Holding Their Own: The Salt War (3 page)

Terri rested her head against his chest, enjoying the moment. After a bit, she said, “If you want me to resign from the council, I will. Our life together is far more important than anything I’m doing there.”

Bishop’s hands moved to her shoulders, holding her at arms’ length so he could peer into her eyes. “Don’t be silly, young lady. What you’re doing for the Alliance is a million times more beneficial right now. I'm just an old softie, feeling sorry for myself for not getting as much of your attention as I want. Our time will come, and it will be a better life because of the sacrifices we’re making now.”

Her cheek returned to his chest; Terri nestling in his strong embrace. “I love you,” she whispered.

After a brief, extra squeeze, he responded, “I love you, too.”

Chapter 2

“There’s no rule that says any person or community has to join the Alliance,” Nick stated firmly.

“Then what are you doing here?” came the surly response.

Nick leaned back, the folding chair issuing a creaky protest under the heavily muscled man’s weight. Knowing this was a critical point in the mission, he wanted to take his time before responding. He pondered how Bishop would reply. Terri? Diana?

“We are here merely to introduce ourselves to any isolated communities who may be unaware of the recovery. We offer an alternative… a different route. If the people of Cartersville don’t want to be a part of our effort, then so be it.”

The locals referred to the man across the table as “Mr. Gospel.” Nick’s team, during its infiltrations, had learned his real name was Henry Standowski.

Mr. Gospel was the area’s head honcho, and after trying to reason with the man, Nick was beginning to think the fellow might be a
head
case, as well.

The two representatives were seated on the courthouse lawn, aides quickly retrieving a card table and several folding chairs to facilitate the public meeting. “We make our decisions out in the open,” Standowski announced. “We let any citizen watch.”

Word had spread quickly, the temporary conference room of grass and shade soon surrounded by dozens of people. There was a stranger in town, a man who claimed to be from some newly formed government, and he’s meeting with Gospel.

Rising from his own lawn chair, Mr. Gospel scanned the surrounding crowd that had gathered to watch the proceedings. His expression progressed from contemplative to irate.

“When civilized society ceased to exist,” began the middle-aged man. “I was running the local Teamsters 157. Cartersville had been blessed with one unique advantage at that time - we were smack-dab-center between Dallas, Texarkana, and Shreveport. The interstates had saved what was a dying town. Every freight company operating west of the Mississippi wanted a facility here. The mechanics, truck stops, tire stores, and other infrastructure soon followed.”

Mr. Standowski paused, sweeping his arm across the horizon. “These people,” he continued, “all the hearty souls left in Cartersville, owe their lives to the teamsters. When I realized the government wasn’t coming back, I sent out the word as far as our CB radios would carry – bring your rig to our town; we’ll protect you. And they did… by the hundreds they rolled in, carrying trailers stocked with food, tankers full of fuel, cattle cars, and chickens by the thousands.”

“And you’ve done
a remarkable
job, Mr. Standowski,” Nick smiled. “Those were trying times for everyone, and I can see with my own eyes that the fine citizens of Cartersville have fared better than most.”

“I spread the good word over the air waves,” the man continued, ignoring Nick’s compliment. “And then I approached the mayor and city council advising them, ‘Let the teamsters in. Welcome those drivers; you’ll be glad you did.’”

Nick decided to let the man go, simply nodding in acknowledgment. It was a good play as Mr. Gospel clearly wasn’t finished addressing his flock.

“According to the drifters I’ve talked to, Cartersville is probably the only town in the area whose population actually increased after the collapse. Our people didn’t starve like everywhere else. Our folks didn’t suffer. But it wasn’t easy, young man.”

Standowski spread his hands wide, still making his case. “When the stragglers started showing up, I spoke up again. ‘Shut the gate,’ I told the mayor. ‘Those folks have nothing to offer our community. They will bleed our food and medicine stores dry, and when it’s all gone, there will be trouble.’ But they didn’t listen. They were soft men with charitable souls, and we all paid a steep price for their generosity.”

Nick was curious now, the man he was negotiating with taking it upon himself to fill in a lot of the blanks.

