“Sure.”
“Well, that’s the only real rule which applies nowadays, at least in the less civilized parts of the country.”
Jerry seemed to ponder this. “And in Oneida?”
“Oneida is probably one of the last holdouts against anarchy and lawlessness.”
“I was expecting you to say something about freedom,” Jerry said, rather surprised.
“The truth is, we’re not quite there yet. But if we can win this war then we can begin working in that direction. Look, for the most part, the people in Oneida have security. At least far more than the folks who’ve chosen to remain on the outskirts of town and be vulnerable to bandits. And yet, in spite of that security, I still can’t allow people to do as they please. Everyone has to pitch in…” John paused and swallowed hard, unable to help thinking of Emma. “Anyway, you get what I’m saying.”
“You’re starting to sound like a president,” Jerry joked.
“I was elected mayor of Oneida,” John told him, shaking his head. “But under protest, I might add.”
“There’s a first. Most of the politicians I know are foaming at the mouth for power.”
John grew quiet. His main interest was in keeping his family and the community around him safe. If the best way to do that was by assuming the helm, then so be it. Dictatorship had become a nasty word over the last hundred years, but the term as it was originally conceived by the early Romans during the republic had a humility to it that had been lost over the centuries. When the republic was at war or under serious threat, the two consuls who ruled would step aside and allow a dictator to take the helm. The idea was that in times of crisis, a leader with unhampered powers was the best choice to get the job done. But once that threat had been dealt with, the dictator was expected to step down, allowing the consuls and senate to take back the reins of power. This was how John imagined his role, not as a stepping stone to something larger, but as his duty to those around him. A duty that, once completed, he could relinquish in order to return to a simpler life.
“I mentioned to you before about the war we were in,” John said. “And I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t flinch.”
Jerry rolled down the window to let some warm early fall air stream in. “Oak Ridge is a government town, John, don’t forget.”
“So you know then?”
“It would have been hard not to. I mean, I worked at the Y-12 National Security Complex in Oak Ridge, which is in charge of dismantling outdated nuclear weapons. It was built during World War Two as part of the Manhattan Project to help build the first atomic bomb.” Jerry made a clicking sound with his teeth. “We didn’t get the nickname Atomic City for nothing. After the power went out, we spent a few days on lockdown. Then a handful of military units rolled in. They might still be there, guarding the stockpile. It’s too dangerous to move, especially given the lack of vehicles. I heard nearly every able-bodied soldier we had left was heading west to meet the Chinese and Russians. But that’s all I know.”
“Don’t forget the North Koreans,” John said. “Every few days we get a status report from the front.”
“I’m afraid to ask where that is.”
“At the moment, it seems to be along the Mississippi river, but as you know, that could change at any moment.” John was still thinking about Jerry’s work at the National Laboratory. “What specifically were you in charge of down there?”
Jerry waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing cloak-and-dagger, if that’s what you mean. I wasn’t dismantling nuclear warheads. I’m a meteorologist, part of a small team that monitored the weather with satellites and high-altitude balloons.”
“I would never have made that connection between nuclear disarmament and the need for weather analysis,” John admitted.
Jerry laughed. “No harm done. The connection seems tenuous until you watch what radiation does when it gets into the atmosphere. It can travel, like a poisonous cloud, with the potential to kill millions. That was why they needed us. If there was ever an accident, we had to know right away which towns and cities were in its path. Think of what happened at Fukushima in Japan.”
John grew quiet, deep in thought.
Jerry cleared his throat. “I hope I haven’t bored you.”
“No, not at all,” John said, gripping the wheel. “Quite the opposite. You’ve given me an idea.”
Chapter 19
The trip back to Oneida was uneventful. Jerry continued to tell John about his life. He was a fifty-two-year-old bachelor who had just discovered internet dating before the world as we knew it came crashing down. He spent twenty minutes telling John a horror story about taking a woman out who happened to be mentally unstable and how she’d stalked him for weeks, driving past his home honking at all hours of the night.
After two more similar stories, John came to the conclusion that Jerry might be smart, but he certainly wasn’t wise. At least not in the ways of love.
In the end, a trip to scavenge parts to build himself a hot water system for his house was what had landed Jerry in trouble. The hot water system, however, made listening to Jerry’s cringeworthy stories worth it. He’d coiled a hundred feet of five-by-eight-inch rubber tubing on his roof and used a hand pump to draw water down a pipe and out a shower nozzle. The water in the black rubber tubes would be heated by the sun’s rays. A system like this would no doubt work wonders in many of the states further south, but being able to have a warm bath without boiling water was still something to consider.
Not long after this, the convoy came to the first layer of Oneida’s defenses, the Cecil bridge over the New River. On the north side were foxholes manned by men armed with AK-47s looted from the Chairman’s captured resupply trucks. If they ever got their hands on more heavy weapons, John would love to set up a concealed .50 cal overlooking the bridge. Artillery and mortar teams could also be set up within range to rain down destruction on anyone dumb enough to attack. Once Moss’ people returned from collecting the explosives from the local coal mines, they could begin setting up charges on both sides of the bridge as well as under it in order to blow the thing up in a worst-case scenario. Each of the major highways into town would also have a forward observer concealed a few hundred meters ahead of the defensive line in order to warn the men in the foxholes of any approaching enemies.
Blocking the road before them were two sentries standing behind a heavy chain that stretched from one end of the bridge to the other. John slowed his pickup and waved out the window as they got closer.
“Mission accomplished?” a craggy-faced man named Gordon asked. He had bags under his eyes and droopy facial features which made him look in dire need of some sleep.
“We got what we went for, but not everyone made it, I’m afraid.”
Gordon undid the chain. “How many casualties?”
“Three,” John told him, not in the mood to go into details at the moment. He rolled through the checkpoint and picked up speed as he cleared the foxholes.
A similar exchange played out each time John and the others crossed additional checkpoints. It seemed that in the hours since they’d set out this morning, Moss’ men had been busy digging in.
Finally, they reached the town proper and were greeted by a sight which made John smile. The .50 cal Colonel Edgar had given them was now mounted onto the bed of a Toyota pickup, a sight which made John wonder if he were living in Mogadishu, not a rural town in the United States.
Manning the Ma Deuce was none other than Moss.
John stopped the car, the other vehicles in the convoy moving past him toward the mayor’s office.
“You couldn’t resist the urge, could you?” John asked, laughing.