Foreign Enemies and Traitors (26 page)

In the mirror Jenny’s winter-pale face looked bony.  Her cheekbones were much too prominent, her wide-set eyes sunken, the result of her involuntary diet.  Her narrow chin looked a bit longer with less flesh on her cheeks.  Still, she was tall and leggy, and that helped—sometimes.  Tall, slim and blond, with eyes like dark golden amber.  Perfect for some lost California dream, like those she’d seen in movies—if she could only get to California.  Or to anywhere else. 

She’d arrived at her Aunt Rochelle’s house last March with just the clothes on her back.  They were torn and filthy from weeks of walking and sleeping by the road and in the woods, wherever and however.  These days Jenny’s wardrobe consisted of her middle-aged aunt’s outgrown hand-me-downs.  Since Jenny McClure was several inches taller and much slimmer, she couldn’t wear any of her aunt’s jeans or slacks.  She peeled off her gray sweatpants and selected a red, black and gold plaid wool wraparound skirt, which extended halfway down her calves.  To go with it she chose a yellow cashmere cardigan sweater, topped off with a black insulated vest with gold buttons on the front.  The yellow sweater and gold buttons accentuated her eyes.

Tatty gray running sneakers and not very white socks completed her ensemble.  Shoes were a constant source of aggravation for Jenny. Her feet were several sizes larger than her aunt’s.  She had to wear old castoffs from her cousin Paul, who had succumbed to the flu before her arrival.  Before the earthquake, Jenny would have considered this outfit to be a Halloween party costume at best.  A Salvation Army or Goodwill Store special.  Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, she told herself once again.

Jenny inspected herself in her aunt’s full-length bedroom mirror, turning from side to side.  Not too bad, considering.  As long as you ignored the torn, dirty sneakers.  She still wasn’t quite a stick figure, despite losing almost thirty pounds over the past year.  Five foot ten, and only a hundred twenty pounds, according to the bathroom scale.  She was an in-voluntary anorexic, runway model thin.  Thin but strong, from the constant carrying of water jugs and firewood.  Almost a stick figure, but not quite—thanks to Henry and Rochelle’s kindness in providing for her.  She had been developing a very nice figure by the time she was fifteen, but now at seventeen her development was, if anything, going in reverse.  She was getting skinnier by the month.  Jenny turned sideways to the mirror and thrust out her chest: there were still a few curves left.  Just.

Oh, what she would give for a double quarter-pounder with cheese, French fries, and a Coke!

****

The swap market was held every day except Sunday,
but by far the biggest crowds attended on Saturdays.  For most of the several hundred county residents who came, transportation meant walking, or maybe riding a bicycle.  Many pushed shopping carts both ways, sometimes for miles.  They would make the effort only once a week, when the most wares were offered.  Some fortunate ones arrived on horseback, or aboard horse-drawn wagons.  The Saturday swap market brought out enough shoppers that a few well-off sellers even drove their wares to town in cars and pickup trucks, using up a bit of their precious gasoline and diesel. 

Jenny and her friend accepted a lift for the second mile of their journey, climbing atop a wagon loaded with firewood.  The unpainted wooden wagon had four rubber tires from an automobile, but it was pulled by a mule in a proper old-fashioned leather harness.  The driver was an elderly black man with white hair, one of the few blacks still regularly seen in the county.  He wore bib overalls and smoked tobacco in a corncob pipe, like a picture of old Tennessee.  Jenny was willing to accept the ride only because of his advanced years and decrepitude.  She was still too full of fear and rage toward younger blacks, after what had happened following the quakes.  The old man had a different delivery route for his firewood, and the girls jumped down at an intersection on the outskirts of town.

Unlike the past few weekends, this Saturday was clear and cold and the roads were dry.  By late morning, hundreds of the remaining inhabitants of the town of Mannville and the surrounding countryside were strolling about and enjoying themselves, at least as much as they could under the present conditions.  Besides the opportunity to find some needed item or foodstuff, the market was a chance to meet friends and exchange wild rumors, scant news, and divergent opinions.  For young people, it was an occasion to connect with friends of both sexes—a rare opportunity, with school canceled for the year.  Just being in a crowd of friendly people was a pleasure after spending so much of the last year isolated and often virtually in hiding.

