Renewal 6 – Cold

By J.F. Perkins

Copyright 2011 J.F. Perkins

Kindle Edition

Website/Blog: http://www.jfperkins.com

Twitter: @WriterJFPerkins

Renewal 6 – Cold

Chapter 6 – 1

Terry woke to the light brushing of a hand on his shoulder. His neck was stiff from lolling to the side, propped as he was on a hard wooden bench. He blinked heavily and remembered. It was late afternoon. He was sitting in Bill and Aggie Carter’s living room, in what he considered the most public room of the house. He remembered choosing the spot out of courtesy rather than comfort. He had slept in this house before, but he still felt like a stranger, a relative newcomer to the scene.

He looked up to see Aggie smiling down at him. “Come on, Terry. Let’s get something to eat.”

Terry nodded blearily, and got to his feet. His first movement demonstrated that it wasn’t just his neck. His entire body was stiff, verging on soreness, and he got his first taste of the letdown that comes from the end of a hard mission. He had been wound up tightly for days, and only now was his mind stepping down from the heightened state of awareness and adrenalin, revealing the fatigue underneath.

He followed Aggie into the kitchen, where she had already prepared a meal and arranged it on the kitchen table by the broad window overlooking the crop fields of Teeny Town. The table and chairs were a striking contrast to the earthen style of the kitchen. He sat down in the chair Aggie offered, and absently ran his fingers along the bright aluminum trim that bound a tabletop of pink Formica, flecked with green. Privately, Terry thought it was hideous, but he was willing to overlook the table in favor of a bowl of chili sprinkled with diced raw onion and some kind of crumbly white cheese. Aggie sat down across from him and grasped a steaming mug of herbal tea. Terry had no way to identify it over the rich aroma wafting from his bowl.

“Go ahead, Terry. I’ve already eaten.”

“Thank you,” he replied, and picked up the heavy spoon.

Aggie missed nothing, it seemed. “You know, this table came from my childhood home. It belonged to my grandparents first. They gave it to my parents, right after I was born. This was the table where I ate Fruit Loops in a highchair. And yes, it’s ugly.”

“Well, as long as it’s not here for decoration...”

Aggie laughed. It was a rich, mellow sound that made Terry smile automatically. He felt proud for having gotten that response. His humor was a protection of sorts, but it felt risky to use it around the wife of the center of his new world, and he was forced to admit, the mother of a certain redhead.

“Give me some credit for taste, Mr. Shelton,” Aggie said, still chuckling.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied between rapid mouthfuls.

“So, word has it that you were a big part of the success in Nashville.”

“I see it more like I was a lucky part of the win. I had no idea what I was doing for most of it.”

“And yet you did it very well...”

“It was all very fast. I just did whatever flew in my face.”

“Well, Mr. Modest, you know my main interest. What happened with Bill?”

Terry set the spoon in his empty bowl. “I was on the river docks in Nashville, and I couldn’t get the boats free. I was trying to cut them loose from the dock when a whole bunch of bad guys came out the door of the building. I saw Bill step out into the open to attack them, and I was just sort of watching it happen. Then the other bad guys came out of the boat on the far side of the barge and started shooting at me. I dove off the end of the dock to get out of their fire, but I remember thinking that Bill needed help. I scrambled up the bank. It felt like I was taking forever, like I couldn’t move. When I got over the edge, I saw Bill get hit and this weird noise went off in my head. Sort of like a gong sound...” Terry paused at that point, giving some thought to the sound in his head.

“Go on...”

“Well, it’s hard to explain. Everything slowed down. I remember wondering where my rifle had gone. It seemed like a long time before I remembered my handgun. I pulled it and took my time aiming at the man. I think it was the man who shot Bill. He was still aiming at Bill and adjusting downward. I saw this... I don’t know, some sort of outline on the man. I pulled the trigger. I saw the hit, figured ‘next’ and just kept aiming and shooting until I ran out of bad guys. It seemed like they were just standing there waiting to be shot, so I shot them.”

Terry shrugged. It sounded completely ridiculous to say it out loud.

Aggie looked as if his story was entirely plausible. “Well, I’d say you need to talk to Kirk before too long. That sounds a lot like his reports. We’ve all seen him in action and it looks like magic. To hear him tell it, he casually stuck a knife in a wax statue.”

“Just a minute later, I tried to shoot the guy untying the boat and I missed the entire boat.”

“Again, talk to Kirk. He has some kind of natural talent that he treats like a wayward child. I get the sense that he has spent his entire life trying to control it.”

“It would be nice to understand what happened. I still feel like someone else did it. I was just an observer.”

“Well, Mr. Shelton... I am sure glad that you were there to observe. Thank you for bringing Bill back in one piece.”

Terry blushed, looked down like a small boy and mumbled, “You’re welcome.”

Aggie got up and took Terry’s bowl to the sink. She came back with a bottle of the Teeny Town local beer, and set it in front of the young man. While he was suffering from embarrassment, she decided to up the ante. “Sally’s on watch, down at post twelve, by the middle lake. There’s still plenty of daylight if you’re up to a walk.”

Terry looked up, mentally switching from the embarrassment of Aggie’s focus to a more calculating version of himself. “I can take the walk, but I think I need a full night’s sleep before I face Sally again. She’s hard work.”

“Smart man. Let me set up the guest room for you. No matter what my precious daughter says, you are always welcome in our home. Thank you again.” Aggie gave him a long look, before she turned and left the kitchen.

Terry sat quietly, sipping his beer, wondering what was happening to him.