Mr. Gospel continued, his growing passion obvious in his voice as his tale progressed. “We took up arms. I had my union boys and a lot of the truckers. We even got the chief of police to join us, but it was too late. The first wave was the flu; the second was cholera. Dysentery took its share of lives as well. We were resource poor… lacking drugs for our ill and having no way to process the sewage. We buried hundreds of friends and neighbors.”

Cartersville’s leader turned and scanned the crowd, his voice carrying to the masses. “You all remember what that was like, don’t you?” Then, without waiting for anyone to answer, he continued, “Well, of course you do. How could any of us forget?”

Nick looked around, noting the dozens of heads nodding in agreement.

“My heart ached for the people we had to turn away. They were truly the unwashed masses, hundreds of coughing, begging, sickly souls. But we had to keep them and their diseases out of our town. Some left peaceably; some didn’t. It was necessary to deal harshly with the troublemakers.”

“I’ve seen and heard similar accounts from all over Texas,” Nick stated. “It was a struggle for every city and town. You all should be proud of how well you weathered the storm. But things are getting better. There is a recovery in process… tens of thousands of like-minded survivors who now have electricity, medical care, fuel for cars and trucks, and full bellies. I came here today to extend the hand of friendship, to invite you to join the new nation we’re trying to build.”

Standowski tilted his head, digesting Nick’s spiel. It didn’t take long before he pronounced his judgment. “Not interested,” he stated bluntly. Then, addressing the throng, he began to explain his decision. “Most of you call me Mr. Gospel… a man who spreads truth and the good word. So please, listen to my words again. We’ve seen every con man, criminal, desperado and villain imaginable approach our community. They’ve all been polished, smooth, and seemingly above board. Yet in every, single case, these charlatans have caused harm to Cartersville. We don’t need any Alliance. We’re doing just fine. It was big government that caused all of our pain and suffering the last time. Washington and Austin made all kinds of high-sounding promises before, and look what happened. No thank you, Mr. Alliance. We’re not interested.”

Mr. Gospel’s eyes bored into Nick, almost daring the envoy to debate his logic. But the bait wasn’t taken.

Spreading his hands, Nick sighed, “As you wish.”

Nick rose from the card table, extending his hand to Mr. Gospel. The gesture was ignored. Instead, Standowski turned to his second in command and began whispering orders.

The gathered throng divided, allowing a path for Nick to make his exit, many of the onlookers staring rudely at the foreigner in their town. Glancing at his watch, the big man realized the negotiations hadn’t taken nearly as long as he’d planned. Kevin and the rest of the team wouldn’t arrive at the rendezvous point for another four hours.

It was supposed to have been a simple introduction to the Alliance, one of a dozen ongoing operations occurring throughout what had been the state of Texas. Small teams were spreading out, scouting the local populations, introducing the new government to any leadership, and extending a friendly hand to let them know that a recovery was in process. Given its fascination with labeling everything with an acronym, the military had dubbed the peaceable missions SAINTs – or Scout, Approach, INtroduce, and Transition. Members of the teams charged with performing such assignments referred to them as “Pandoras” instead, because the emissaries never knew what to expect.

Cartersville also was important strategically to the Alliance’s future growth. As Mr. Gospel had stated, the town was located in a prime location for transportation, and more importantly, it was key to the region’s most prominent natural resource – timber.

Recovery meant rebuilding, and that required lumber. Trees had to be harvested and milled, the finished product then transported to distribution centers where end users could access the desperately needed raw material. Cartersville boasted massive numbers of semi-trailers, close proximity to major interstates, and resided smack-dab in the middle of the Great Piney Woods.

When Nick’s SAINT team had been tasked with the critical assignment, the council’s planners had referred to the small berg as a “twofer,” meaning the Alliance could receive double benefits from one mission – if they pulled it off.

Since the collapse, the Alliance had encountered a variety of social hierarchies that had formed to fill the vacuum in leaderless communities. When federal, state, and local government collapsed, it was only human nature for some form of organization to occupy the void.

They had confronted everything from escaped convicts combatting church groups to local business leaders using their corporate assets to establish control. Law enforcement assumed command over some areas while rogue military units had become dominant in others.

