299 Days: The Stronghold (28 page)

As he was getting out of the truck to get his ID, Rich was taking in all he could about the roadblock. The number of men, the number and apparent organization of the FC, and the communications equipment they had. Rich had no intention of attacking the roadblock later, but he had gotten into the habit of evaluating every group of armed people and seeing if he could think of a weakness in their defenses. He was doing it now without even thinking.

Rich noticed the boredom and lack of enthusiasm of the guards. They wouldn’t fight to the death. They would fire a few rounds and look for an escape route. Rich contrasted the Blue Ribbon Boys with the Pierce Point guards. Most of the Pierce Point guards would fight to the death. They were defending their homes and neighbors, not running a racket like these guys. It was an entirely different set of motivations. Rich expected some of the Pierce Point guards to fold under fire, but there would be enough hanging in the fight to motivate the ones who wanted to run away. Probably. Rich hoped he’d never have to find out.

Rich went to the person Bennington pointed to; an FC guy with a clipboard who looked like he had previously worked his whole life in some government office. The FC guy handed the clipboard to Rich and said, “Fill this out.” It was an application. What a joke. No one would ever “process” this. What were they going to do? Deny his application? Rich had paid good money—well, actually, an AR—for safe passage into town. It was absurd to think the FC had any real control over his safe passage. Winters did. Everyone knew that.

The application was just another bureaucratic paperwork thing. The FC guy could tell his boss back at some headquarters in Olympia or wherever that they issued a certain number of passes when, in reality, the only thing that mattered was that Commissioner Winters and his people said certain people got the IDs. The application seemed like a prop to maintain the mirage that there was a functioning and impartial government. That was a better impression to leave the population with than the truth: government-run gangs were in charge.

Rich filled out the form. Under “occupation,” he put “security contractor.” He chuckled to himself. He had never actually thought of himself as one, but now, having to name his occupation, he thought that the term fit. The application had a part that said the applicant swore allegiance to the United States and agreed to accept the emergency powers temporarily being used to restore order. It had a box for their initials. Another total joke. What? Like initialing a box meant that they actually pledged their life to some non-existent thing like a functioning United States? The application was supposed to instill confidence that there was a real government agency working hard for the people. It produced the exact opposite effect on Rich. He initialed the box and sighed.

He handed the clipboard back to the FC guy, who checked it over and sent Rich over to a Blue Ribbon Boy. That guy handed Rich a foot-long and two-inch wide cloth strip in a distinctive purple and gold pattern that, indeed, would be impossible to duplicate. They must have had some big piece of this cloth and used it to make these IDs. Pretty clever, really. “Put it on your left arm,” the Blue Ribbon Boy said, pointing to his own cloth strip tied around his arm. Rich did so. Now Rich had an official pass to go to town. Funny. He didn’t need to pay a bribe or have special permission to go to town in the past. This was life in Collapse America.

Rich just stood there. He didn’t want to make any sudden moves. Finally, he asked the Blue Ribbon Boy who handed him the ID, “Can I go back to my truck now?” The boy nodded. Rich went back to this truck.

He got in and Cindy asked, “How will it work for me getting the supplies?”

“Dunno,” Rich said. “Bennington will tell us.”

A minute or two later, Bennington came up to Rich’s side of the truck. “I’ll ride with you,” he said motioning for Rich to let him in the cab. Rich motioned for Cindy to get into the extended cab behind them. “Sorry,” Rich mouthed to Cindy. She understood. The guy with the directions needed to be up front.

When Bennington got into the cab, he said to Rich, “Keep your left arm with the ID out the window.” Rich nodded.

As Rich pulled away, Ryan in the back of the truck nodded to the Blue Ribbon Boys and FC and said, “Have a nice day, gentlemen.” They nodded back. This was just business.

Rich wondered why Bennington didn’t just have them follow him in his patrol car. Maybe to save gas?

Once Bennington was in the cab, Rich realized why. He was telling Rich a lot about the conditions in town. Bennington wanted to brief Rich in person, which meant in Rich’s truck. That seemed a little odd. Why didn’t Bennington care what Rich knew about the conditions in town? Rich got the feeling that Bennington was trying to get him on his side. For something. Rich didn’t know what, but Bennington was definitely trying to get Rich on his side.

