The Borrowed World: A Novel of Post-Apocalyptic Collapse (10 page)

“Why didn’t he just tell someone?” I asked him.

“He knew what we all knew then, that a man’s problems are his own to solve.  You don’t put them off on other people to fix for you.  If a man wrongs you, it’s between you and that man, not between you and the law and him.  In the mountains, we take care of things ourselves.  That boy knew that he had wronged me and he had to make it right or one of those bullets would eventually find its way into his head.”

My mom only heard the last part of this conversation and she did not approve.  She loved her dad, but did not want us growing up in the middle of that way of life.  She did not care for feuds and fights and blood vendettas, which was why she moved away to go to college and never went back. 

Thinking of my mom made me wonder how they were doing.  I was hoping that my wife and kids would check on them, maybe even bring them out to our house if they’d be willing to come.

When we got to our exit, Emmet drove the ATV toward the church tents.   Since we were the only thing moving under gas power at this time, we attracted a lot of attention passing by the crowds of stalled travelers.  The convenience store drunks were still drinking, and there was a little more staggering and obvious drunkenness than when we’d walked in earlier.

“You’re going to have trouble out of these folks here,” I told Emmet.

“No shit,” he replied.  “I’m expecting a fight to break out any minute.  I hope they keep it among themselves and leave us out of it.  Let them kill each other off.”

Before we reached the church tents, Emmet stopped in the road and addressed Gary and I in a low voice.  “I would like to keep that little incident on the road just between us,” he said.  “You all know I didn’t have a choice about shooting that girl, but I don’t want folks second-guessing me.  It’s a small community here.”

We all nodded.

“Fine with me, Emmett,” I said.  “I’ll speak with Jack when we reach the tents.  I know he’s grateful so I’m sure he’ll keep his mouth shut, too.”

We continued up the road a little further and when we approached the tents I could hear the sound of loud voices.  Emmet pulled the ATV into the shade of a large maple tree off to the side.  Randi, who was apparently already at the food tent, came walking quickly toward us with an older lady in tow who was carrying a first aid kit.

“This is Bonnie,” she said.  “She’s a nurse practitioner.”

The two women approached the trailer and Bonnie immediately began providing aid to Ruth.  She fired questions at Jack and he answered them, although he was obviously glazed over from exhaustion and perhaps a little in shock.  He stood cradling his injured arm, and looking very tired.

I pulled Randi to the side.  “What’s going on over there?”

Gary and Emmet walked up to us about that time and stood by, as anxious as I was to find out what all the noise at the food tent was about.

“There are a bunch of damn drunks who want fed.  The minister said he wasn’t feeding them.  They started getting all mouthy and Rebecca intervened, trying to keep the peace.  Now they’re all pissed at her
and
the minister, and things are getting a little heated.”

“It was only a matter of time,” Emmet said.  “You know those damn dopers can’t sit down there all day smoking their marijuana and having to smell cooking hamburgers.  Eventually something would have to give.  Potheads.”

“I think there’s going to be a fight,” Randi commented.  “I’ve been in brawls before.  This is how they start.”

I raised an eyebrow at her.  Obviously this girl had a more entertaining life than she let on at work.

Bonnie, the nurse practitioner, interrupted.  She took Emmet by the arm and said in a low voice, “We’re going to have to take her in to the hospital.  She needs fluids.”

“I thought they weren’t letting anyone through to town?” Gary asked.

“They’ll make an exception for a medical emergency, I think,” Bonnie replied.  “Let’s move it though.  She’s in a fragile state.”

“I’m going to tell the deputies at the roadblock to keep an eye on this situation,” Emmet said.  “We don’t need a bunch of people getting killed for trying to help people.”

I wasn’t sure that calling the cops would help anything, but these were Emmet’s people here and if that’s what he thought he should do, I wasn’t going to tell him otherwise.  We all shook hands, wished each other luck, and Emmet drove off.

Gary and I approached the tents.  Inside we could see a large cluster of people with an opening in the center, where Rebecca and the minister were faced off against a half-dozen loud and angry-looking Hispanics.  There was a lot of gesturing on both sides and it was hard to tell what was being said in the cacophony. 

“Shit,” I said to Gary.  “I hate getting in the middle of something like this, but what are we supposed to do?”

He shrugged.  “I’ll go with you,” he said.  “Reluctantly.”

We elbowed our way through the crowd and got between the two parties. 

“What the hell is going on?” I asked Rebecca.

“These people were being aggressive and threatening toward the minister here,” she said.  “He refused to serve them because they were intoxicated and they’re having a reaction to that.”

“I will not serve people who are intoxicated,” the minister said.  “They chose drunkenness over food today.  They have to live with the consequences of their decision.”

I turned to the group of angry men.  “It’s his food, his decision on who to serve,” I told them, shrugging.

“The hell it is,” said the apparent ringleader, a short man with close cropped hair.  He wore a white tank top and was covered in what appeared to be gang tattoos, although my experience with gang tattoos was limited to what I saw on television.  “What’s stopping us from just taking what we want?”

“I will stop you,” the minister said.  “I am a man of peace, but our food will not be used to fuel your bodies for further sinful endeavors.  If you take so much as a single wiener, you will be smote in the name of our Lord.”

“You need to go back to Mexico,” said an obese woman in a tight red shirt.  She had been serving food and appeared to be of some relation to the minister, perhaps his wife.  “We’re doing God’s work and you people are nothing but takers.”

The man laughed.  “First off, I’m Salvadoran, not Mexican.  Second, I was born in California which makes me a U.S. citizen.  Third, you’re a racist fucking bitch.”

The minister surged toward him.  “You cannot talk to my wife that way!” he yelled while Rebecca and I struggled to hold him back.