While the Alliance teams had no way of predicting the specifics for any given town or community, a few reoccurring trends had quickly emerged.

Groups sporting a chain of command and organizational structure before the collapse were provided an advantage afterward. Almost every replacement “administration” they encountered had existed in one form or another before the world had gone to hell. It didn’t matter if the chain of command was based on religion, race, gang affiliation, or business… having an in-place hierarchy, known leadership, communications, and some level of trust allowed these groups to rise to power, establishing their positions faster than any random caucus of previously unassociated citizens.

The second trend was the most troubling. In the hell on earth of the aftermath, democracy had ceased to exist. Darwinism had prevailed in practically every hamlet and metropolitan area across the wasteland that had been the United States. The strongest had not only survived, but also subjugated their surrounding areas. Often this resulted in brutal dictatorships enforcing draconian measures on the meeker population.
Wolves and sheep
, Nick thought.
It’s always been that way, always will be. Some days, I feel like a sheepdog, leading the downtrodden to safety.

At first, it had been easy for the Alliance leadership to criticize these desperate reformations of society. Brute strength, the best firearms, or possessing the most ammunition seemed such anti-American processes of establishing leadership. But as time wore on, it became apparent that in many cases, there simply hadn’t been any viable alternative. The heavy-handed corporate executive may have taken over the town out of desperation, perhaps rallying survivors to bury the bodies so the entire population didn’t succumb to virulent plagues. Maybe gangs of nomadic raiders had been robbing the locals blind, picking them off one by one, thus forcing the community to form a militia to defend itself.

The third trend occurred naturally. Power is a seductive temptress, and many of the leaders encountered by the Alliance simply didn’t want to give up their hard-won positions any more than they would like walking away from a sensual woman. While there were exceptions, those were far and few between. Once tasted, men develop an undeniable craving for control and influence. Galveston Island had been one of the more notable examples as of late, as were Meraton and Fort Davidson. Even then, the lack of communications, nonexistent infrastructure, and a healthy dose of distrust made initial contact with each of these communities difficult, if not dangerous. Thousands had already died due to early missteps and mistakes in the reintegration process.

“So much for getting lucky,” Nick whispered as he negotiated the town. “Figures I’d run into one of the more Machiavellian groups. Damn it, Bishop... of all the times for you to want to work on your tan.”

He headed toward the small city park where he’d been instructed to pitch his tent. All of the town’s motels or hotels were occupied, converted into apartments to accommodate the influx of truck drivers that descended on the tiny berg. There wasn’t a boardinghouse or inn available. Visitors were allowed to camp, the temporary housing area scrutinized carefully by several armed deputies. Everyone referred to the place as “Shantytown.”

Deciding he’d grab a quick meal and then catch up on some sleep, Nick was actually pleased with how the operation was progressing. A seed had been planted. Whether or not it grew was out of his control. He’d done his job, accomplishing an introduction without bloodshed on either side.

He meandered across the town square, nodding politely to passersby, smiling at anyone who made eye contact. His path took him through what the locals called the “Exchange,” two closed streets that resembled Meraton’s now-famous market. Unlike the West Texas community’s place of commerce, the Exchange was closely monitored and tightly controlled. Taxes were collected, fees charged, disputes dealt with harshly. Mr. Gospel and his men ran the whole show. They had even taken to printing their own currency.

Wishing he had more time to study and observe, Nick made his way down the bustling street, hawkers offering him everything from dry goods to homemade remedies for whatever ailed him. 

It was all so interesting. Here, in rural northeastern Texas, was a textbook example of a city-state under feudal rule of law. Cartersville had a king, noblemen, coin of the realm, and even a castle-keep of sorts – the downtown area being walled off with roadblocks, patrols, semi-trailers, and guard towers. It was a microcosm of Europe’s Middle Ages, unveiled right before his eyes.

As he ambled through on his way to Shantytown and his camp, Nick studied the faces of customers and vendors alike. These citizens submitted willingly to Mr. Gospel’s rule, supporting the primitive form of government by their mere presence and participation. They all seemed content enough, buying, selling, and browsing through the open-air bazaar.