The Rule of Three (27 page)

“Make sure you get the tank filled up, and then get somebody else to steer it down the hill into the neighborhood,” Brett said.

Each vehicle was being filled up at the gas station, with gas hand-pumped out of the big underground storage tank, and then it was steered down the hill into the neighborhood, safe and filled with precious fuel to be used for other working vehicles or for the generators.

“I can take it all the way!” the kid behind the wheel said.

Brett leaned into the truck and I could feel his glare without having to see it.

“You drive it to the gas station, and then somebody else, somebody who has a driver’s license, drives it down.”

“It’s not like it has an engine that works or—”

“Are you arguing with me?” Brett asked. “You don’t drive it.”

“I won’t,” the kid said, although he didn’t sound that convincing.

“I’ll be watching,” Brett said. He smacked the nightstick against the door and the kid jumped slightly in the seat. “This nightstick can do more than smash a window, understand?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Good. Now get going,” Brett said. He turned to the other kids. “Get in gear!”

They put their shoulders into the back of the truck and started pushing it away. The kids were all still laughing and joking around. This whole thing had the feel of a charity car wash. I guess part of the reality check was the weapon I was wearing and the sentries posted along the length of the road, rifles in hand.

“A couple of those kids could use a swift kick to the rear,” Brett said. “My father didn’t take any garbage, and me and my brothers turned out the better for it.”

I didn’t reply. My parents didn’t believe in physical discipline—my mother always said she hadn’t met any violent offenders who hadn’t had violence done to them by their parents.

“That was the last of the screwdrivers,” I said, changing the subject. “I guess we’ll have to wait until they bring back a few.”

“How many cars have we taken?” he asked.

“At least forty.”

“It’ll be good to get this section of the road clear,” Brett said. “I hope they’re working as hard on clearing Burnham Drive.”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Brett walked over to the next car—a nice Buick. He took his nightstick and swung it at the car, and the front right headlight burst into pieces.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I have to admit I like the sound of shattering glass. You sure you don’t want to smash a few windows?”

“I think I’ll pass on that.”

“Don’t say I didn’t offer. You know, if they weren’t dealing with all that paperwork crap we could be moving faster.”

“They’re just taking down the details, ownership, registration, VIN, that’s all,” I said.

“Let’s get real—we’re stealing cars.”

“The judge said it was no different from cars being towed off the highway after a snow emergency,” I said.

“No matter how you spin it, we’d still have some pretty angry people if they come looking for their cars,” Brett said.

“I guess they would be mad,” I agreed. “Although at least they’d have a full tank of gas.”

“I just wish we’d stop pretending,” Brett said. “To tell you the truth, I wish we were gathering something else.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Rumor is, there’s a herd of deer down by the river. Do you know if there’s any truth to that?”

“I’ve seen them,” I said. “We used to play down there all the time when I was a kid.”

“So you could show me where to go hunting for them,” Brett said.

“I could show you.”

“Have you ever done any hunting?”

I shook my head. “My only shooting has been at targets.”

“Hunting is so much better. Man versus animal, a real contest.”

“It would probably be a better contest if the deer had a gun,” I said, using a line Todd had once said to me.

“It’s a much more even contest if you use a bow and arrow,” Brett said.

“You’ve done bow hunting?”

“Lots of times. It’s much more personal when you’re looking the animal in the eyes.”

There was a strange look in
his
eyes. It wasn’t just about hunting. But a deer would be meat for a whole lot of people. And if one deer would help, then two would be better and a whole herd might make a huge difference.

“You just stick with me, kid, and I’ll make you a good hunter and a good police officer.”

“I think I’ll stick to being a pilot.”

“Shame you don’t have a real plane to fly.”

“It’s just about the most real thing in the air. Are you still afraid to go up with me?”

“I’m still too smart to go up with you.” He laughed, then stopped suddenly. “Uh-oh. More people coming,”

I turned and looked around. It was a family; husband, wife, and two kids, both very young. The man was pulling a wagon loaded with possessions, and the woman was pushing a grocery cart.

“They look pretty harmless,” I said.

“I think they should be turning everybody away when we’re out here working.”

“They’re just trying to get somewhere. The patrol is giving them a break,” I said.

“There’s only one break I want to be involved in and it’s this one.” He smashed the side window on the car beside him, and one of the little kids screamed out in shock.

“Sorry,” I said to the family. “We’re supposed to be doing this.”

The woman nodded and gave a hesitant, forced smile.

“We’re moving them off the road,” I added.

“You could do it without smashing all the windows,” the man said.

“Do you have a set of keys for every car in the world?” Brett snapped.

“You don’t need a set of keys if you have the right tools,” he said.

“And you have those tools?”

The man set down the handle of the wagon and then pulled a thin piece of metal out of a toolbox on the rack underneath the cart.

“I’ve seen one of those,” Brett said. “It’s a slim jim. Car thieves use them.”

“And mechanics and tow truck drivers,” the man said.

“Are you a mechanic?” I asked.

“I can fix anything with a motor—at least anything with a motor that doesn’t have a computer.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Not as interesting as what’s going on here,” he said. “What
is
going on here?”

“Maybe I could have somebody explain it to you. Look, our whole neighborhood is having supper in about an hour. Would you and your family be interested in joining us?”

“We can’t just let anybody in!” Brett snapped.

“Look, we don’t want to cause any trouble,” the man said.

“It’s no trouble. Please join us for a meal.” This was the exact type of person Herb had mentioned we needed.

“Are you sure you have enough to share?” the man asked.

“I think they can spread it to feed another four mouths. Besides, I have somebody I want you to meet.”