Chapter 6 – 2

A persistent wooden knocking pulled Terry out of a restless dream. The fog cleared from his mind, and he watched the translucent beams of sunlight hovering in the room. The knocking resumed, and realizing what had interrupted his dream, he felt a brief surge of irritation. Curiosity took the lead and he followed the sound down the hall. He identified the source as Bill and Aggie’s room, and tapped quietly on the door.

“Get in here!” Bill’s muffled voice called.

Terry opened the door and found Bill still in bed, beating the plank floor with the impromptu cane Kirk had given him.

“Morning, Bill.”

“Hey Terry, I hate to ask, but I gotta go something fierce.”

Terry cocked his head to the side. “You want me to hold it for you?”

“No, Smartass. Help me get out of this bed. My leg hurts bad.”

“Well, you did push it pretty hard yesterday.”

“Shut up before I whip it out and let fly. I’m pretty sure I can hit you from here.”

“Ok Bill. Take it easy.”

Terry stepped to the bed and leaned over so that Bill could wrap his good arm around Terry’s neck. Terry laced his own fingers behind Bill’s back and stood up straight, bringing Bill along for the ride.

“Ok, thanks. I can handle it from here.”

“I’ll stay close, just in case,” Terry said, handing Bill his cane and waiting for the older man to shift his weight onto it.

“Better yet, why don’t you see if you can scare up some aspirin and a cup of tea?”

“Yes, sir.” Terry knew that he was giving Bill the space to hobble around unseen. The man had a healthy, or possibly unhealthy, dose of pride.

By the time he returned with Bill’s painkillers and tea, Bill had returned to the edge of the bed and was experimenting with his wounded limbs.

“Damn, it sucks getting old,” Bill said.

“And shot,” Terry added brightly.

“That too,” Bill agreed.

“I’ll be right back.”

Terry retrieved a hot mug for himself from the kitchen and sat down in a heavy oak rocking chair in the corner of the room. “Where’s Aggie?” he asked.

“Oh, most likely she’s out and about, taking over while I’m too feeble to argue.”

“You’re probably right. She seems the type.”

“Between you and me, she does a better job than I do. She keeps up with ten times as many things as I can and still finds time to cook dinner.”

“How did you meet?”

“Now, Terry, that is getting way ahead of the story. You can’t screw with my obsessive need to tell it in order.”

“How about a hint?”

“If you want a preview, ask Aggie. She probably remembers it all differently anyway.”

“In that case, how cold did it get that first winter?”

“That’s a fair question. The answer is: I don’t know. George Carroll’s thermometer bottomed out at twenty below in early October and stayed there until mid-May.”

“Holy crap! It hasn’t been that cold in my entire life.”

“Be thankful for that. We almost... Let me tell it.”

***

The threat of deadly cold was actually good for Dad. With a new project underway, he seemed to recover from losing Francine. At least his guilt seemed to retreat into the background. I can’t say the same for Arturo. Even though he was little out of shape at first, he took a great deal of pride in his physical strength, and his slowly mending leg took a bite out of that pride. There was a period when I thought that the only thing keeping him going was his little boy. It certainly wasn’t Juannie. Looking back, I can guess with some certainty that there were many times when he secretly wished he had left her in Orlando to fend for herself.

She was a spoiled only child, with a proud cultural heritage to boost her sense of entitlement to ridiculous heights. That was fine in the trappings of a convenient pre-Breakdown society. She had her uniformed husband, who went on to a good private sector job. She had worked in a theme park, where her reality was literally a fantasy built on top of another fantasy. The world was completely secure, other than the rampant Orlando crime, and it would never change. After the Breakdown, she was still well sheltered. The park closed immediately of course, and she went home to a well-stocked pantry, one of the few things that Arturo had insisted they do. She had sat in the light of her scented candles and simply waited for Arturo to rescue her.

Now that she was there, in the barn, it seemed that family was secondary to whatever she really wanted, and worse, she was only willing to do the bare minimum to get by. She and Arturo had many sideline conversations in which he pleaded with her to work harder. She had run her usual gamut of pouting, whining, and finally flirting her way out of the bind. In a better world, her sheer beauty could have won entire wars. In survival, it made her look childish at best, and idiotic at worst. Before long, she became just another wound that Arturo tried hard to ignore. He never forgot his responsibility, though. He took care of her even when his real impulse was to throw her out in the cold.

Juannie was hiding in a tent the next morning, when George knocked on the barn door. At Dad’s invitation he came in wearing a blue insulated coverall, a Russian style fur hat, and some incongruous high tech gloves. He was carrying the plug wires from his old pickup truck.

“Morning, folks. Think these will do?”

“Good morning, George,” Dad replied. “Let’s test them out.”

Arturo slid behind the wheel of our station wagon and pulled the hood release. Dad quickly replaced the damaged wire with one from George’s bundle, and told Arturo to give it a try. The car battery was weakened from the cold and the engine turned over sluggishly, but refused to fire. After a dozen revolutions, Dad waved for Arturo to stop.

“Well, that wasn’t it,” Dad said grumpily.

George pulled a small flashlight from one of his many pockets, and removed the air cleaner housing. He looked at it carefully and then set it aside. His flashlight went right to the side of the carburetor. “Here’s your problem, David. See that?”

“I don’t see anything...Oh!”

It was obvious. A round had glanced off the bottom of the air cleaner shroud, with just enough energy to bend the automatic choke linkage. The choke plate was stuck wide open, which would allow the car to run just fine when the engine was warm, but would make a cold engine darn near impossible to start.

Dad fiddled around with a pair of needle nosed pliers for a few minutes, until the plate snapped shut. “Ok, Art. Try it again.”