They came up to another check point. It only had two guys; two Mexicans. “That’s the Mexican sector or ‘Mexi Zone’ as we call it,” Bennington said. “Basically, they are keeping other people out and running things in there themselves. Apparently there was some white guy who pulled an AK on them in one of their grocery stores a few days ago. They’re taking care of themselves,” Bennington said.

“The Mexicans are run by the Senorita,” Bennington said. “She’s a grandmother. Tough as nails. Kind of a godfather kind of lady. She came to power during the refugee crisis in California and Texas. The Mexicans rallied together to take care of themselves. Some gang members from Mexico came up here. She is related to one of them, an offshoot of the CDE or Cartel del Gulfo or Gulf Cartel. But, from what we can tell, the Senorita doesn’t run the place like the cartels back in Mexico. No beheadings or anything like that.”

Bennington continued, “The Senorita runs the place like the Italian mob: not terribly violent and they don’t go after women and children. They will take care of business, but they don’t exactly terrorize their own. And they are good business partners.”

“With who?” Rich asked.

“Us,” Bennington said, looking down because he was ashamed. “Commissioner Winters and us, the FC, the government,” Bennington said, like Rich was stupid not to know that.

“Oh,” Rich said. Always the curious cop, Rich asked, “What kind of business do you do with them?”

Bennington was embarrassed, but he wanted to tell Rich what was going on. So he said, “Oh, the Mexicans run the gas sales. We sell them the bulk fuel that we get from FEMA and others. They get to keep the profits. We let them run the drugs and girls. They have a lot of their own girls they use for that.” Bennington could see in his mind’s eye the faces of the teenage Mexican girls working the streets and it almost made him cry. He hated that. Hated it. He wished he could figure out a way to make it stop.

“So all you get out of this is sales of bulk fuel?” Rich asked. That didn’t seem very lucrative for all the trouble Commissioner Winters was going to. There must be more.

“We get a couple things out of it,” Bennington said. “First of all, we get peace. We have zero problems with the Mexicans. That’s a big deal. We don’t have the resources to be fighting more people. It’s hard enough to keep the anglos,” a term meaning non-Hispanics, “in line. The fewer people we have to police, the better. Commissioner Winters also gets customers from the Mexicans.”

“Customers? For what?” Rich asked.

“The stores,” Bennington said. “We get a cut from the food and other sales on the FCards. And we make reports to Olympia on the number of people we’re feeding. Headquarters likes to see that we’re feeding lots of people and have relatively less violence than elsewhere. We’re kind of a model.”

A model? Rich thought. An ethnic ghetto, sex slavery, God-awful corruption? That’s the model? Apparently so.

“There are some nice political benefits, too, for Commissioner Winters,” Bennington said. “The Senorita goes on radio and the internet and talks about how the government is taking care of everyone of every skin color.”

“Yeah,” Rich said, “if ‘taking care of’ means letting them run a sector and running rackets. Is that really ‘taking care of’ people?” He realized he shouldn’t have said that.

Bennington snapped back, “It’s complicated, OK? It’s complicated.” He was quiet for a while.

Rich broke the silence by saying, “Sorry, man. I realize you’re playing the hand you’ve been dealt.”

Hearing that was a relief to Bennington. “Thanks, man,” Bennington said. “Playing the hand I’ve been dealt. That’s right. I hate the way things are.” Bennington stared out the window. He was looking at closed down businesses. People were walking around aimlessly, and looked scared. Scared to be on the streets. Vandalized cars. Broken windows in stores from smash-and-grabs. A burned out restaurant. It looked like L.A. after riots. And this was the “model.”

As they drove toward the hospital, Rich noticed some graffiti. It was everywhere. It was painted in yellow and said, “I miss America,” and “Resist.” Rich figured it was Patriot graffiti, but thought he’d ask Bennington.

“What’s that?” Rich asked, pointing to the graffiti.

“Some Patriot bullshit,” Bennington said. “I do miss America,” he said. Then he caught himself, “But those Patriots are just a bunch of terrorists, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I heard,” Rich said. He was starting to get the feeling that Bennington was a closet Patriot. Maybe that’s why Bennington wanted to brief Rich on the conditions in town.