29

As I’d thought, Herb had been very interested in the family
I’d invited to dinner, and began asking the father—his name was Paul Robson—questions about his experience as a mechanic. After dinner, he had a quick discussion with key members of the committee, who agreed to invite the Robsons to stay and found them a temporary home with an elderly woman on my street.

Of course, the Robsons didn’t have any way of knowing that they’d be attending a funeral the next day, along with what seemed like everybody else in the neighborhood. That morning they were at the periphery of the procession—which was where I bumped into them and they thanked me again. I told them they should have been thanking the committee and not me, but they just thanked me a third time.

I wanted to be at Mike Smith’s funeral to pay my respects even though I really hadn’t known him that well. Sure, I’d seen him around the neighborhood, but I hadn’t spent any time with him. When I closed my eyes I could still see him in my mind, blood flowing from the wound, eyes clenched shut, face distorted in pain.

His wife, son, and daughter followed closely behind the casket, which was being carried by six men. The casket was a simple, handsome pine crate assembled by the new carpenter’s shop that had just gotten up and running this week. Once again Todd’s father had taken the lead.

We had no funeral home or cemetery, and we didn’t even have a church, a temple, or any other place of worship, although we did have a Methodist minister in the neighborhood. He was to lead the service.

It had been a long time since Smith’s death, and the body had been stored in the cooler at the grocery store, the generator keeping the body on ice. It would have been better to put him in the ground earlier, but between the family and the committee there had been lots of argument about how and where he was going to be buried.

My mother said one of the differences between humans and animals was how we treated our dead. But I knew that we hadn’t treated the dead very well lately. There were those dead men along the driveway at the Petersons’ farm and those men killed trying to invade our neighborhood, but this was different. Mike Smith was one of ours.

There were hundreds of people. It seemed like everybody who wasn’t on duty or working was here. It was as if it were more than just a funeral—more like a
wedding
—a ceremony to join together everybody in the neighborhood. Herb had said it was good to have a funeral because it reminded people what was at stake: life and death.

The line of people snaked along the edge of the field, underneath the lifeless power lines, down the creek, through an open gate in the fence, and beneath the highway overpass above the creek. It was strange to see all of these people—some really dressed up—negotiating the rough, narrow path. Above their heads the highway was silent and empty; all of the abandoned cars had been harvested. It was a smooth, barren stretch of asphalt and cement. I thought about how it would be a nice landing strip for my ultralight or how even a Cessna could put down there. I wouldn’t admit it to Brett, but I wished that’s what I had. A Cessna could have taken me to Chicago and back, with my father at the controls for the return flight.

The spot for the burial had been chosen just on the other side of the highway. It was outside the neighborhood but still close. The soil was soft enough to dig, and most important, there was enough space for others to be buried there as well. When my mother had told me that last part it had sent a chill up my spine. We all knew there would be more bodies, but hearing her say it made it more real. How many more people would die before this was all over?

As the mourners assembled around the grave site, I took up a position well off to the side and to the rear. Still, I was close enough to hear the sobs of his family. The minister started talking, but I couldn’t make out more than a word or two. I actually didn’t care what he was saying. It wasn’t like any words were going to make Mike come back or change what his family was feeling.

I looked away, back to the highway, and saw Herb atop the overpass, looking down at the ceremony. He had a scoped rifle strapped to his back. That made the whole thing more real and less real all at once. Here we were at a funeral for a man who was shot defending our neighborhood, and Herb was up there ready to defend the funeral itself. I realized that I wanted to be up there with him more than I wanted to be down here.

Slowly I backed away, leaving the Robson family behind, and then moved quietly through the underbrush. I scaled the side of the embankment and then climbed over the guardrail and onto the highway. Herb acknowledged my presence with a subtle nod. From this distance I could see everything but hear nothing. That detachment made me feel better.

“It’s good to get him in the ground,” Herb said.

“I guess it will give his family some comfort.”

“I wasn’t thinking about their comfort so much as the need to dispose of the body. It’s never good to have bodies piling up,” he said in typical Herb fashion.

“Nope, I guess not. At least we’re doing the right thing here today.”

“We are. Not just for the family, but for the neighborhood. All those people being here is part of us coming together. These are the events that bond us as a unit and prepare us for what is still to come.”

“I think people are working well together,” I said.

“That’s to be expected in the initial stages.” He looked off into the distance. “The scavenging team is out again looking for food.”

“Is that where Brett is?”

“Yes, he’s leading security on that team.”

“Is he going to be in charge of security for all the trips outside the neighborhood?” I asked.

“Maybe not all, but many of them. His skills and temperament are better suited to
doing
than to standing and waiting.” He paused. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” I said. “It’s just that I don’t know if I really … well … I don’t know how to say it.”

“You don’t know if you trust him?” Herb asked.

“I guess that’s it. I don’t trust his moods. He just seems so unpredictable,” I said.

“He is a wild card, but I think he’s better when he’s acting than when he’s thinking. We can put that to work for us. We’ll see how that plays out.”

“Makes sense. I guess even I’d feel more secure going somewhere if he was there with me.”

“I’m going to ask a construction team to take down the walls on this side of the highway,” Herb said. “We can use the material to extend our wall along Erin Mills Parkway and clear our field of vision across the highway and into the fields on the other side.”

“Would you think of taking over those fields and planting crops over there?” I asked.

“I’m not sure we can extend our security across the highway to ensure that we wouldn’t simply be planting to allow somebody else to harvest. There’s no point in sowing without reaping, but we’ll— Hold on.”

Herb took the walkie-talkie that was strapped to his waist and raised it to his face. “I see a group of people, four or five, coming out of the woods to the north. Dispatch a team. Do you read me?”