The engine caught almost immediately, ran ragged for ten seconds and then smoothed into the familiar, rumbling idle. Rich fumes billowed from the exhaust, but no one was worried about carbon monoxide in the vast, windy barn. George watched long enough to see that the choke was operating properly and replaced the air cleaner. Dad slammed the hood with satisfaction. One more problem solved. Arturo killed the engine and hopped one-footed from the car.

“How did you know where to look?”

“Lots of shot-up trucks in Viet Nam. The engine was turning smoothly, so I knew it wasn’t in the block. Air cleaners make a big target and usually leave clues.”

“Well, thanks for the lesson, George.”

“I’m a bundle of surprises, which reminds me... bundle up. I have another one for you.”

Kirk and I watched easily through the gaps as Dad marched down the slope with George. They were heading for a patch of scraggly trees and brush a hundred yards to the west of the Carroll home. The men pushed a path through the thicket and disappeared for a few minutes. George walked back in our direction, and cranked his tractor to life. He had changed the hay wagon for a flat platform that jutted out from the 3-point hitch. He drove it down to the thicket, and simply backed it over the brush in a gap between the larger trees. All we could see was the nose of the tractor and its front end loader. We could hear some clanks and metallic noises over the rush of the wind, but had no idea what they were doing.

Kirk got bored with the show and went to check on any potential breakfast. When the tractor started up again, he came straight back. George pulled out slowly, while Dad walked behind the tractor, stabilizing the mystery load. We followed their progress to the front of the barn and stepped back when Dad swung the doors open. George backed up until the platform was five feet from our car. He pulled the hydraulic lever and lowered the load to the ground. I was looking at a couple of strange metal boxes with a sort of appliance look about them and a bunch of metal pipe.

It took both men to hoist the two woodstoves off the platform. George walked them across the dirt floor with his massive arms and left them somewhere near the middle of the barn. The pipe was stacked close to the door. As soon as the platform was clear, George pulled the tractor out of the barn with Dad walking behind. Mom shut the doors and went over to the cooking stove.

“Well, isn’t this lovely?” she said. It was more of a statement than a question.

I had to ask, “What is it, Mom?”

“This one is a wood stove for cooking, and this one is for heat. Now all we need is wood.”

As soon as she told me, it was obvious she was right. One of those things that made me feel stupid for missing it. Now that I knew, I spent the next few minutes playing with the stoves. I always liked to know how things work. Kirk was completely uninterested.  He was probably busy dreading the wood gathering that was sure to come.

There was a series of mechanical clanks, along with the sound of the tractor working back and forth. The noises continued for quite some time. Eventually the tractor headed away from the barn, and Dad came back inside.

He quickly related the story. “Remember how George told us his family has worked this farm for generations? Well, that’s the old homestead down the hill. The place is practically falling down, but the original wood stoves were still sitting there, probably for more than fifty years.” He was smiling like the Dad we knew. “We’ve got heat.”

At the word heat, Juannie stuck her head out of the tent, decided it was still freezing in the barn, and disappeared again. With the look my mom sent in her direction, I was amazed that the tent didn’t have two holes burned through. Jimmy, as if making up for his mother, celebrated with a joyful dance and a bouncy song that didn’t have any actual lyrics. As usual, he left us smiling.

“Ok. George is out gathering round bales, and Arturo and I are going out to look for supplies. You up for it, Art?”

“Sure thing, David, as long as there’s no running involved.”

“You can drive. George gave me a list of places to look. Kirk, grab a rifle. You’re coming too.”

Mom was startled by that information and began to protest.

Dad stopped her with, “Listen, Beth. It had to happen sooner or later. Right now, we are facing our first unavoidable danger since the crap hit the fan. People are going to get very desperate with the cold. If we don’t grab everything we can get to survive the winter, someone else will. Assuming there’s anything left to grab when we get there... We have to go now, and we need Kirk to help.”

Mom didn’t say anything. She just turned her head to the side and nodded.

Kirk wasn’t fooling around. He came back with his ever-present handgun, his personalized cane knife, an assault rifle, and a backpack full of ammo. Dad looked as if he had something to say, but waved Kirk into the back seat instead.

I closed the barn doors as the Carter family station wagon drove off into the blowing dust. Arturo was gone less than fifteen seconds when Mom stalked over to the tent to have a chat with Juannie. Of course, we heard the whole thing.

Chapter 6 – 3

Bill stopped speaking when a door slammed downstairs. He said, “I know that slam. I think you’re up, Slugger.”

Terry looked almost disappointed, but then he understood who was downstairs, and practically leapt out of the chair. He didn’t want to look too eager. He checked his motion and walked down the steps with a measured pace. He followed the sounds from the kitchen and strode through the door to find Sally’s upper half buried in the fridge. He was content to watch her jeans-clad lower half while she rustled around, looking for something quick to eat. With a final rattle of a glass on glass, she pulled her choice out of the fridge, and turned away without ever noticing he was there. She filled her water glass at the sink. When she turned around, Sally almost jumped in surprise at finding him there. Her eyes opened a touch wider, and she recovered instantly. Terry would have never seen the reaction if he weren’t watching so closely.

“Well, if it isn’t the legendary Terry Shelton, back from the wars in parts unknown,” she said with her typical swagger.

“And if it isn’t the infamous Sally B. Carter, scaring babies and taking names,” Terry responded with his best manly-man voice.

“I would have expected to encounter the hero before this very minute,” Sally said, trying the pouting with hands on hips method for effect.

“I’ve been standing here watching you grub for food for at least five minutes.” He looked pointedly downward at those same hips.

“A girl’s gotta eat.” She pulled her shoulders back with a false indignant expression.

“A legend needs his beauty sleep.” Terry breathed on his fingers with a huff and rubbed his nails on his shirt in comic exaggeration.