Nah, Rich thought. That was just wishful thinking. But Rich couldn’t shake the feeling that Bennington was an ally trying to reach out as much as he could. Rich would tuck that away in his mind and see if future information supported or contradicted that theory.

More silence. Finally Rich asked, “So what’s the deal with the FC? How do they fit in?”

Bennington said, “Oh, they’re a joke. Really. They can’t do a thing without back up. And by ‘back up’ I mean the National Guard. Those FC ass munchers are basically here to keep an eye on Commissioner Winters and make sure he’s doing what FEMA and Olympia want. That we’re not stealing too much,” Bennington said, darting his eyes down to the floor of the cab. He was embarrassed by that.

“We could have them…offed in ten seconds,” Bennington said, “But then the Guard would come here. So we put up with their stupid FC forms and occasional directions. Of course, we let them run their own rackets. Little ones. We let them sell stuff on the side. One of them has a real problem with the ladies. We,” Bennington looked down at the cab floor again, “look the other way when he does bad things.”

Rich felt sorry for Bennington. Rich had more in common with him than he had thought when they started the bribery that morning in the gas station parking lot. Back then, just an hour or so ago, Rich felt like Bennington was the complete opposite of him. But now he realized Bennington wasn’t. It was complicated, Rich now realized.

“Can’t you do anything about it?” Rich asked. “Or would that get the National Guard or whatever involved?”

Bennington just nodded. He realized that Cindy was in the extended cab and could hear all of this. He didn’t mind confiding in a fellow cop, or ex-cop, like Rich. But there were limits; he shouldn’t be saying these things to a civilian like Cindy. Bennington needed to change the subject.

“The hospital is coming up,” Bennington said, even though Rich knew exactly how to drive to it. Rich had been there hundreds of times when he was a cop. Cindy got out her clipboard.

“Things like these medical supplies,” Bennington said. “That’s another kind of thing Commissioner Winters runs. Any miscellaneous thing people need like this. It comes through us. We control these things and we make the money.” He seemed less embarrassed about it now. It was like he got some things off his chest earlier in the ride.

Cindy hadn’t been to her old job for almost three weeks. That was when medical personnel quit coming to work because it was too dangerous. The hospital never told people to stay home, but all it took was one key person to be gone, like a key medical device technician, and all the work several others did was on hold. There was no use coming to work, so most people just stopped coming. On Cindy’s last day, she was one of the only people there.

She had renal patients on dialysis. They would…die without the treatments. She couldn’t think about it. She got to know them from their regular sessions. Mrs. Fitch, Simon Butler, little Tony. What a brave little boy Tony…was. Past tense. Was.

Cindy felt so guilty about not being there with them when they died. Part of her job, and her calling as a nurse, was to comfort and encourage people. But she abandoned them. Left them to die, even though she knew she couldn’t go in to work. The last day she was at work she convinced herself of that. As she left work that last day, she watched helplessly as the car ahead of her at the stop light got car jacked. God only knew what happened to the young woman driving and her baby.

Back in the rear cab of Rich’s truck, Cindy shuddered as they drove through that same intersection. What had happened to that woman and her baby? Cindy prayed—she literally folded her hands and prayed—that losing the car was all that happened to them. Oh God. What had happened to America?

“You got your list?” Bennington asked as he turned his head back toward Cindy.

“Yes,” she said. It was the first time Cindy had said anything in quite a while. She thought Rich and Bennington didn’t know she was back there the whole time listening to how horrible things were.

There were some guards at the entrance to the hospital. The parking lot was empty, except for a few vandalized and burned out cars. The lights were off for several floors of the hospital. Looking at the outside of the hospital, it seemed like it wasn’t open.

That was an odd thought: the hospital might not be open. Hospitals were always open. Twenty-four hours a day; they never “closed.” But it looked like Frederickson General Hospital might actually be closed. It was hard for Cindy to come to grips with this sight.

Bennington told Rich, “Slow down. Then stop here,” Bennington pointed to a barrel about twenty-five yards from the guards, “and keep your arm band out the window.” When the truck stopped, Bennington waved at the guards and yelled, “They’re with me. Official business.”