Holding Their Own: The Salt War (25 page)

Seconds later, the Texan entered the barn and was helping the astonished Culpepper rider up and into his saddle. He found Rocco’s assault pack, securing the small amount of food, ammo, and water to the cowboy’s saddle.

Few in the village heard the two horses race off into the night, most of the residents hoping the loud party would soon end so they could all get some sleep.    

The Cartersville festival was in full swing by the time Victor and Dr. Hanes arrived. Country and Western music drifted softly across the courthouse square, the lack of electrical power dampening the volume considerably. No one seemed to mind.

The basement of a local church had provided a long row of tables, each in the process of being stacked with food, desserts, and, according to Mr. Gospel, a recently uncovered stash of paper plates and Styrofoam cups.

Along with the miracle of disposable eatery were other staples of a time long past. Cases of soft drinks had been discovered as well as an enormous amount of canned foods. The sugary beverages were being eyed by the eager throng, generating serious crowd appeal and the most finger pointing. Few of the residents had tasted anything sweet in years.

Stan stood over the fruit table, greeting the occasional passerby as if he were Santa Claus at a corporate Christmas party. Cases of canned peaches, oranges, pineapple and other delicacies drew the attention of the townsfolk. Their eyes glimmered, and their mouths salivated at the prospect of the buffet feast being assembled.

“We’ll be open in a bit,” Mr. Gospel would smile and announce. “We’re going to have a party unlike any since the collapse.”

Earlier in the day, Gospel’s men had made the rounds, informing every vendor in the Exchange that they were expected to contribute to the evening’s feast. Victor had eagerly agreed, hoping to gain easy access to the foodstuffs, and use the spray bottle that the good doctor had in his pocket.

The merchant had closed up shop early, rushing home to put an old family bread recipe into his wood-fired oven.

The two conspirators made their way past the guards and into the food preparation area, Victor carrying one basket of loaves, the doctor another. Stan’s voice, so boisterous and close, served to motivate both men to complete their treachery with haste.

The doctor’s serum filled a small spray bottle, the green liquid forming a mist in the hurried backyard testing conducted just a few minutes ago. It was the best they could do.

People were hustling about everywhere, unpacking the crates Stan had so mysteriously uncovered, arranging prepared dishes, and working manual can openers at a furious pace. It was barely controlled bedlam.

A small army of backyard BBQ grills had been wheeled in, another crew responsible for providing the appropriate supply of timber to fire the battalion of grills. No one involved thought it was a textbook example of how to prepare for a festival, but few complained.

Victor and his accomplice were directed to a specific table reserved for breads. The two connivers began unloading each loaf, nervous eyes casting around to get a feel for the ever-present security men.

After the first few rounded hunks of bread were on display, the doctor reached into his jacket pocket and palmed the bottle. He wasn’t a magician, his sleight of hand technique lacking in dexterity and stealth.

Victor tried to block his friend’s clumsy attempt, peering around with nervous glances to make sure they weren’t discovered. “Are you going to be able to pull this off?” he asked.

“I somehow imagined this would be easier. I’m trying to stuff the bottle up my sleeve, but it won’t fit. Give me a minute, will you?”

Stan was fifteen feet away, standing next to the chief. “What’s up with those two?” he asked the lawman, nodding towards Victor and the doc.

“They sure look nervous. What is that in Dr. Hane’s hand?” the chief responded.

The two bio-terrorists were motivated, but unskilled. Neither had the experience nor training to conduct such an operation, and it was becoming more apparent with each passing moment.

Frustration and nerves began to work on the good doctor. At one point he dropped the spray bottle, bending far too quickly to scoop it back up. Victor wasn’t helping, his hand-wringing and too quick head movements drawing attention to the pair’s nefarious activities.

“Screw this,” the physician finally stated. “I’m just going to stroll down the line and keep the bottle in front of me. Try to block me with your body as much as you can.”

Victor nodded, his head pivoting back and forth, eagerly looking for any security men.

As if he was reaching for a wallet, the doctor moved the spray bottle to the inside of his jacket. Victor and he made every attempt to stroll casually to the first food table where the trays of carved meat steamed into the evening air.

Glancing right and left, the doctor uncovered and aimed his poison, pulling the small trigger pump once, twice and then a third time.  Nothing came out.

“What’s wrong?” Victor hissed, now having second thoughts about their scheme.

“Nothing… it just takes a bit to prime the pump,” came the response.

Both of them jumped when Stan’s voice sounded behind them, “Good evening, gentlemen. Are you trying to spice up our meal?”

The doctor tried to return the bottle to his jacket, but the chief’s burly hand darted out of nowhere, clutching the physician’s wrist and securing the evidence. “What do we have here?” asked the lawman.

Holding up the bottle so Stan could see, the chief then unscrewed the cap, sniffing the foul smelling substance, and then pulling away with a scowl. “Damn, Doc, what the hell is this shit?”

Neither the sawbones, nor his partner wanted to talk. Stan took his turn, smelling the pungent liquid. “Whatever it is, it’s toxic as hell. Even my untrained nose can say that for certain. What kind of poison are you trying to slaughter us all with, Doctor?”

“I’m not trying to kill anyone,” replied the doctor. “It’s not deadly. I’m not an inhumane animal like you are, Stan.”

Mr. Gospel laughed loudly, the outburst intended more for the benefit of the gathering group of security men than due to any real humor. Stan knew he had to be careful here. Victor and the doc were well liked and respected. “Do tell, gentlemen, do tell.”

“We know about the semi-trailers,” Victor managed to confess and accuse at the same time. “We know you’ve been hoarding medications, water purification supplies, and tons of cargo that could have saved hundreds of lives here in Cartersville. We are fully aware you’ve been keeping these critical items back so you could stay in power.”