“Oh, puh-lease!” Sally cried, trying her best not to laugh, and failing.

Terry broke into a grin, taking a halting step in her direction. They played a game of love chicken for several stuttering steps before she gave up and hurled herself into his arms with the force of a linebacker. A slender redheaded linebacker, but the result was the same. Terry staggered back, bouncing off the door frame before he regained his balance.

Sally kissed him twice before he could focus on her face. Once he felt stable on his feet, he looked into her eyes and saw the same combination of kiss-me and get-back he was rapidly learning to recognize. He wanted to go with option A, but gave her a long hug and went with option B instead. If there was one thing he knew about women, it was that it never paid to give in too easily. If he could play the cocky hero for a moment, he might have assumed that “rule one” counted double with Miss Sally. She liked a fight.

He stepped back and gave her a smile before he began to scrounge for food himself. He figured Bill would be getting hungry too.

Sally uttered a particularly female growl of exasperation before she made a show of stomping to the table, scraping the chair out, and plopping into it with a heavy sigh. Terry gave the contents of the refrigerator an evil grin. He found the makings for sandwiches and set the ingredients on the counter so that he was facing her. He began to construct a man-sandwich, overstuffed and completely devoid of subtlety.

Sally deliberately spoke with her mouth full of food. “Are you actually going to eat that?”

“No. Your dad is. I’ll eat the next one.”

“It looks disgusting.”

“That’s because you are covered in freckles. Everyone knows they mess up your senses.”

“Yep. That’s why for almost ten seconds, I thought you were good looking,” Sally said, trying to catch him off guard.

“I was good looking for ten seconds, but that was when I was seven.” He said it absently, as if it took no effort to keep up. “You, on the other hand, looked good for almost a full minute and that was only four minutes ago.”

She unconsciously preened. “You think I look good?”

“I’m sure I would have noticed by now if you were ugly,” he replied, denying her catch from the compliment fishing expedition. “But you know what they say. Looks ain’t everything.”

“Ugh, Terry Shelton. I think you’re trying to drive me crazy!”

“Well, ugly boys gotta have some way to get your attention. Is it working?” he asked with a wry grin.

“No, it’s not! I have work to do. I’m leaving,” she said with a final masterpiece of a pout, and stormed out the back door, leaving her dishes and uneaten food on the table.

Terry put away the sandwich fixings, cleaned up Sally’s mess, and carried the two small plates upstairs to Bill’s room.

“Here you go, Bill. I thought you might like something to eat.” He handed Bill one of the sandwiches.

“Mmmm, huge pile of pork sandwich. Looks delicious,” Bill said, considering whether he could unhinge his jaw to take a bite.

“Opinions vary.”

“So I heard. Damn, kid. Riding a little close to the edge, aren’t you?”

Terry looked confused for a second. “You mean with Sally?”

“Hell yeah, I mean with Sally,” Bill said, looking oddly concerned.

“No. I think I’m right where she wants me. How many guys have tried to catch Sally’s interest?”

“All of them, I think... Except for a couple of chickenshits.”

“Well, she’s a pretty girl. What do you do to catch a pretty girl?”

“You tell them how pretty they are, and do nice things.”

“Yep, that’s what they tell us. But if the pretty girl happens to be a tough girl, too, you gotta put up a fight. All those other guys made the mistake of being too nice.”

“What makes you so smart?” Bill asked, since he would have never figured it out.

“I’m not. I just pay attention. In school, there’s always that one girl who everybody wants. The only guys who succeed are the ones who make them half-miserable.”

“I guess that’s true, now that you mention it. I never would have thought of it myself.”

“So, you’ve always been nice to Aggie?”

“Well, sure... Wait a second. I’m always giving her a hard time, and she’s always giving it right back.”

“There you go. It only takes a little fight to win the pretty girls, but it takes a fight. Otherwise, I figure they just get bored.”

“You may be onto something there, my smart young friend.”

“I guess we’ll see.”

Bill didn’t respond to that, but it may have been the half pound of pork he was trying to gnaw into submission.

Chapter 6 – 4

The approaching tractor was our only warning before a huge thump shook the wall of the barn. I peered out through the gaps in the barn to see that Mr. Carroll had placed a big round hay bale against the barn. He backed the tractor away and used a long spike, located where the front end loader had been, to tip the bale onto its round end. He pushed the bale several feet until he had it in position and then drove off, presumably to find another one.

He was at it for hours, driving off into the wind and dust and returning with another bale. He carefully nudged each bale with the tractor until it was situated in a line of bales he was building all the way around the barn. From inside the barn, it felt like we were being enclosed in a case of Coke cans. The direct light was slowly being replaced by the filtered light from higher in the barn. There was still plenty to see, but the overall sensation was a little claustrophobic. I was distracted by the process. I had not even thought about Dad, Arturo, and Kirk roaming around in the open.

I’m sure Mom was thinking about them. She kept herself busy with the task of sorting and organizing our supplies, making lists in her little notebook, and just generally looking worried. Juannie was serving as Mom’s assistant. The lecture she had received had gotten Juannie up and moving, but she was still doing as little as possible, waiting sullenly until Mom gave her direct orders before she lifted a finger. I could tell from Mom’s expression - darker than the clouds scudding overhead - that she was only about an inch away from one of her patented shrieking hissy fits. If that happened, I planned to run.

