could practice with it. He knew his friend went twice as often without him.
Then the officers began making a second pile with all the food from their packs. “What are you doing?” Matt blurted, surprised.
The wiry fellow glanced up. “You stupid, dude? We just told you, contraband check.”
“You’re pulling out food.”
The older officer spoke up, sounding bored. “Martial law mandates that any food being carried within city limits is to be assumed stolen and immediately confiscated. Also FETF regulations make it illegal to hoard more than 2 weeks’ worth of food and mandates that it be confiscated from offenders, so you might be guilty on both counts.”
A federal offense to hoard food? And any food you carried was assumed stolen? Matt had never heard anything so ridiculous. That basically made possessing any food while traveling illegal, and if you had food storage and stayed put you were also hosed. “This is less than two weeks’ worth,” he protested. “It might not even be enough to get to Midvale and back once I find my sister’s family and we have to share it between us. Anyway I give you my word it’s my own food, legally purchased.”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s the mandate,” the older officer said. “We have to take this, but if you need food you can go to the FETF camp for assistance.” He was starting to sound like a broken record, and every answer was FETF.
“Can’t we keep at least a day’s worth?” Matt asked, not caring if he sounded like he was begging. “Enough to get to Midvale?”
“Anything you need will be provided at the FETF camp.”
Yeah, go begging to the government when you just stole my food so I can’t take care of myself anymore. And I suppose they’ll give us travel rations for the trip home, too? Matt felt a growing wave of despair. What was going to happen if he depended on the FETF for what he needed to survive? What about April and her family and the food they needed? They might all end up trapped on Antelope Island, unable to leave unless they wanted to starve. Just more refugees among the tens or even hundreds of thousands.
No, if worse came to worst he could go hungry for a few days to get back, although he worried about his sister and especially her children having to do the same.
“This is robbery, you know.”
Matt whirled. “Seriously, Trev, shut up!” he snapped, all of his anger at this situation spilling out at his friend.