“Well, let’s try and continue your streak. You hungry? Food’s getting scarcer, but I think I have some chili.”
“Whatever you got. I appreciate it.”
“I live about—”
In the distance: Bam. Bam bam bam.
Turnbull was on his feet, listening.
Bellman too. “They’re back.”
The People’s Volunteer butt-stroked Dale Chalmers in the face with his AK-47 because he felt like it. Then he laughed.
Chalmers was with his wife Liz and Jimmy, his youngest kid, at what had been a Union 76 until the oil companies were nationalized, pumping his ration of gas into his Dodge when three cars tore into town. Two cars headed toward the center of town; the other one pulled up on the other side of the pumps from Chalmers, who was kind of stuck there. He tried to mind his business. That was not in the cards.
Four punks poured out, and two headed inside to see what they wanted to take from the quickie mart. One of the others, wearing the black coveralls of the PVs and a do-rag, crossed the island, pointed at the nozzle in Chalmers’s car, and said, “Gimme that, bitch.”
“What?” Chalmers said, not understanding that the punk wanted to fuel up on his prey’s dime – and his ration card.
The punk could have just grabbed the nozzle and taken it, but hitting the guy was definitely more fun. He slammed the wooden butt into the man’s face, blood and teeth spattering and scattering as his victim fell. Inside the car, the wife and the kid were shrieking, and on the ground the man was stunned and the red was flowing. The fourth punk, watching over the roof of their car, just laughed.
“Damn, you fucked him up!” he shouted, gleeful.
“Bitch,” the People’s Volunteer laughed, taking the nozzle. He thought briefly of squeezing a little gas onto him and lighting it, but he decided against it. The toothless punk had learned his lesson.
He slid the nozzle into his Chevy and squeezed, ignoring the ruckus around his victim.
From the center of town: Bam. Bam bam bam.
The nozzle popped, the tank full. He pulled it out and dropped it to the ground.
“Come on!” he shouted to the pair coming out of the store loaded up with beer and chips.
They were missing all the fun.
When Kessler finally released the deputies from the station, Cannon rushed to his cruiser and headed the four blocks to the town center. A Ford truck was sitting in the middle of the street, its windshield shot out. He was gratified not to see any bodies. People were out and about – he could feel the tension. Some were sweeping up glass. Others stared at him as he parked and stepped from the cruiser.
“Where the hell were you?” asked Roy Coleman bitterly, an older man who often worked as a greeter at the Walmart on the north side of town.
Cannon ignored him, but he was drawing a lot of angry looks. It occurred to him that the townspeople saw him as an outsider, and that stung.
Pastor Bellman was ahead, his arm supporting someone – shit, Liz was with them. It was Dale, his face bloody, his front teeth a cracked and shattered wreck.
“The PVs,” Bellman said as Cannon approached. No judgment, just the fact.
“What happened?” Cannon said, because he could not think of anything else.
“What do you think?” Liz shouted, half angry, half frightened.
“We called Dr. Klein. He’s coming to open up his office,” Bellman said. Dr. Klein was the dentist, but his milieu was fillings and braces. Dale would need much more to restore his wrecked jaw.
“They ordered us to stay inside the station,” Cannon said, not to anyone in particular, and no one was particularly interested in his explanation for why he had been unable to stop thugs from rampaging through his town and beating his people to a pulp.
Cannon’s eyes settled on a tall, large man with a serious face following a few feet behind the others. The first thing he felt was a twinge of fear. The man looked him over, as if he was assessing the deputy. The man’s eyes went off him and somehow, Cannon felt relieved he had not been assessed as a threat.
“They attacked Becky Collins,” Bellman said. “They didn’t rape her, but they groped her. She’s upset. And they hit Bill Simms in the leg with a round. Flesh wound. Maybe you should go see them.”
Cannon nodded, and moved off toward the Sunrise Diner where Becky worked.
Dr. Klein arrived quickly, pulled from dinner and wearing a polo shirt. He unlocked the office and brought the group inside. Liz stayed with them in the exam room. Jimmy was quiet and sat reading in the waiting room. He’s barely spoken since watching his father being assaulted. Turnbull took the minister aside.
“They’re going to kill someone next time.”
“I know.”
“Tonight was a message. Maybe I’m screwing up your metaphor, but the wolves want your flock to be sheep. Nice, quiet sheep. And they’ll do what it takes to make that happen.”
“I know,” Bellman replied, thinking.
“So what are you going to do?” Turnbull asked.
“You’re the expert. What are my courses of action?”
“I guess we’ve taken killing the bastards off the table for now, so maybe we let the People’s Republic know there’s a cost to this kind of bullshit.”
“How?”
“Strike.”
“Strike?”
“Sure. Strike. Non-cooperation. No one cooperates with the government. You ignore it. And you create your own shadow government. Cut the PR out of the loop. If you can convince your people to do it.”
“A shadow government… sounds like you’re an insurgent, Kelly. Sounds like you’re trying to make me into one too.”
Turnbull shrugged. “I guess you can all get your teeth bashed in. Your women can get groped. Or worse. You can live that way, if you want.”
Bellman assessed the outsider. What was this man’s agenda? Bellman was certainly happy to help the new United States – he’d move there if he wasn’t needed in Jasper – but clearly the newcomer was pushing him towards… what?’
“Remember, we have to live here,” Bellman said.
“If you call it living,” Turnbull replied. “I call it serfdom. Now, I’m going to tell you something. Something I probably shouldn’t, but I’m going to anyway.” Turnbull looked over at Jimmy; he was still ensconced in his book.
“Yes?”
“There are negotiations going on to redraw the boundaries from the Split. Southern Indiana is one of the places looking to be traded. In a month, this could be red – if the blues let it go.”
“That’s why you’re here.”
“Our interests correspond, Pastor. I have an interest in making sure this area is a pain in the PR’s collective ass. And you have an interest in not seeing your congregation get its teeth smashed down their throats.”
“We need to organize. Which is why your people recruited me.”
“Churches are about the only extra-governmental organizations left,” Turnbull said.
“Yes,” the pastor said. “The VFW was outlawed as warmongering and the Rotary Club spends its meetings talking about systemic racism. Even the Boy and Girl Scouts are gone. They’re now the ‘Genderchoice Sharers’ and all the kids have to wear green skirts.”
“I’m guessing there’s a merit badge for denouncing thought criminals.”
“Merit badges are patriarchal. Everyone just does macramé.”
Turnbull leaned in. “It’s time we met up with some locals you can trust. And that cop – who was he?”
“Tom Cannon. Local guy. I think he’s okay. They are taking all the local agencies and folding them into the PSF.”