SurviRal (14 page)

“Of course,” Wade replied. “What else?”

Clint turned full circle and took in the scene. They had come to the southern end of gigantic Palmer Park. The dog park area, where they now stood next to their reassembled mountain bikes, was at the northern end of a wide expanse of flat ground. Only security and important guests were allowed at this spot. Policemen and armed military personnel guarded the area, where only a few other civilian vehicles were parked. That made Clint feel much safer while Harold arranged their backpacks. Who knew a congressman would ever be so useful?

Two baseball fields marked the southern end of the clearing, one bigger than the other. They were a ways off. The larger one was sectioned off, with military troops keeping people off the field. Between here and there a great crowd was gathering.

Harold seemed to know what he was doing with the backpacks, so Clint decided to trust him to take care of it all while Clint gawked at the spectacle around him. Harold had a tougher time with Jenny, but in the end she conceded to leave her flatiron behind, along with most of her makeup. When the time to return to Denver arrived, they could stop by Wade’s house in Western Colorado Springs and pick up their possessions. Maybe even beforehand, if transportation could be arranged. Harold assured Jenny that would be their top priority.

“Are you set then?” Wade asked.

“Could you wait until we get our packs on?” Clint said.

Wade nodded. Harold helped Jenny and Clint get theirs on before hoisting his own. Clint could tell Harold’s was a little heavier than theirs. His way of being chivalrous.

“Oh,” Jenny said. “It’s lighter than I thought. I can fit a few more things in it—”

“You want it light now.” Harold blocked her path back to the car. “It’ll get heavier the farther we ride. Clint?”

“Feels good.” Clint jostled his shoulders from side to side. “This might not be so bad.”

“Great,” Wade said. “You have my contact info. I wish you folks the best of luck. Remember, there’s safety in numbers. And now I’m expected on the baseball field.”

“Bye, Congressman Bennett.” Jenny squeezed his hand. “You’re an angel.”

Wade bowed like an English gentleman, released her hand, turned around and joined his escorts—one city policeman and one soldier. The sound of microphone feedback screeched in the distance as an audio system turned on.

“Let’s try to follow him,” Jenny said. “I want to see what’s happening over there.”

“That’s the way out, anyway.” Harold scanned the map Wade gave him. “Let’s move slowly through the crowd, and stick together. I’ll stay in the rear and watch for pickpockets.”

They began walking their bikes across the dirt ground of the dog park. Jenny led the way. The crowd gradually became thicker. Jenny had a bell on her bike and occasionally dinged it as her way of asking people to step aside and let them by. Not everyone was appreciative of that. One guy in particular scowled at her, but stepped out of the way when he saw Clint and Harold behind her.

The first distinct group of people they passed were the local dog owners. They were here after all, and seemed to have all gathered in one area. Many of them no doubt knew each other from walking their dogs in the park. Today they had apparently banded together to form their own small community. The larger the dog, the more confident the owner looked.

Handmade cardboard signs bloomed above the sea of heads in places. The messages ranged from religious appeals to inappropriate political extremism.

As the three of them progressed, the sound of rhythmic thumping came into earshot. It grew louder. Eventually they passed by the source of it: a drum circle. A dozen young men of vastly varying hairstyles had brought their bongos and were attempting to sedate their audience. It appeared to be working to some degree.

Beyond them a ways, a 4-piece acoustic reggae band was set up and playing. These musicians all had the same hairstyle. A small but dedicated entourage danced and bumped in uncoordinated steps before them. You couldn’t hear them well until you drew close, except for the steel drums. It was difficult to understand the singer. Clint thought he heard the words “peace mon” more times than a sober songwriter would put in the same lyrics.

Just past them, the air became thick with marijuana smoke. Clint saw someone try to pass Jenny a joint. He couldn’t blame them. Jenny was looking pretty good today, despite everything. After Jenny politely refused, she turned around, waved her hand in front of her face as if to fan away the smoke, and smiled.