Ignoring the accusations, Stan held up the spray bottle. “And this?”

“It will make people slightly ill,” the doctor chimed in. “Nothing more. My plan was to make you reveal the existence of the supplies after you and hundreds of others got sick.”

Again, the town’s honcho laughed. “Very, very clever, gentlemen. There are just two problems with your betrayal. The first is that you got caught. The second is that I’m obviously not hoarding anything – look around you at all the cases of food. Does that look like I’m hiding vital supplies? By the time we took inventory of all those trailers, the sickness and disease had passed. I was merely managing that stockpile for a rainy day.”

“And to feed your security men… to keep them happy and on the payroll,” added Victor.

Stan was obviously done with the conversation, waving a hand through the air to dismiss his accusers. “The penalty for treason is death, my friends.”

Gospel then turned to the chief and said, “Our discovery of this skullduggery will provide additional entertainment this evening. Handcuff both of them and take them to the central podium.”

The chief nodded, turning to issue instructions to his deputies. A few moments later, a small parade of law officers, Mr. Gospel and the two prisoners approached the main stage.

A hush fell over the crowd, most thinking Mr. Gospel was going to announce the much anticipated opening of the food tables. Things got really quiet when the bound physician and merchant were hauled up onto the elevated platform.

Stan bent, lifting a pre-positioned bullhorn. “Ladies and gentlemen, I bid you welcome and best wishes,” Gospel began. “We, the good citizens of Cartersville, have cause to celebrate this evening. As most of you know, a single fugitive has been troubling our good town, pulling off seemingly impossible acts that have impacted each and every member of our community.”

Pausing for effect, the smiling ruler swept his gaze over the gathering of his subjects. “For days, the chief and I have been amazed at how one man could have pulled off such miraculous feats. This evening, an explanation has been uncovered, as well as a plot of terrorism that would have killed hundreds of our friends and neighbors.”

A murmur shot through the crowd, whispered voices and grunts of surprise rising into the air.

“But thanks to the professionalism and ever diligent eye of our security forces, this barbaric plan has been foiled, the conspirators captured red-handed in the act.”

Stan motioned for the two captives to be pushed forward while at the same time holding up the spray bottle for all to see. “We just apprehended these two men with this bottle. They have confessed that it contains a deadly poison, which they were about to spray on our food line. All of you would have been seriously ill, if not dead, a few hours from now.”

Voices of outrage and shock followed the announcement, irate faces gaping at the stage.

“But fear not, fellow citizens. Our security forces have performed admirably and apprehended these criminals. So this evening….”

The doctor’s voice rang out, overriding Stan’s bullhorn. “He’s lying! He’s been lying for two years, and we have found out the truth!”

One of Stan’s men pulled up hard on the physician’s handcuffed hands, bending Dr. Hanes over in pain and cutting off his speech. It was a mistake.

The crowd didn’t like the bullying, a few strong voices rising over the din, “Let him speak!” someone shouted. “Let’s hear what he has to say!” came another.

Stan nodded at his man, the muscular ex-trucker backing off. It took a moment before the doctor could gather himself. “You all know me. I delivered half of your children, saved a good many of your lives. Let’s have a trial… a jury of my peers… and the truth will come out. Mr. Gospel might as well be named Mr. Stalin… he’s been deceiving all of us since the beginning.”

In the flickering light of the burning trash barrels, Stan saw several heads nodding up and down. The mood of the crowd was turning against him, any sort of trial completely out of the question.

Standing close, the chief inhaled deeply. He could tell by his boss’s body language that the man was barely controlling his temper, hardly able to keep his emotions in check. It reminded him of the moments before Greyson’s execution.

“What? What am I accused of doing?” Mr. Gospel screamed at the captives, spittle flying from his mouth. “What heinous falsehoods do you want to spew?”

The crowd grew silent, watching their leader’s vivid hand gestures, taken aback by his wild, darting eyes. Victor answered the question, “Have a public trial. Examine the evidence. Let the people decide what you’ve done. That’s all we ask.”

Mr. Gospel’s head trembled with rage; his jowls vibrated with wrath. In a lightning strike, he struck Victor in the head with a crushing blow, the handcuffed man knocked backward, bowling into the deputies behind him.

It was a mistake. Cries of outrage rose from the mob, several men surging forward in anger. Stan’s henchmen, manning a security picket in front of the platform, pushed back. Someone threw a rock, a woman screamed, another cried out from the crush of the throng.

The chief knew his boss was out of control, the experienced lawman keeping his regard focused on Stan, ready to intercede. When Mr. Gospel reached for the holstered pistol at the small of his back, the old cop’s instincts sent his own hand toward his weapon.

“I got your fucking trial; you son of a bitch!” Stan screamed as the nickel revolver came free of its holster.

The chief was three feet away, his service weapon clearing the holster just as Stan put the barrel of his pistol against the doctor’s temple. The cop fired three rapid shots, two hitting Mr. Gospel in the torso, the final bullet entered the brain.

Bedlam erupted across the Cartersville square.

Like a school of fish trying to escape an attacking shark, people scrambled, ran, and clamored in all directions at once. Shrieks of panic filled the air, elderly men and women knocked to the ground in the ensuing mayhem, children trampled under the pressing mob.

Stan’s body thumped hard onto the platform, Victor and the doctor flung aside as deputies and security men all reached for their weapons. One of the ex-truckers and a stalwart supporter of Mr. Gospel was drawing his gun when the image of the chief’s smoking pistol came into view.

Furious that someone had attacked the man who had saved his life, he opened up on the chief, several shots slamming into the senior lawman’s chest and head.