“Listen, crazy man, I’m getting tired of fooling with you,” the Hispanic man said to the minister.  He raised his tank top and showed the handle of a gun, then lowered his shirt back down.  “We want cheeseburgers and we want them now or someone is getting fucked up.”

I turned loose the minister and faced the guy.  “You have guns, we have guns,” I said to him.  “We gonna have a damn war over hamburgers and hot dogs?  You willing to die for that?”

“I don’t plan on dying,” the man replied, his eyes cold, his voice low.  “The question is, are
you
prepared to die for that?”

I looked him in the eye.  “I don’t think anyone should die for a burger, no matter how good it is.  I also think we need to work this out without guns.  You turn this up a notch and there’s no telling how many people will get hurt.  That what you want?”

My attempt at negotiating was interrupted by sirens and a flurry of emergency vehicles pouring over the hill toward us.  I could see several police cruisers, a few police SUVs, and even two armored personnel carriers with painted sheriff’s department logos.  The Hispanic contingent abandoned ship and took off running at the sound of the sirens.  It was obvious from the quickness of their response that they’d done this before.  The rest of us stood our ground while the vehicles rolled to a stop beside the tent.

Two of the police cruisers and a large brown SUV stopped at our tent.  The rest of the force continued down to the convenience store where the drinking had been concentrated.  Two deputies approached, one with a black pump shotgun, the other with a variant of the M-4 assault rifle.  The deputies were wearing black fatigues, followed by a tall man in a regular brown sheriff uniform with a wide-brimmed brown felt hat.

“You alright, Minister?” the sheriff asked.

The minister nodded, straightening his clothes and attempting to regain his bearing.  “Just a little scuffle,” he said.  “The forces of righteousness prevailed.”

“Emmet Cox is on his way to the hospital with that sick lady and her husband,” the sheriff said.  “He told us what was happening out here.”

“We’ve fed many mouths today, Sheriff,” the minister said.  “The drunks only became a problem a little bit ago.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to shut it down,” the sheriff said.  “I can’t guarantee your safety.  I have an announcement to make to the folks stuck here and when I’m done I expect you to have your stuff packed and follow us back in.  We’ll maintain a presence at the roadblock tonight but we need all the townspeople back in town.  We’re stretched too thin to have to go out rescuing folks, no matter how well intentioned they are.”

The minister nodded.  He had no basis for an argument, although he seemed reluctant to give up his work here feeding the hungry.  “We’ll be packed,” he said simply.

“Good,” the sheriff said.  “Can I ask the rest of you folks to work your way down to the exit ramps there?  I have some announcements to make and then you folks can do whatever you’re going to do for the night.”

With that, the sheriff turned and walked back to his Blazer.  The two men who’d arrived with him stuck around, presumably to encourage us travelers to promptly make our way down for the announcement.

“Well, I appreciate the hospitality,” I said to the minister.  “You guys stay safe and take care of yourselves.”

He extended his hand and I shook it. “Oh, hold on,” he said, raising a hand to me then bolting off toward the serving line, returning in a moment with a blue cooler, the kind that holds around a case of beer.  He extended it toward me.

“I know you missed dinner bringing those folks in.  That’s packed with food.  There’s burgers and hot dogs, beans, slaw, all the fixings.  It’s your reward for keeping the peace.”

I laughed.  “I was just saving that guy’s ass,” I said.  “I thought you were going to take him down.”

The minister blushed and looked down.  “I let my personal objectives get in the way of the Lord’s work.”

I shook his hand again and we parted ways.  Our whole crew was still wandering around and we reassembled, making our way down toward the growing cluster of people at the foot of the off-ramp.  From a distance we could see that the sheriff was standing atop one of the armored personnel carriers.  It was unusual for local police forces to have equipment like that, but it was through the combination of Homeland Security grants and the glut of surplus equipment from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. 

Other deputies were breaking up the party at the convenience store.  Some belligerent and uncooperative revelers were face down on the oily concrete, their plasti-cuffed hands behind their backs.

With the hotels, businesses, and surrounding parking lots emptied there were more people here than I would have ever expected.  It estimated the crowd to be around three hundred fifty or so.  The crowd stood on the paved roadway, some sitting on the various guardrails and disabled vehicles.  When it looked like there were no more people streaming in, the sheriff took up a bullhorn and addressed the crowd.

“Good evening, folks,” he began.  “I need to make a few announcements but first I want to express that I am sorry that so many of you have found yourselves unable to make it home due to the unfortunate circumstances that we are experiencing right now.  From the information that I am receiving, there is extensive damage to the nation’s infrastructure and to our fuel refining and delivery systems.  There is no projection as to when things will return to normal, but it is likely that we may have to endure several months, possibly even several years of hardship before all services and conveniences we were used to are restored.”

This led to a rumble in the crowd.  Apparently some people had not been able to put the pieces together for themselves.  Those were the people who would not be prepared for the difficulties of the coming year.  Looking around me, I knew that at least half of these people were likely to be dead in a year if government projections on this type of scenario were accurate.  Lack of medicine and food would wreak havoc on the population in short order.  Some estimates even went as far as to say that serious systems failure could result in a 90% fatality rate at the end of the first year due to starvation, violence, and illness.

“I have been on the radio with Virginia Emergency Management officials and it’s clear that what is going on here at this exit is going on across the whole country.  Throughout the Commonwealth of Virginia, up and down the interstate highways, people are clustered at exits and rest areas doing the same thing you folks are – trying to figure out how you’re going to get home and how you’re going to survive.  It’s clear, though, that allowing people to stay at exits is not going to work.  Things will disintegrate into chaos and lawlessness, just as you folks have seen today.