Mom never did lose her temper, but eventually, the weight of worry built up until we were talking openly about the fact that our men hadn’t returned. Mr. Carroll had managed a double layer of round bales around the barn. The high wall of bales combined with the ominous weather made the barn a dim echo of what it had been that morning. The good news was that it was noticeably warmer, probably from the lack of wind rather than any insulation value from the hay. Dad had planned well on his rapid fire expedition into Wal-Mart on the day of the Breakdown, but he had not planned perfectly. We had decent rain gear, but we did not have any cold weather gear at all. We mostly hoped that they would make it back without trouble, but right behind their safe return was the hope that they would make it back with some warmer clothes. If I had ever taken a look at the list Mom was making, I’m sure that winter wear was right at the top.

We didn’t know the temperature, but we knew it was too cold to wander around outside in our blue jeans and windbreakers. Our confinement gave us plenty of time to think about our situation. Kirk and I entertained ourselves with Jimmy and Tommy, daring them to climb up into the drying beams of the barn with us. We could only climb up to the first set of beams before we were back into the wind blowing across the tops of the hay bales. It was cold enough that I didn’t want to stay for long. I imagined how much fun this barn would be in warmer weather, but was forced to seek out the warmest place I could find. I ended up huddled in one of the tents with the little boys. We were fully engaged in a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors when I heard the faint rumble of the station wagon approaching.

Mr. Carroll had apparently been keeping a close watch for the car, because he swung the barn doors open as the car bounced through the door and crunched to a stop. The station wagon was loaded to the roof and beyond, with a bundle of items strapped to the top. Dad was stepping out of the driver’s side door before Arturo shut off the engine. He walked straight over to Mom and asked, “Are you sure that’s my kid?”

Mom started to laugh until she saw the look on his face and then gave a serious reply. “Yeah, he’s yours. No mailmen in our family. What happened?”

“Well, we took George’s advice,” Dad replied, “And we went to the small mom and pop shops in town. The streets were mostly empty, but there were people holed up from the cold in some of them. Most of them were happy to give us some supplies since they already had plenty of what they srocked, but the Co-op was different.”

“What do you mean?” Mom asked.

“There were some rough characters manning the place, and they seemed to know that they were sitting on the key to long-term survival. They demanded payment.”

“What kind of payment?”

“The kind we don’t have.” Dad said. “They said if we didn’t have food, they would take our guns or, get this, women in trade.”

“Women? What it this, 1845?”

“Exactly. When I said something to that effect, the man behind the counter pulled out a shotgun. Then our dear oldest son,” Dad waved in Kirk’s general direction. “He pulled out his handgun and shot the man in the face. Needless to say, his friends were not happy about it and there were guns appearing everywhere. Kirk calmly shot five men faster than they could react. When his clip ran out, he used that crazy machete on the last two. It was honestly the most brutal thing I’ve ever seen.”

Mom stared at him with an open mouth.

“Look at him,” Dad said. “He’s not even upset. He looks like we went to the Dairy Queen.”

I can say this. Women are far more practical than men. Mom looked hard at her husband and said, “Well honey, I guess that’s just the world we live in now.”

It was Dad’s turn to stare open mouthed.

“Think about it, David. We can’t count on anyone or anything that we can’t do for ourselves, and if anyone is standing in the way of what we need, then they are a problem that must be solved.”

“I can see surviving. I can’t see killing people unless they are ready to kill us.”

“Well, if we need something and someone stands in the way, then they are killing us. Right?”

“I’m not sure I can take it that far.” Dad replied.

“To me, the world is officially that far.” Mom said. “Get used to it.” She was wearing her end-of-argument body language. “If we want to make it through to spring, you need to decide that our family is worth it, David. It’s worth fighting and killing as far as I’m concerned. Now that we’ve crossed the line, we have to take it as far as necessary.”

Dad mulled the idea over in his mind, measuring a life of principles and standards against our new reality before he finally replied. “Yes, you’re right.”

In the end, they had retrieved a great deal of critical supplies from town and had gotten us a few steps closer to the ability to survive the long cold winter that was almost upon us.

Chapter 6 – 5

Gary Tucker looked across the hallway. Through the bars, painted the same nauseating gold color as the entire jail, he could see a cartoon character of a man. The man was dressed like the star of an old-style Western movie, complete with the black duster, black shirt and pants, and black boots. The only thing missing was the spurs. He was bored. The cowboy looked bored as well.

“Hey, Man. What brings you here?” Gary asked.

Jerry Doan Jenkins looked up at the man in the cell across from him. He was a fat older man, wearing a pair of stretchy navy blue pants, and a blue pinstriped shirt. “Bullshit,” Jerry said. “Pure bullshit.”

“Well, that goes without saying. What’s the official reason?” Gary asked.

“I went to claim my land, land I won fair and square, and found myself outnumbered. Now I’m here,” Jerry whined. “I mean, shit. I’m the mayor. I had every right...”

“Well, sure. You had the right. Everyone has the right. If you can take it, it’s yours. Am I right?”

“Yeah, well. I couldn’t take it. That asshole, Bill Carter, was ready for me. I wonder who tipped him off.”

“Bill Carter...” Gary mused. “What’s he look like?”

“He’s about our age, tall, gray hair around the temples. Overconfident asshole.” Jerry said.

“Sound like the guy who sent me here, too. I thought it was the state SWAT team.” Gray said. “Where are you the mayor?”

“Manchester, basically all of Coffee County. I’m the mayor and the head magistrate. I run that county.”

“Not anymore, my friend.”

“Don’t worry. When my son finds out, he’ll get things under control.”

“Same here. Some of our guys got away. They’ll be talking to my son soon enough.” Gary said.

“I heard about you. The cops were talking. You took out a whole platoon of state cops?”

“Yeah, we came in from the water. They weren’t expecting it. We had them rounded up in about fifteen minutes.”

“What’s your deal anyway? I heard you burned a couple of black cops alive.”

