Bennington got out and motioned for Rich and his passengers to stay in their truck. Bennington talked to his fellow cop at the roadblock. The FC came over and Bennington started to explain something to them. Then he came over to Rich’s side of the truck and said, “You need to get out and get your ID. The rest of you should stay in the truck.” Bennington looked at Pow and Ryan as if to say, “You jump out of this truck and you’ll be dead.”
Bennington walked to the back of the truck and told Pow and Ryan to stay put. They nodded. Their hands were still at their sides. They looked professional, like they’d been through roadblocks before.
Pow, who did not suffer from a lack of self-esteem when it came to his tactical abilities, was glad to have a combat Marine like Ryan on the Team. He realized he had plenty to learn from Ryan and others. Pow had never mistaken himself for a professional, he just played the part very well, which was important out there. Appearing to be a trained fighter could save his life and the lives of others.
Pow loved every minute of this. Even though he was literally in the crosshairs of a sniper, he thoroughly enjoyed sitting in the back of the truck with Ryan, armed to the teeth and out there helping people like Cindy and the people who needed the medical supplies. It took a different kind of person to enjoy this. And Pow, Ryan, and the rest of the Team were that kind of person. They were great people to have on your side.
The Blue Ribbon Boys and the FC did not appear to be loving this. It was another morning of work for them. They’d been standing there, bored out of their minds, for hours. They were just doing this for the FCards and their cut of the loot that came through.
It wasn’t clear what motivated the FC to be doing this. Maybe they genuinely wanted to save the town from Patriot “terrorists.” Whatever good Samaritan impulses they had were gone by now; about two weeks into the Collapse, the FC with the Blue Ribbon Boys were just doing it for the loot. It was amazing how quickly old ideals like “community service” disappeared from many people. This was a business now.
As he was getting out of the truck to get his ID, Rich was taking in all he could about the roadblock. The number of men, the number and apparent organization of the FC, and the communications equipment they had. Rich had no intention of attacking the roadblock later, but he had gotten into the habit of evaluating every group of armed people and seeing if he could think of a weakness in their defenses. He was doing it now without even thinking.
Rich noticed the boredom and lack of enthusiasm of the guards. They wouldn’t fight to the death. They would fire a few rounds and look for an escape route. Rich contrasted the Blue Ribbon Boys with the Pierce Point guards. Most of the Pierce Point guards would fight to the death. They were defending their homes and neighbors, not running a racket like these guys. It was an entirely different set of motivations. Rich expected some of the Pierce Point guards to fold under fire, but there would be enough hanging in the fight to motivate the ones who wanted to run away. Probably. Rich hoped he’d never have to find out.
Rich went to the person Bennington pointed to; an FC guy with a clipboard who looked like he had previously worked his whole life in some government office. The FC guy handed the clipboard to Rich and said, “Fill this out.” It was an application. What a joke. No one would ever “process” this. What were they going to do? Deny his application? Rich had paid good money—well, actually, an AR—for safe passage into town. It was absurd to think the FC had any real control over his safe passage. Winters did. Everyone knew that.
The application was just another bureaucratic paperwork thing. The FC guy could tell his boss back at some headquarters in Olympia or wherever that they issued a certain number of passes when, in reality, the only thing that mattered was that Commissioner Winters and his people said certain people got the IDs. The application seemed like a prop to maintain the mirage that there was a functioning and impartial government. That was a better impression to leave the population with than the truth: government-run gangs were in charge.
Rich filled out the form. Under “occupation,” he put “security contractor.” He chuckled to himself. He had never actually thought of himself as one, but now, having to name his occupation, he thought that the term fit. The application had a part that said the applicant swore allegiance to the United States and agreed to accept the emergency powers temporarily being used to restore order. It had a box for their initials. Another total joke. What? Like initialing a box meant that they actually pledged their life to some non-existent thing like a functioning United States? The application was supposed to instill confidence that there was a real government agency working hard for the people. It produced the exact opposite effect on Rich. He initialed the box and sighed.
He handed the clipboard back to the FC guy, who checked it over and sent Rich over to a Blue Ribbon Boy. That guy handed Rich a foot-long and two-inch wide cloth strip in a distinctive purple and gold pattern that, indeed, would be impossible to duplicate. They must have had some big piece of this cloth and used it to make these IDs. Pretty clever, really. “Put it on your left arm,” the Blue Ribbon Boy said, pointing to his own cloth strip tied around his arm. Rich did so. Now Rich had an official pass to go to town. Funny. He didn’t need to pay a bribe or have special permission to go to town in the past. This was life in Collapse America.
Rich just stood there. He didn’t want to make any sudden moves. Finally, he asked the Blue Ribbon Boy who handed him the ID, “Can I go back to my truck now?” The boy nodded. Rich went back to this truck.
He got in and Cindy asked, “How will it work for me getting the supplies?”
“Dunno,” Rich said. “Bennington will tell us.”
A minute or two later, Bennington came up to Rich’s side of the truck. “I’ll ride with you,” he said motioning for Rich to let him in the cab. Rich motioned for Cindy to get into the extended cab behind them. “Sorry,” Rich mouthed to Cindy. She understood. The guy with the directions needed to be up front.
When Bennington got into the cab, he said to Rich, “Keep your left arm with the ID out the window.” Rich nodded.
As Rich pulled away, Ryan in the back of the truck nodded to the Blue Ribbon Boys and FC and said, “Have a nice day, gentlemen.” They nodded back. This was just business.
Rich wondered why Bennington didn’t just have them follow him in his patrol car. Maybe to save gas?
Once Bennington was in the cab, Rich realized why. He was telling Rich a lot about the conditions in town. Bennington wanted to brief Rich in person, which meant in Rich’s truck. That seemed a little odd. Why didn’t Bennington care what Rich knew about the conditions in town? Rich got the feeling that Bennington was trying to get him on his side. For something. Rich didn’t know what, but Bennington was definitely trying to get Rich on his side.
They came up to another check point. It only had two guys; two Mexicans. “That’s the Mexican sector or ‘Mexi Zone’ as we call it,” Bennington said. “Basically, they are keeping other people out and running things in there themselves. Apparently there was some white guy who pulled an AK on them in one of their grocery stores a few days ago. They’re taking care of themselves,” Bennington said.