The informal swap market’s location had shifted several times since the earthquakes and their cruel aftermath.  For the last few months, it had been held on the high school’s big parking lot and outdoor basketball courts.  Before that, it had been held in front of the Mannville Shopping Center, after the stores had run out of sellable stock and closed one by one.  The high school’s location on the south side of town, nearer to the subdivisions where most people lived, had proven more convenient.  In addition, being surrounded by a high chain link fence, the school parking lot had much better security.  Tables covered with plastic tarps could be left there overnight; the enclosed lot was locked up by the sheriff every afternoon before darkness fell.  A deputy remained on the premises, sleeping somewhere in the high school.  By nightfall, almost nobody ventured outside.  Night was a time to be locked inside one’s house, trying to stay warm, hopefully fed, and as safe as humanly possible. 

Susan Bledsoe and Jenny McClure entered the parking lot through the open vehicle gate.  Both girls would have been seniors at Mannville High, if the county schools had been open.  They were not questioned or hassled by the lone sheriff’s deputy who stood there, keeping watch.  The tall deputy was in uniform, wearing his duty pistol on his hip.  Some of the civilian men coming and going wore holstered handguns as well.  Those who had no visible sidearm were assumed to be carrying a concealed firearm.  A year after the earthquake, such protection was considered a natural part of life.  Even in Radford County, seventy miles east of Memphis and not far from the Tennessee River, marauding bandits were still occasionally a threat.  Carrying mere pistols actually reflected an improvement in the level of public safety.  Until a few months before, most residents of Radford County would have been carrying carbines and shotguns, if they risked traveling the roads at all.  Even in daytime. 

Many of the men were wearing elements of old combat fatigues and hunting outfits.  The surplus BDUs were highly valued, because they were tough enough to hold up without much care.  Rarely if ever washed, most of these outer garments were dark with dirt and grime.  Since just about all of the local men had quit shaving a year before, they made a fearsome sight: bearded, armed and generally wearing some mix of military or hunting camouflage.  A significant number of people wore homemade rag facemasks, either to hide pox scars, lend dubious protection against germs, or perhaps to conceal their identities.  Masks worn in public were simply unremarkable, after all that they’d lived through.

The single deputy represented a remnant of the old civil order, but it was obvious that he was there mainly to unlock and lock the gates to the parking lot.  Otherwise, he was unneeded.  Certainly he was unpaid, at least in the old sense of the word.  Mannville’s Saturday swap market was a classic example of Robert Heinlein’s famous saying, that an armed society is a polite society.  An adult voice was rarely raised in anger, even when grimly haggling over trades.  Loudest among them were the children, welcoming the opportunity to run and holler and play in groups.  A guitarist sang and strummed folk tunes near the parking lot gate, hoping that something of value might be dropped into the open guitar case at his feet. 

An odd assortment of tables were left permanently on the parking lot, to be covered with wares on Saturday.  There were kitchen tables, picnic tables, office and school desks, warped gray plywood sheets over sawhorses.  With every table already in use, late arrivals spread out their goods on the asphalt, on old blankets.  Jenny and Sue strolled among them all, shopping with their eyes.  Some traded a bit of everything; others specialized in specific categories of items.  There were sellers of used clothing (including underwear), stacks of old telephone books (for toilet paper), jumbled boxes of eyeglasses, batteries of every size, freshly baked bread and biscuits, rusty canned goods, fruit preserves in glass jars, vegetable seeds, moonshine corn whisky, gasoline of doubtful octane in random containers, wood stoves made from old metal drums, empty five-gallon water jugs, and antique non-electric tools such as hand saws and drills.  Several tables were dedicated to trading guns, ammunition and reloading supplies.

Nobody bothered to bring televisions, microwaves, stereos or cell phones for trade.  Unless and until electrical power was restored, electronic gadgets were worthless.  A sixty-inch hi-definition flat-screen plasma TV would not fetch half a cord of dry firewood.

Jenny and Sue finally stopped at a table featuring an assortment of canned goods.  The fiftyish couple sitting behind the table paid no attention to the two teenage girls, until Sue produced her silver coins.  After a few minutes spent examining the meager goods and dickering, Sue exchanged one silver quarter for a can of peas, plus a second unlabeled rusty can that was promised to contain peaches in syrup. 