Clint laughed. Oh, to be back in college again. Those were the days. The parties, the undiscerning embracing of Colorado culture, the Buffalos home games on Saturday afternoons—back when they were good. Maybe becoming a responsible adult wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

The pothead crowd proved to be nowhere near as annoying as most of the people beyond them. The closer the three of them came to the baseball diamond, the more confrontational other individuals became. Some were overly forceful in the distribution of propaganda literature. Others were bold in-your-face beggars. Still others were pushy salesmen. But the worst were those wanting to trade for whatever Jenny, Clint, and Harold had in their backpacks. It brought back unpleasant memories of that guy in the field yesterday. Clint turned to warn Harold to watch his pack, but saw that he already had it off his back and was holding it in front of him.

A man was now speaking over the audio system at the baseball field. He was hard to hear at first, but as they continued to plod forward it became obvious he was the mayor. He repeated the words “great city of Colorado Springs” almost as often as the reggae singer said “peace mon.”

Jenny eventually found a small pocket of real estate where they could stake out a temporary claim. It was up on a knoll, and had a decent view. Now they could see that the mayor spoke from the top of a newly-built platform. The only bleachers in the park were set up behind it as a staircase. The audience completely surrounded the baseball park and even spilled into the nearby streets. Most of them were standing as the mayor continued his speech.

“And now,” the mayor said, “it is my great pleasure to introduce our fifth-district congressman, Wade Bennett.”

Lots of cheers. There were some isolated pockets of booing, though, including several couples wearing tie-dyed shirts close to where Clint, Jenny, and Harold now stood with their bikes.

“There he is,” Jenny said.

They watched the congressman climb the bleachers to the platform. He waved to the crowd, smiled, and shook hands with the mayor. The mayor went down the bleachers and vanished from sight. Wade stood there for a minute before speaking, as if waiting for the noise to drop to a desirable level.

“My fellow Coloradans.”

Some resumed cheers in places.

“My fellow
Americans
.”

This time a great roar.

“My fellow humanitarians.”

Now you could hear crickets.

“What’s the matter? Shouldn’t Americans be humanitarians?”

Some resumed cheering.

“My friends, shouldn’t
Americans
continue to be the great humanitarians the world has known for more than 200 years?”

This time the cheering continued to erupt until it deafened. Even the tie-dyed shirts applauded.

“That’s what I need to talk to you wonderful folks about today. You see, it is during the time of trouble in which a person’s character is tested. This is when your neighbors find out who you really are. More importantly, it’s when
you
find out who you really are. In a moment, I’m going to ask you all to make a personal decision. As you all know, our country is currently undergoing one of the most trying times in its history.”

Absolute silence. Clint could hear the steel drums of the reggae band off in the distance.

“And ultimately, everyone will gravitate, by will or by default, into one of two camps. Each of us must now either become part of the problem, or part of the solution.”

Even the steel drums stopped now.

“There is no third alternative. Being neutral is not an option. Things have gotten too tough. To assume a position of neutrality is to become part of the problem. We all need each other’s help right now. If you are capable of seeing a fellow Coloradan in need and ignoring him, you are part of the problem, not part of the solution.”

“What about my children?” someone shouted. “We need food!”

Other such individual objections sprang forth in various spots. One woman yelled, “You passed right by me on the highway without giving me a ride, you hypocrite!” Laughter followed that statement in the area around her.

The congressman held up his hands.

“Folks, it pains me to have to confess that I, myself, have been guilty of neglect on occasion. But today I have purposed in my heart to change that! No more! I want to be part of the solution. So today I personally rescued some folks who fell victim to thieves overnight. Three people who were stranded and helpless. I came to their aide in their darkest hour. Now I’m asking all of you to do the same for each other.”

Some grumbling in places.

“I ask you: should Coloradans steal from other Coloradans?”

“No!” the crowd yelled.

“No indeed! Folks, there is no deadly flu within the borders of our great state. No one is sick here! So I ask you: is there any reason for our phone lines to be down?”

