The Alpha Chronicles (16 page)

Mr. Hendricks managed to expand on his history. “We… we were driving to my parent’s home in El Paso and couldn’t find gasoline anywhere. We stopped at every station for 50 miles, but no luck. We finally checked into a hotel. I don’t remember which one anymore. We ran out of gas the next day. Then some men came along in a truck and robbed us of everything we had. We wandered for two days and finally ended up at Fort Stockdale. We’ve been living at the labor camp ever since.”

“Labor camp?” asked Terri.

“That’s what everyone calls it,” interjected Mrs. Hendricks. “I think it was more of a concentration camp to be truthful.”

Each of the women working Station #4 was taking notes while trying to keep the visitors at ease. As the Hendricks’ family story unfolded, Terri found it almost impossible to write anything, so troubling was the experience of the people sitting in front of her.

At first, the people of Fort Stockdale had been helpful, kind, and welcoming. Much like current day Alpha, more and more stranded travelers wandered into the small town every day. When the delivery trucks stopped arriving, the locals began to worry. When the power wasn’t restored after two weeks, some of the natives became restless. When the grocery store was completely barren, things got ugly.

It was the county’s district attorney who
took control. An educated, commanding woman, the DA had stormed into town with a handful of deputies, three cases of food, and a signed court order giving her control via declared martial law.

The town’s single hotel
was requisitioned to be used for official business. Tents were collected from local citizens and pitched by a creek that ran along the edge of town. All non-citizens were ordered to take up residence in the tent city. Its occupants dubbed it “Shantytown.”

At first, the water level in the nearby stream provided for the transplants. As the hot summer wore on without rain, the creek dried up. The men living in the tent city took to foraging for food and water – anything they could find.
This activity was quickly stopped by the local law enforcement officers, a few of the stranded travelers being shot while arguing their cases.

The DA’s promise to provide rations for Shantytown
was never fully implemented. Despite every able- bodied adult being put to work plowing fields, chopping wood, and harvesting crops, it seemed like there was barely enough food and water delivered to the tent city for the residents to survive.

Terri noticed one of the girls scratching the back of her hand and realized the child was injured. “What’s wrong with your hand, sweeties?” she gently asked.

The kindergartener, upon realizing someone was addressing her directly, immediately ducked and hid behind her mother.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. She’s not been very social since she was stamped.”

Terri tilted her head, “Stamped?”

The father interrupted, showing some emotion for the first time. “Branded is more like it. They branded my
daughter for stealing food the children found. Those… those self-righteous animals.”

The girl’s mother pulled the young child around to face Station #4,
softly brushing her tangled hair. “Show these ladies your hand, Carla.”

With great hesitation, the girl complied, extending her right arm for the women and causing Terri to inhale sharply. There on the back of the dirty, tiny little hand was a deep scar in the outline of a “T.” The sight reminded Terri of pictures she had seen of ranch brands freshly burned into calves.

“She and two other youngsters found a box of apples that had fallen off a truck. They brought the container back to Shantytown and shared the food. When one of the enforcers found the box and began asking questions, the children were accused of being thieves and stamped for punishment.”

Terri’s outrage caused her to respond a little too sharply. “Who did this? Who ordered the branding of a child?”
she demanded.

The mother and father both responded at the same time. “The DA did, of course.” Mr. Hendricks continued, “She runs the town and meters justice. If an adult is caught stealing, they are banished to the desert. First offender minors are branded, but if a chil
d is caught a second time, the whole family is banished from the city.”

Terri had to stand and walk away, her fury overwhelming the need to stay and help process the Hendricks family. As she blindly turned the corner, she ran headlong into Bishop, Nick, and Diana.

“Hey there, darling,” Bishop began, “How’s it go….” The expression on his wife’s face instantly telling him something was wrong.

“Bishop,” started Terri, her finger pointing at his chest, “I want you to go get our rifles right now. We are going to go kick some ass.”

“Whoa there, young lady. Slow down. What’s wrong?”

“Bishop, there’s some asshole who is branding children and starving adults. She’s running some little town not far from here, and it has to be stopped – right now.”

Placing his hand on Terri’s shoulder, Bishop tried to steady his wife. “Terri, please calm down. What the devil are you talking about?”

Terri began sobbing and buried her head in Bishop’s shoulder. Diana sighed and attempted to explain. “I think your wife has just encountered some new arrivals from Fort Stockdale. From what we have heard, the woman running the show up there apparently uses some unjustifiably harsh discipline. We started hearing similar stories a few days ago.”

Nick looked puzzled. “She’s branding people? Like using a hot iron to burn a ranch’s mark on cattle?”

Diana nodded, “Yes, from what we’ve heard, they use it to identify and deter criminals.”

Terri managed to gather herself and pulled away from Bishop’s shoulder. “Go around the corner and talk to that family sitting over there. Those Fort Stockdale animals branded a five-year-old girl whose only crime was finding a box of apples. She sure as shit doesn’t look like any criminal to me.”

Diana soothed Terri’s shoulder. “I know you’re upset, Terri. I was too when I started hearing what was going on up there. We’ve had quite a few people show up from that hellhole this week.”

Again, Terri looked at Bishop with hatred burning in her eyes. “Come on, Bishop, I want to go and set those people free. I want to go right now.”

Bishop pointed to his arm and sighed. “Terri, I saw some pretty ugly stuff when we went to Fort Stockdale to turn on the electricity. I know how difficult it is to handle things like that. But I’m not ready or able to fight anyone. I can’t even put on my own pants right now.”