“Oh, that... Well, we found a building full of white robes and hoods back in Columbia, along with some pamphlets. I figured anything that intimidates people works in our favor. We borrowed the ideas of the original owners and decided that we would scare folks by burning non-whites on crosses. We called ourselves ‘Knights of the White God’. It worked well enough until Nashville. Most of southern Tennessee just gives us whatever they’ve got.”

“Clever,” Jerry said.

“Yeah, well, who knows what happened to the guys who used to wear those robes? Sumbitches called the KKK. Nowadays, you take whatever advantage you can get.”

“Sure enough. I just keep my people poor and dole out rewards for good behavior.”

“Well, I find that it helps to have a banner to rally around. Keeps the men motivated, you know?”

“Yeah, my men were surely not motivated. They died.”

“Sorry to hear that... Hey, what’s your name?”

“Jerry Doan Jenkins. What’s yours?”

“Gary Tucker, Grand Dragon of the Knights of the White God.”

“Well, Gary Tucker. I’m guessing that we both have the same problem... Bill Carter.”

The men nodded at each other through the bars.

Chapter 6 – 6

Gary Tucker Jr. ran the operation. He was known by the entire organization as Junior, which he didn’t appreciate but tolerated because the exchange for his father’s power was a good deal. Junior could have anything there was to have: women, cars, guns, whatever he wanted. All he had to do was keep up with the details while his father ran around spouting his racist bullshit, which mattered less to Junior than which girl kept his bed warm at night. The whole shtick made for a good system, though. His father had cobbled together an organization while the rest of the world was still learning what the Breakdown really meant. Starvation and wild fear ruled the countryside when Gary Tucker stumbled over the key to his success. Direct the fear, direct the people.

Junior was making one of his endless lists when he heard the trucks roaring in from the north. He walked down the stairs of the old cement factory offices, and waited in the parking lot for the trucks to pass through several layers of security. His first clue was when only three trucks drove in. His second was when his father was not among the returning men.

A man who was known only as Polecat, undoubtedly for some horrible childhood skunk mishap, climbed out of the leading truck to report.

“Junior, they got your father.”

“Who... got my father?”

“The state. We took the state salvage yard in Nashville. They sent in more cops. We took them too. Then they sent in some kind of special soldiers. They destroyed us. Me and the men here escaped. We saw they had your father, but they knocked us down so fast we figured we’d better come back for help.”

“So, you let these men take my father.” Junior said with dripping disdain.

“We couldn’t save him. They killed forty of our men. Only the eight of us left.”

“How many men attacked?”

“We only saw four or five of them before we left, but they were everywhere. Our guys were dying all over the place,” Polecat said, somewhat defensively.

“I see. Well, it’s lucky you were able to escape from four or five men.” Junior was rubbing it in – hard.

“I’m sorry, sir. We thought it was better to get away and report, than to die and have no one know about it.”

Junior sighed and eased off. “You have a point there, Polecat. Now that I know, we can do something about it.”

“Yes, sir. Yes...” Polecat agreed with relief.

“Ok, since you lost the salvage yard, you get to take it back. Go get Hank Taylor’s company and get my salvage. I’ve got to go to Murfreesboro.”

“Will do, sir.” Polecat ran out of the cement yard before it could go worse for him. His ragged band of survivors followed right on his heels.

Junior went back inside the building and cranked an old style phone on the wall.

“Yes, Mr. Tucker?”

“Jake, pull a company together, with enough wheels for a trip to Murfreesboro. We’re leaving in two hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

Junior thought about the ramifications for a few minutes. “Well,” he said to the empty room, “It had to happen sooner or later.”

Chapter 6 – 7

By September, we had the stoves installed and running. Most of August had been a mad scramble to collect, cut, and split as much firewood as possible. Mr. Carroll had two chainsaws that we used until the two-cycle engine oil ran out. We could siphon gas from almost anywhere, but the oil for the premix was very hard to find. After that, we were down to the axes and other cutting tools Dad had taken from the schoolyard, and whatever tools George had stashed around his place. In one fortunate turn, George had found a rusty two-man buck saw that we used to fell trees and cut the larger logs into split-able and burnable lengths of wood. Since Kirk had demonstrated his ability to sharpen steel, he was given the task of keeping all the tools in top condition. All of us took turns at the splitting and managed to build some muscle along the way.

The barn was rapidly filling with firewood. We had staked out the northeast corner of the barn as living space. Dad was already concerned that we would not be able to heat as much area as we had allocated, and he was right. He made a daily plea to Mom for us to set up our living space in the stalls, on the argument that smaller spaces would heat more easily. She argued that we were doing fine out in the open floor of the barn. The tents were originally positioned for some semblance of privacy and social order, but they had been moved closer to the stoves by then. Dad and Arturo were making regular trips out into the county to find anything useful. They had managed to come up with enough winter clothing, blankets, sleeping bags, and pads to deal with a fair amount of cold weather. The problem was that by September, the cold was far beyond fair.

George had stacked the remainder of his round bales around his own house, in hopes of adding some insulation value to the old structure. His own wood stove was running flat out; faint gray smoke billowed from his flue all day. He was a strong old man, but he didn’t have the stamina of the younger men. Dad worried constantly about George overdoing it and keeling over from a heart attack. To compensate, he pushed Kirk and me harder in hopes that George would see the wood stacking up and would ease off in his own effort. It never happened. George could work non-stop, albeit slowly, from dawn to dusk, and all we could do was work alongside him.