“No!”

“Is there any real reason for all our businesses to be closed?”

“No!”

“Shouldn’t we all help one another?”

Maybe half the crowd yelled, “Yes!”

“That’s not enough! If only half of you are willing to be part of the solution, the problem remains too large. I heard some of you say you’re hungry. Lots of us are hungry. I’m hungry, too. What would you say if I offered all of you a satisfying meal today?”

Wild cheering. Wade held his hands up again.

“Friends, thanks to your elected officials in Washington, lunch—and dinner—is on its way. But there’s a problem.”

More grumbling.

“The problem is this. If it were up to some people, they would get a double portion while the person next to them went hungry. Now I ask you—would that be fair?”

Slightly more than half the crowd yelled, “No!”

“And if it were up to some people, if they could get away with it, they would take a hundred portions home to store up for themselves while a hundred people went hungry today. Is that right?”

Most of the crowd now yelled, “No!”

“Can hoarding during a national emergency ever be justified?”

“No!” Cheers erupted as well.

“Should we even need guards with guns to keep mobs from rushing the drop zone?”

“No!”

“Now that’s what I want to hear. Friends, we need volunteers. Orderly helpers to assist with the distribution. Volunteers who are willing to feed
themselves
last. If you feel you can do this, I ask you to slowly come forward past the guards into the outfield. But I also must ask each and every one of you out there to be a volunteer today. I need you all to agree to be more concerned about your neighbor being fed than yourself. ‘Tis a noble cause I call you to, to forsake your inclination to be part of the problem and take a stand for human decency. But I promise you: if you do that, there will be plenty for everyone. And when it comes time for you to eat, it will be all the more delicious. Become part of the solution!”

Deafening applause and cheering. A significant number of people began herding themselves towards the field, but in a controlled fashion. Within a few minutes, they started dotting the outfield.

That’s when the aircraft noise caused everyone to look up. A line of army transport helicopters came into view overhead. When the first one was over the field, two large crates came out of either side of its open cargo hold. They fell a short ways, and then parachutes opened above them. The crowd’s reaction became uncontainable as the crates drifted down to the infield.

The helicopters behind followed in like manner. Soon the air was constantly full of floating crates, and the volunteers on the field were scrambling to organize them. Small groups of people began singing in places.

“Wow,” Jenny said. “He’s good. Maybe he should be President.”

“That notion may not be too far off,” Harold said. “Depending on where he is in the line of succession. Look, the crowd behind us is thinning. We can get to the road easily now. I think this is a good time to go.”

Clint looked around and agreed. People were moving towards the food. This would likely be their best opportunity to evade the masses and get peddling.

Harold led the way up the knoll to the nearby street. The three of them continued walking their bikes for two blocks before coming to a cross street that looked open enough for riding. Another bicyclist with a backpack sped by there. Harold consulted his map.

“This is good,” he said. “Let’s follow that other guy. We can get to the bike trail that runs alongside I-25 from here.”

“Is that the best way to go?” Clint asked.

“I think so. Figures to be the most travelled. Remember what Wade said. Safety in numbers.”

And so they mounted their bikes and rode. Clint changed gears twice before finding a comfortable pace. He thought about the task ahead of them. Cycling to La Junta—sheesh. As a Colorado resident, he’d often seen traveling cyclists, but never in a million years thought he’d ever become one of them.

They took the first few blocks slowly. Jenny rode a little squirrelly at first. She hadn’t been on a real bike in a while. It was just a matter of getting confident with her balance. Certainly not an issue with being in shape. Before the gym closed, she was good about hitting it regularly, riding the exercise bikes and even taking the occasional “spin class.” Harold was in good shape, too. If anyone was going to get sore muscles, it would be Clint.

After turning a corner, Jenny yelled for them to stop. She was having a problem with her pant leg brushing on the chain and wanted to tuck it in. That was a good idea, actually. Clint and Harold did the same.

That’s when Clint noticed the street name.