He and his family looked like third-world refugees, arriving with barely more than the dirty, torn clothes on their back. His wife sat beside him, adding to his story some, with her arms tightly wrapped around their two small children.
They’d left with more—much more—after his mother and father had begged them to stay when the power grid went kaplunk, but ultimately gave in and packed them down with gas, food, blankets, water and other supplies to see them safely home—or so they’d hoped.
If it hadn’t been for his father’s rifles that, even at this moment, were slung over their shoulders, and Xander’s constant companion, a Glock .45, they wouldn’t have made it past the first twenty miles. Luckily, Xander and his father were big hunters, so they were already familiar with their weapons.
The road home was laden with looters, robbers, gangs, and just regular people who had become desperate enough to do more damage than the former. He’d wrestled his gun away from more than one thirsty soul, and he had fought off three different small crowds of men looking to do his family harm. More than one bullet had been planted into a man’s skull, as his wife drove the Rover like their ass was on fire.
He’d foolishly thought he needed to come home to protect his assets. It wasn’t until they were halfway that he realized none of that would matter anymore: houses, cars, big-screen televisions, and all that used to define a successful life… All that mattered now was a safe shelter, food and water.
All that really mattered now was family.
And he’d nearly lost his.
With haunted eyes, and slumped shoulders, they told their tale to the people of Tullymore.
There was no food out there. No gas and no power at least as far back as Tennessee. Entire communities were razed to the ground. Fires were everywhere; houses, businesses, cars, and forests.
Law enforcement had not been seen by them even once between there and here; gangs were forming, and groups moved like herds down the roads, looking for someplace with more abundant water, and other resources.
People weren’t asking for help. They were taking it. And to say no was risking your life and the life of your family. Xander had ultimately given away everything they hadn’t eaten or drank themselves on their way home—and not always willingly.
Other things were being taken, too. Things that couldn’t be discussed in front of innocent ears. He told parts of their story with shuttered eyes, slumped shoulders and innuendos to his neighbors. The road… or out there in general… was no place for women or girls. He and his family had seen things that would give them all nightmares for years to come, and he made it clear he wished he’d stayed in the mountains with his folks—it was much safer there.
Xander was confirming what everyone else had heard; that there was no help coming, and the power grid was down… indefinitely… as far as anyone knew. The American people were on their own—fighting against each other—for every scrap of food and drop of water to be had.
“Bottom line,” Xander said, finishing his tale, “Things are going to get worse. Eventually, the bad guys will come this way, too. We need to get organized. You have no idea how scary it is out there. They will come… and they will take everything we have.”
One elderly neighbor stood up. “We’re almost out of water at my house. What’re we going to do about that?”
Another spoke up. “Where is everyone going to the bathroom? My knees are killing me from squatting out in the back yard, and that latrine we built is not big enough for this crowd. We need separate ones for the ladies, too.”
“—and toilet paper! Does anyone have some that I can have?”
“What about cleanliness? When can we get more warm baths?” a female voice yelled across the crowd, “My kids are filthy and they don’t like cold water.”
Suddenly, the crowd erupted in a cacophony of voices with questions and demands.
“—what about that pool? How long can that last us?”
“—does anyone have any salt? I can trade you something for it!”
“—we need to borrow some propane for our grill.”
“—my toddler needs diapers.”
“—what about the pharmacy?”
“—how can we wash more laundry?”
“—gonna need help building my own outhouse soon.”
“Stop!” Curt, the president of the homeowners’ association, stood up and paced in front of the noisy crowd, ready to plead his case once again with them all to heed to his superior organizational skills. “Listen to me, people. It’s been a week. Now is the time to rally. I’ll take the lead on this and I’ll be choosing a team from the existing home-owners association board. First, I’ll set up a security team to guard the entrance, and some roving guards for inside the neighborhood. Then, we’ll go door to door and collect all the food and supplies. We’re stronger together, so then when we—”
“—wait a minute, Curt,” Katie interrupted. “With all due respect, you’re not in charge of this and we’re not giving you, or anyone, our food. Jake had some good suggestions when he came by. Let’s start with implementing some more of those. First, we need to nominate a leader and maybe a board to make decisions. Then we vote. I nominate my husband, Tucker.”
Tucker gently jabbed his wife with his elbow. “Um… no. Thanks, honey, but not me,” he said and looked at Katie with wide open eyes, pleading with her to leave it alone. He knew the group as a whole wouldn’t want Curt to lead them. But he didn’t want the job either. However, asking them to nominate someone else would be like asking turkeys to vote for Thanksgiving. Right now he just wanted to keep his head down. He still had hopes they’d throw a better name up though.
Curt yelled across the lawn, “Yeah. Shut up, Katie. No one asked you anything. Keep your noisy piehole shut unless spoken to.”
Tucker’s head nearly exploded. He pounced to his feet and in three long strides, he cut the lawn between him and Curt. Without pause, he struck him in the nose with a quick jab, then stood back on the balls of his feet with his open hands up, ready for a fight. “You don’t speak to my wife—or anyone’s wife—like that, ever! Got it?”
Nods of approval and murmurs of agreement passed through the crowd like a wave, as well as some of disapproval. Curt grabbed his nose, a river of blood running through his fingers, and looked up in shock at Tucker.
“Jesus, Tucker!” he yelled in a nasally voice. “Temper much?” The shorter, stockier man backed away from his challenger, clearly having learned his lesson—again—in tangling with Tucker. Curt’s wife hurried over, handing him a cloth. He took it and rudely brushed her off, his face quickly coloring to match his nose.
He shot Tucker a look that would scare the devil, but somehow, he held his tongue.
Finally.
Sheepishly, Tucker backed up, his eyes still on Curt, and took his seat beside his wife again. Curt was right… he needed to control his temper. He couldn’t be going all MMA on people. That wasn’t his style. He didn’t want to fight; he didn’t even like fighting. What the heck was wrong with him? He looked over the crowd, finally settling his eyes on Kenny. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not be the leader. I nominate Kenny.”
Kenny looked up and beamed, puffing his skinny chest out a bit, in spite of the snickers from several in the crowd.
Curt glowered, unable to keep his mouth shut, he protested. “Hell, no. I’m not voting for Kenny—or Tucker. I nominate myself. Who’s with me?”
Tucker stood up. He didn’t want to be leader, but he couldn’t let it go to Curt; at least not without another choice. “Let’s do it right, if we’re going to do it. Anyone second the nominations?”