Dad’s salvage trips were largely successful. The weather was helping him, along with Kirk and Arturo, to get into town, grab whatever they could find, and get out. Usually, they saw no one except for the curious. Occasionally they ran into trouble, but after Mom expressed her view of the situation, Dad let go of his old moral code long enough to deal with the problem. Every time he was forced to kill, it took a little bit of his spirit. Every time Kirk was forced to kill, however, it seemed to have no real effect. Over time, Kirk naturally became a sort of family killer. The only problem was that it became Kirk’s solution for everything, and my parents clearly struggled with how to find the line between dealing and killing. In the end, they simply dropped the responsibility for the decision, and that’s how Kirk became a fourteen year old man.

In mid-September, we finally met the Carroll’s nephew and county deputy, Rodney Banks. We had expected him to show up all summer, but he never had. Finally, here he was with a bullet hole in his gut. The Carrolls were his last living relatives, and when he had gotten shot trying to protect the supplies in the county garage, he knew better than most that there were no more hospitals. He had made the long, delirious drive over icy roads to the Carroll’s house. His arrival put us all on alert, triggered by the rattling gate chains and a blast from George’s air horn. The remaining law in the county had abandoned the police vehicles on Breakdown day. The blue pickup truck could have held anyone. Even George did not recognize the truck until it pulled up in front of the house. By then, all of the men, myself loosely included, had showed up in the driveway, bundled against the cold and armed to the teeth.

Rodney was unable to open the door, much less get out of the truck. Dad and Kirk approached in their own tactical manner, refined by their many salvage attempts. Arturo was still struggling to get around and stood back with me, calling out advice on the fly. They opened the door and found the front seat saturated with blood. Rodney was holding onto the edge of consciousness as they hoisted him out of the truck and carried him inside. Martha Carroll had watched out the window and hustled to get some blankets laid out on the couch before they carried the deputy inside. Dad directed the effort to set Rodney gently on the blankets, and then used his belt knife to cut away the shirt around the source of the blood. The rest of us crowded into the living room and watched as Dad took one look and turned to George, shaking his head.

Rodney was mumbling, “Johnsons... Johnsons... Watch the Johnsons.” He kept up his chant for another five minutes, until he died.

We buried him near the old homestead. We used a long steel pole to chip through the frozen ground.

Chapter 6 – 8

Once Junior got a good look at Murfreesboro, he decided to follow the rules. He supposed that he could overwhelm the authorities if he wanted, but it would only be smart to get a look at the situation first. He circled back out to the old mall, and left his eighty men there. He drove to the state police headquarters solo, and put in a request to visit his father. He ignored the icy glances and open hostility from the police. He was determined to be the model of good behavior until he knew the score. After a two-hour wait, an old man finally led him to a room set up with booths on both sides of a single wall of steel bars. His father waited in the middle of the room.

“Well, Junior. ‘Bout time you came to see your old man.”

“I just found out this morning, Daddy. Polecat made it back with seven others.”

“Polecat... That boy always knows when to run.”

“Yeah, it worked out this time. He said you were overwhelmed, and he figured he’d better let us know.” Junior ran his fingers through his long black hair.

“We were overwhelmed, by seven men,” Gray Tucker, Sr. said.

“Seven men? How can that be?”

“Well, it turns out they were real smart. Led by a man from Coffee County, name of Bill Carter.”

“How did you find out?”

“He tangled with a bumble-headed fool from down that way. The man’s in the cell across from me.”

“So, what are we going to do? You want me to get you out? I brought a company.”

“No, no... That fool has an entire set of rich families down there. We can use his men to take care of Bill Carter. We’ll set that up first. Then you can get me out.”

“They’re gonna hang you, Daddy.”

“If there’s one thing you need to know about government, it’s that it takes them forever to get anything done. We’ve got time. Right now, you need to head down to Coffee County and find somebody from the Jenkins clan. Let them know where their head honcho is, and who put him there. Then I want you to find Bill Carter and check out his setup. If you see a clean opening, do your thing, but if not, let’s wait for the Jenkins to lose some men first. Got it?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“All right then. Get moving.”

***

Charlie Bell found the conversation very interesting. He knew the microphones in the visiting room would come in handy sooner or later. He buzzed his secretary. “Get Lieutenant Jackson up here.”

Five minutes later, Jackson strode into the room.

“Hi, Jake,” Charlie greeted the man with his usual energetic cheer.

“Hello, Mr. Bell. What’s up?”

“Our new best friend has trouble brewing. How many men are ready to fight?”

“We have about twenty, all told.”

“Take the best ten and head back down to Bill Carter’s place.” Charlie filled in the details of what he had heard.

“We’re going to fight?” Jackson asked.

“You’re going to do whatever Bill tells you to do, and that includes fighting. If I know the man, he has a system in place. Try not to mess that up. Take orders nicely. We owe him.” Charlie said.

“We do, at that. We’ll head out first thing in the morning.”

“Good man. Thanks,” Charlie said, shaking the lieutenant’s hand.

***

Junior pulled up in the main square of Manchester, Tennessee when the sun was throwing long shadows through the old trees surrounding the courthouse. With eighty men and six big trucks, he felt a great sense of power in the little town. Three minutes later, he felt like a lost child. He realized it was foolish to expect people to come up and offer help to an armed convoy, but that’s exactly what he expected. The people disappeared like smoke when his trucks pulled into the square. He was about to resort to asking for directions in the courthouse when a strong looking man stepped out of the survey office.

Dusty Baer walked up to the apparent leader of the group, and introduced himself. “Hey, Dusty’s the name. You fellows look a little lost.”

“Yeah, hey. I’m Gary Tucker. Most folks call me Junior. My father sent me down here with a message for the Jenkins.”

“You brought a lot of messengers,” Dusty said.

Junior laughed like it was a joke. “Yeah, I wasn’t planning to come this way. Orders, you know?”