The girls retired to the aluminum bleachers by a basketball backboard to partake of their feast.  Sue had brought a tiny GI can opener and a plastic spoon, and the girls took turns enjoying the peas and peaches, washed down with the syrup and water.  Even trying to take their time to extend their pleasure, they emptied and drained the cans in minutes.

****

The arrival of two helicopters
a thousand feet overhead
didn’t particularly frighten anyone at the market.  Helicopters flew over the county every few days, sometimes dropping leaflets containing official news and proclamations.  If the government knew that the town existed, it seemed in no hurry to bring relief supplies to the cold and hungry residents, who were still practically cut off from the world by broken roads and bridges.  For their part, the remaining locals seemed in no hurry to be saved by the government.  Government salvation came with too many conditions attached. 

For one thing, carrying guns was not permitted in the counties under military control.  Not that the military government could provide protection from the bandit gangs that came prowling at night.  Particularly not when those daytime soldiers often were those very same bandits by night.  Day or night, the soldiers at the military checkpoints outside the county were reputed to shake down travelers for bribes and accost and abuse women and girls.  Worst of all, guns were always confiscated at the checkpoints, and frequently the travelers who risked the checkpoints never returned.  A few smugglers seemed to have no problem passing through the checkpoints, undoubtedly by paying bribes.  Many of the rumors about conditions outside the county came from these roving merchants.  According to the leaflet drops and official radio broadcasts, there were “emergency relocation centers” further north.  Anybody who truly believed that was already gone.

So the remaining residents of Mannville and the surrounding area were stuck in an uneasy equilibrium, by now accustomed to the status quo of government abandonment.  The folks still living in Radford County were of the hardest and most durable stock.  They hadn’t been killed in the gang attacks following the quakes, they hadn’t died from the flu, or the pox, or the cholera, or the cold, or of simple starvation.  Nor had they fallen to the quiet death by despair that defied medical categorization.  Cold, hunger, illness and depression had proven to be a fatal combination for hundreds of their neighbors, who had simply stayed in their beds under warm blankets until they perished.  Nor had the remaining survivors quit the other way and walked out of the county to the military checkpoints, abandoning their homes for the unknown promise of a distant FEMA camp.  The remaining residents had endured every hardship.  They had adapted and overcome and never surrendered to any of the numerous fatal perils so common to their time and place.

Those desperate enough to seek government help knew where to look for it; the information was in the airdropped leaflets and on the portable radios that broadcast official news.  The radios had been dropped from helicopters after the second earthquake.  They were black plastic, the size of a paperback book.  Each came swaddled in bright orange bubble wrap, to protect them when they hit the ground.  The emergency radios were pretuned and received only two stations: one with official talk and news, the other with music and news.  One side of the radios had a card-sized solar collector to keep their built-in batteries charged.  Some of these emergency radios were still used in their original configuration to keep abreast of official news and government pronouncements.  Many others had been stripped down for their parts and converted to charge AA batteries or for other uses.  These FEMA radios and their many derivative forms were available for barter at the swap market.

So the residents of Radford County fully understood that their open carrying of firearms was in violation of the new emergency decrees, decrees that they simply ignored.  The government, state or federal, had not brought them safety or food or fuel or medicine or electrical power, so what was the point of obeying their new gun laws?  To be fed by the government, one had to leave his home, walk out of the county, abandon everything, become a refugee and throw himself on the mercy of the unknown.  Rumor had long since established that approaching any government checkpoint meant at a bare minimum permanently surrendering one’s firearms, and firearms were crucial for survival.

Life was hard in Radford County, but it was lived on terms that the remaining residents could understand.  Beyond the mayor, sheriff and deputy, there was no law, no government in Mannville.  The local police sided fully with their neighbors, and did not attempt to enforce any of the emergency laws they had heard about on the radio and read about on the leaflets.  Taxes, rents and mortgages had not been collected since before the first earthquake, yet no one spoke of foreclosures or evictions.  What would have been the point?  Half of the homes were at least partially quake damaged, and many of them were abandoned.  Their former owners and tenants were either dead, or they were refugees living elsewhere unknown.