Nick had spent today at the camp. Work details were over, and very few people were allowed out. Nick had talked to a number of people who had been here awhile—he said he was looking for a suitable job here in camp—and none of the news had been encouraging.
Food supplies were guarded. There was a guard on the improvised boat jetty at the Rails River. Nick had seen a Chevy Suburban with heavily armed men drive out in that direction just that morning. The only cause for optimism was that the guard on the camp itself was lax. The guards’ training was nonexistent, or dated from years ago in the military, and lack of calories and proper supervision made them lazy. There were no pass-words, no proper checks, and the perimeter was chiefly defined by twine strung from wooden posts.
Nick imagined the guards were all good shots, though. They all had the ease of country people who had been raised around firearms and were comfortable with them. The question was whether they would fire at another human being who was only trying to get away, who wasn’t trying to harm them. He suspected that most of them wouldn’t shoot. But Nick didn’t want to risk his daughter’s life on that supposition.
It would probably be relatively easy to slip out of the camp, he concluded—but then what? If they stole a vehicle they’d give themselves away the second they keyed the ignition. They didn’t know the country. And if they were missed, people would probably go out looking, and the guards would be alerted. Manon might sneak some food from the kitchen, but it wouldn’t be much. The boat slip was guarded by two men.
Nick wondered if he could fake a message from Frankland to the guards. You are needed at the camp. Nick here will guard the boats.
Would they believe that? Did they have some way of communicating with the camp to check? Probably they did, if the walkie-talkie that Martin wore was any indication.
Even if they didn’t, he thought, he couldn’t trust the guards to be as stupid as he’d hoped. He’d have to be prepared to take them out.
Take them out. One of his father’s expressions.
Daddy, what would you do? he wondered. How would you get your family out of this?
Get a weapon. Nick could almost hear his father’s voice. Kill the sentries on the boat from cover, without warning, much safer than trying to fool them or bluff them. If you can’t get a gun, get up close to them with a knife and attack without warning. Slash a throat. Cut an artery. Stab a kidney. Get their guns and a boat. Sabotage all the other boats, or steal all the fuel, then head for open water. Nick’s mouth went dry when he thought of it, and his knees went a little weak. They’re just people, he thought. They aren’t the enemy, they’re just old boys with funny notions about the end of the world. But it might come to that, he thought. It just might.
“Should I take the scope to Frankland?” Jason asked.
Nick nodded. “Might as well get a look at that storage place,” he said, without any real hope it would make a difference. “Might as well. Maybe we can liberate something that will be of use.” Maybe. He looked at Manon and Arlette. Helplessness sighed through his blood. How do I keep you safe? he asked. How?
After two days of chaos, the dysentery at Clarendon had begun to get under control, and Dr. Patel had a few moments to collect his thoughts. He decided that he wanted to inspect the sanitary facilities at the A.M.E. camp. “We do not want this type of lamentable event to occur in both places,” he told Omar. The lamentable event was one that Omar had been hoping for all along. It had occurred to him that a nice epidemic could break out on the A.M.E. campgrounds and solve a lot of his problems, but it hadn’t happened. The place had been intended for large camp meetings, and its sanitary facilities were properly laid out at safe distances from the water supply.
“Let’s plan your visit for this afternoon,” Omar said. “I’ve got to put on some extra guards so you don’t get your throat cut the second you walk through the gates.”
Patel gave him a thoughtful look. “Very well,” he said. “Certainly.” The more Omar thought about it, the more he considered that perhaps Dr. Patel shouldn’t be the only person to inspect the A.M.E. camp. Perhaps it was time to reinforce the notion that the camp was full of dangerous people who had to be confined behind barbed wire before they sacked Shelburne City like the Goths sacked Rome.
“Whatever story gets out,” Knox had said, “it’s got to be your story.” So he invited various members of the local establishment to join Dr. Patel on his inspection tour—a couple members of the parish council, Tree Simpson, one of Miz LaGrande’s harpies who happened to run the local Red Cross, and Sorrel Ellen the reporter. Then he drove out to the corp limit and called Jedthus to a meeting.
“I want you to get on the bullhorn,” he said, “and tell everyone in the camp that the Imperial Wizard of the K.K.K. is coming to pay them a visit tomorrow morning. Tell them we expect them to provide the Wizard with a real courteous Southern welcome, just like they were white people.” Jedthus looked puzzled. “Is this our Grand Wizard, you mean? Or is this someone from another Klan?” You really are expendable, Omar thought wearily. And he explained, carefully, what he wanted Jedthus to do and why.
So that when the inspection party turned up next morning they were met by a full-scale riot, swarms of angry niggers howling and stamping and throwing garbage. And no one, not even Dr. Patel, even got near the gate. Miz LaGrande’s bridge partner, the Red Cross lady, looked ready to have a stroke.
“Hell a mile, Omar!” Tree Simpson said, as he stared wide-eyed from the shoulder of the highway at the rioters howling for his blood. “What’s going on here? What’s wrong with these people?”
“They’re a bad lot, I guess.” Omar shrugged. “At least they ain’t acting like they’re sick. I figure we can let them look after their own dang bowels.”
So the inspection party headed back to town and left the A.M.E. camp to Omar. Omar hoped that from this point they’d deal with the diarrhea at Clarendon and leave everything else to him. Frankland had barely swung into his morning announcements when a loud voice called out from the audience.
“Reverend!” A voice. “Reverend Frankland!”
A young man in the crowd waved a hand. Studs Morgan, Frankland saw. The day before the quake, he’d bailed out on that assault charge.
A Catholic. One of Robitaille’s flock, and before he’d got out of jail he had worked for Magnusson, at the video store. The rest of his family had evacuated to Hot Springs, but Studs had remained, looking after the family farm, because he and his family didn’t get along. After the second big quake, the Morgan place had burned down, and Studs had come to the camp.
Frankland tried not to scowl. “Later, please, Studs,” Frankland said. “It’s not time for questions.”
“What’s being done about staying in touch with the out-side?” Studs called. “I’m sure it would comfort a lot of people here to know that their families down in Hot Springs were safe.” And dang it, Frankland heard people in the crowd agreeing with him.
Tension sang along Frankland’s jawline as he deliberately donned his brightest smile.