The shower water sprayed off the wall, splattering down their bodies, but Heather stopped noticing the temperature….
Now, standing on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, Heather turned and looked at the small village that had once lived off the tourist trade. The place was a ghost town. Most of the employees had probably tried to get back to “civilization.” None of them would want to be stranded with no way back to the cities.
Connor stroked her from behind. “Let’s forget about finding a spot in the shade,” he said. “I’m tired of sleeping on the ground. Let’s get a room instead.” He gestured to the imposing, posh Bright Angel Lodge farther up the rim trail. “We can get one of the penthouses!”
Heather had never done that before. Never anything nice. It always seemed too extravagant. “Yeah, they might have a room or two available.” She grinned at him. “All right, we’ll get something special.”
“About time, if you ask me.” Connor’s face became self-righteous. “All my life I’ve been watching everybody else get the things I deserve. I’m sick of it.”
Heather loaded the pistol at her hip. Connor shifted the long rifle on his back. “Let’s go,” he said.
Hand in hand, they walked toward the Bright Angel Lodge.
Chapter 49
Air Force security policemen spread up and down the street in a show of force. On horseback, an officer shouted orders like a cavalry commander. Uniformed men and women fanned out, securing the intersection. Two elite MPs used the butts of their rifles to knock in the glass door of an office building, then climbed three stories to position themselves on the roof. They sprawled out, covering the area with their rifles.
Forced into the streets by military teams pounding on doors, civilians gathered in the intersection. Some rubbed their eyes out in the open for the first time in days; some protested as they were herded to the center of the street. The crowd remained quiet except for a few small children crying and three teenagers protesting about being treated like animals. It took only fifteen minutes, but over 500 people filled the intersection.
Down the street, General Bayclock watched the assembly from atop his own horse. Five security policemen surrounded him, guarding against malcontents and assassination attempts. It was the fourth such gathering he had witnessed, and the twentieth conducted since the orders declaring martial law throughout the greater Albuquerque area.
In the center of the crowd a master sergeant stood on several overturned crates stenciled with the words “Hatch Green Chiles.” According to the schedule, down on Central Avenue another enlisted man would be making similar pronouncements.
The sergeant raised his arms for quiet, then recited the familiar speech. “Under martial law, absolutely no breach of security will be tolerated. Without radio or TV, we don’t have the means to broadcast this order to the public, so everyone needs to make darn sure their neighbors get the word. At the moment we are unable to print this information for wide distribution.
“Until such time as that becomes feasible, every day at—” The sergeant looked down at a sheet of paper listing intersections and times, “thirteen thirty, that’s one thirty in the afternoon, we will hold announcements right here in this intersection. We will also distribute food, water, and medical supplies for those in need. But listen carefully—because of the large number of people under our protection, we will have only one hour to accomplish these tasks.”
A low rumble ran through the crowd. The sergeant held up a hand. “Just a minute—I’m not finished!”
When the crowd did not immediately fall silent, one of the security officers fired his rifle up in the air. The sergeant looked around, then continued.
“Several new laws have been established. The most important is that a curfew will be in place from sundown to sunup. Because we have no electrical power in the city, it is difficult to provide protection for everyone at night. By order of President Mayeaux, Brigadier General Bayclock, the base commander of Kirtland, has assumed command during this interim period of martial law. Mayor Reinski fully endorses these measures and strongly encourages all citizens to cooperate.”
The master sergeant looked over the crowd. “We’re here to help you. Until things return to working order, we’re all in this together, and we have to do the best we can.”
Satisfied that the exchange was under control, General Bayclock pulled back on the reins of his horse. The gelding backed up a few paces, then wheeled around.
Bayclock faced Mayor Reinski, who quietly watched the exchange. “The next few days are going to be critical—we’ve got to use an iron hand.”
The young mayor seemed to have lost weight; his eyes were red, encircled by dark rings. Reinski did not respond.
Bayclock snorted, half inclined to ignore the mayor, but he realized the importance of appearances, even during times of martial law. “I’m heading back to the base, moving my headquarters to the more secure Manzano mountain complex, and I advise you to come with me. Not everyone agrees with what we’re doing, and I won’t be able to protect you unless you’re under my charge. I have doubled security at the base.”
Reinski spoke in a low voice. “Aren’t you going a bit overboard, General?”
Anger flashed through Bayclock’s body like a snapped rubber band. “Maybe you don’t remember your history, Mr. Mayor, but the most effective military bastions live as a symbol of threat, especially in times like these. Remember the Bastille.”
Reinski merely pressed his lips together. The sounds of the uneasy crowd caused Bayclock to twist around in his saddle. When the security policemen shoved several people to the ground, loud shouts erupted. One man reached up, flailing to protect himself. Above the shouting, the master sergeant waved his arms and tried to bring the crowd under control. Slowly the people at the edge of the crowd started to disperse, defusing a potential riot.
Bayclock turned back to Reinski. “This is going to have to continue until we make an example of someone. These people have to get it through their heads them just how serious we are.”
Chapter 50
Still filled with hellfire-and-damnation from the previous night’s rally and the march up the abandoned freeway, Jake Torgens and the mob arrived at the Oilstar refinery demanding vengeance—but the guards had already abandoned the front gate of the refinery complex.
Jake glared through the dusty glass of the empty guard shack. One of the windows had fallen in, and only a metal-springed skeleton of a chair waited to greet them. Jake was disappointed to meet no resistance.
Many times in the past, the Oilstar security officers had calmly met them at the fences, while Jake and his protesters engaged in “nonviolent civil disobedience”—all perfectly mannered, like a high tea.
But they had vowed not to stop at mere passive resistance this time. Civilized protests were for normal times—not when the country was falling apart. From now on there would be no armbands signalling which demonstrators wanted to be arrested, no waving placards in front of TV cameras. This wasn’t a show; it was survival.
“Inside!” Jake waved his arm forward like a commander ordering his troops. “This place is ours now!” He clutched the chain-link fence as others flowed past carrying sticks and crowbars. He had pulled most of the crowd from angry people on the streets, the ones who wanted to strike out because they had already lost their future. It would solve nothing, but at least the symbol of evil would be removed.
Jake raised his fist in the air. The gesture rippled through the crowd, a mark of solidarity. Jake Torgens could have stopped the entire petroplague disaster from happening if he had taken extreme measures in the first place. It was his greatest failure.