It took Terri a few moments to digest Bishop’s words, but eventually his meaning registered with the irate woman. She nodded, sighed, and rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry, everyone. The story I just heard from those people reminded me of being a hostage. It hit a little close to home. Besides, I guess being a hormonal pregnant mess is causing me to get a little more emotional than usual where children are concerned.”

Bishop looked at his wife, “You okay, babe?”

Nodding, Terri sniffled and then replied, “Yeah. I’m good.”

The foursome proceeded back toward the newcomer processing area just as the Hendricks family was finishing up. Diana approached Alpha’s newest residents with her hand extended and introduced herself as the
city’s mayor.

“Miss Brown,” stated one of the workers at Station #4, “Mrs. Hendricks is a registered nurse.”

“Outstanding,” Diana declared with a smile. “I’m sure these ladies told you we’re trying to improve our medical capabilities. I just returned from a meeting on that very subject. Your experience will be welcome here.”

A golf cart pulled up, the volunteer driver approaching the station. One of the workers handed him a slip of paper containing an address. “1201 South Oak Street,” he repeated. “I used to live on South Oak years ago. It’s a fine neighborhood.” With that endorsement still hanging in the air, the family was shown to the waiting cart and escorted to their new home.

Diana watched as the newcomers sped off in the electric transport. After a bit she turned to her friends and declared, “There will be a ‘Welcome to Alpha’ box at their new home. It will have a few basic commodities like toothpaste, soap, and a few cans of food. There are instructions on where they can go to find clothing and other supplies. We’ll give them a few days to get used to things and then try to integrate them into the work force. It’s the best we can do right now.”

“Those people looked pretty shell shocked to me,” Bishop said. “How long is it taking the average refugee to become productive?”

Deacon Brown sighed, “That’s part of the problem. Most of these people are barely walking, and many of them have severe health issues beyond malnutrition. We have to feed and care for them, and it’s becoming a drain.”

Bishop understood. “You can’t turn them away. We’ll just have to figure out how to make it through somehow.”

Fort Stockdale

January 24, 2016

District Attorney Patricia Gibson looked at the dusty diploma hanging across from her desk. The document had once generated extreme pride for the small town girl, a significant achievement surpassed only by her election as the county’s top legal authority just over a year ago. The sheepskin proclaimed her award of a Juris Doctorate from the University of Texas School of Law. Not an insignificant honor for the first member of the Gibson family ever to attend an institution of learning beyond Central High School.

Hardly a morning went by that Pat didn’t think to take the damned thing down. It was a reminder of a better time and a full life – thoughts that now could anger her to the point of making bad decisions.
Lord knows there have been enough bad decisions already
, she thought. Glancing one last time at the “To Do” list penciled in the open calendar on her desk, she stood and brushed a few breakfast crumbs from her blouse. It was time to get to work – the men would be waiting on her.

DA Gibson squared her shoulders and stepped outside. The sun was already a quarter high in the eastern sky, and the sudden brightness cause her to flinch, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. She was greeted with a chorus of “Good morning, ma’am,” from the gathered onlookers.

Glancing around until her eyes acclimated to the brightness, Miss Gibson inventoried the men who stood in a semi-circle around the side entrance to the Pecos County courthouse. She knew all of the six onlookers well. Four of them were what the citizens now called enforcers, ex-lawmen who didn’t bother with a uniform anymore. Long guns and badges were the only remaining hint of their pre-collapse responsibilities.

The fifth man was the town’s resident electrician who was standing next to the warden, the person responsible for the refugee camp.

“What’s on the agenda this morning, gentlemen?”

The electrician stepped forward and spoke first. “Ma’am, I’m on my way over to the Jones place again. We’re going to take an
other shot at making that water well work. I’ve got the battery-wagon all charged up.”

Pat thought about the man’s statement for a moment before replying. “Are you sure we’ve corrected yesterday’s problem?”

“Yes, ma’am. One of the batteries shorted out. I had to requisition another from the storehouse.”

“Another one? Isn’t that three already this week?”

The man avoided Pat’s gaze, choosing instead to look down at his dusty boots and mutter, “Yes, ma’am.”

Buying time to think, Miss Gibson glanced at the nearby horse-drawn wagon. Stepping over to the contraption, she studied the contents of its bed. Rows of automobile batteries rested on the wooden floorboard, each connected in a series with heavy cables that in a former life had been jumper cables. At the rear was another larger, green metal box that the engineer called an “inverter,” a device used to convert the electricity generated by the batteries into more usable current.

Turning back to the nervous electrician, she asked, “How many batteries are left in the warehouse?”

“I’m not exactly sure, Miss Gibson. I would estimate there are about 20 left.”

Pat wasn’t happy with that answer. “You would
estimate?
You can’t
count
to 20? I want to see those inventory sheets on my desk first thing in the morning. Every single battery had better be accounted for, or we will be hunting for a new electrician. Do I make myself clear?”

“Ye…
Ye… Yes ma’am,” stuttered the linesman.

DA Gibson stepped closer and pointed with her finger. “If I find that you’ve been trading our precious batteries for something like whiskey, you’ll have more to worry about than finding another line of employment.”

Pat’s threat caused the enforcers to chuckle, but they all knew it wasn’t a laughing matter. Shortly after the collapse, the DA had organized a seizure of every unused automobile battery in town. The move had saved hundreds of lives.

Unlike many small towns, Fort Stockdale’s water wasn’t supplied by a single well. The berg’s location on the high desert plains had forced the city’s planners to drill several smaller wells into the pockets of life-giving liquid trapped in the limestone below. When it became clear that the electrical service wasn’t going to return quickly, DA Gibson had organized a mobile power plant that traveled around the town and pumped water into the above ground storage tanks.