“I sure do. Who’s your father?”

“Nobody you’d know. He’s Gary Tucker Sr., from Columbia.”

“Ah, the infamous Grand Dragon, then.”

Junior’s face clouded over. “That’s right.”

“So, you’d be the Junior Dragon?”

Junior’s gun hand hovered closer to the weapon at his side.

“Just joking, Junior,” Dusty said with a grin. “Your daddy is all the talk around here right now.”

“Is he?”

“Yeah. He’s the one running around burning black people, right?”

Junior looked disgusted. “The very same.”

“Well, if you look around, you may notice that there aren’t many black folks in Manchester. Maybe the pickings are better somewhere else.”

“Look, Dusty. I’m not here to burn anyone. I’m just here to deliver a message.” Junior was astounded that anyone would pick on a man with eighty soldiers.

“Alrighty, then. If you’re looking for the Jenkins, you may want to head north on Highway 55. It’s just up that way about a quarter mile. Then go about four miles. You’ll see the big archway at the family farm.”

“Thanks, friend.” Junior said tightly.

“No problem, Junior. Good luck.” Dusty turned and walked back into the office.

Junior spun his finger in the air and jumped back in the lead truck. The convoy circled around the square and headed east.

As soon as the roar of the diesels faded, Dusty rolled his bicycle out of the office and started pedaling out to Teeny Town.

Chapter 6 – 9

George and Martha were alone. Their own children and grandchildren may have well been on another planet. Even if they were alive and well out in the world, there was no way to know. With Rodney buried in the frozen ground, the last of the local Carroll clan were the two kind old people sitting across the table from me. Maybe they had seen it coming and had aggressively adopted us as part of the family. Even so, we were family now without question, and they were preparing to sacrifice for us, at least in the small ways. The food, for example, was from their own personal store, which was undoubtedly disappearing as fast as our own. Nonetheless, they shared freely and with grace.

The meal was virtually silent. Only Juannie’s efforts to keep little Jimmy from breaking into song and dance kept us from falling into total gloom. George’s blessing had been perfunctory, and filled with a certain bitterness we had never heard from him before. The weight was settling heavily around every adult at the table. Death was just another way of reminding us that no matter what we had faced since May, it was nothing compared to the unstoppable force of nature, which was even now wrapping us in an icy blanket. The big thermometer on the back porch had us in single digit temperatures as night fell. It would drop below zero before the sun came up and rise only into the teens during the day.

We would, as we had for as long as I could remember, gather firewood.

The Carroll’s house had taken a distinct chill, a far cry from our first meal here, which was characterized by the heat shedding from the walls of a normal summer. In the tiny dining room, our body heat was enough to slowly heat it up to a sweater temperature. After dinner, we would move to the living room, with its large picture window shedding warmth and a big freestanding wood stove fighting to replenish the heat.

The pervasive cold eventually found its way into the conversation.

George felt a responsibility to begin. “So, David... I hate to ask, but how cold do you think it will get?”

“I hate to answer because I don’t know, George, but I think it’s safe to say that we’re looking at subzero all winter.”

“The well will freeze,” George said.

“The pump will, unless we keep it warm, but the well should be ok. The temperature below ground stays the same all year. In colder climates, you have to go deeper to get below the frost, but it stays the same below that layer. Before long, a cave will feel really warm.” Dad shrugged in a what-can-you-do gesture.

“So, how do you figure we can keep the pump from freezing?”

“I think we’ll need to build some kind of shelter around it and keep a fire going all winter. Normally, if we were facing zero degrees, we would just keep the water dripping, but I don’t think anyone would want to keep pumping all winter.” He smiled to break the tension.

Jimmy saw his opening. “I’ll pump all winter.”

“I’m sure you would little fella, but we don’t want your hand to freeze to the handle, ok?” Dad said, still smiling.

“Ok, David. You pump,” Jimmy said, solving the whole problem from his six-year old point of view.

We laughed at his matter-of-fact delivery.

“Well,” George said, “I guess we’d better get on that soon, before the wood turns to ice and the nails shatter.”

“Yeah, this is when I wish I was from Minnesota. I’d probably know all the tricks.” Dad was still struggling to lighten the mood. “We grabbed some corrugated sheet metal in town. That and some square bails would probably contain the heat around the pump.”

“We also need to do something with the outhouse, David,” Mom added, putting her priorities on the table. “It’s already scary in there. Something important could freeze solid.”

Dad smiled at her and said, “Well, we could do the same kind of thing. I don’t think we could get away with an open flame, but maybe we can find another stove somewhere, build an outer outhouse, and put the stove inside the outer walls. It’s a lot of work, but it may be necessary.”

“It is necessary, David. Otherwise, I can think of four ladies who will be peeing in the tent.”

“Oh, my... Can’t have that.” Dad made a show of writing her request on his palm with his finger, provoking some badly needed laughter.

“How much sheet metal did you get?” George asked.

“Enough for the well pump. Not enough for the outhouse. The metal is just for the inside, to reflect the heat and to keep the hay insulation safe. We still need lumber for the structure, especially if we get heavy snow. In Tennessee, we only get snow when it’s warmer, closer to freezing, but the rules have changed. It’s seven degrees outside in September and it looks like it could snow any minute. I’m surprised it hasn’t yet.” Dad said thoughtfully. “We can get more sheet metal. There’s a ton of it at the building supply yard. No one else seems to be building yet. I’m not sure why.”

“It’s freaking cold,” Arturo answered. “It’s hard on my Mexican blood.”

“Well, I hope the car heater keeps working, then. We need to make another run to the lumber yard tomorrow, and you’re driving.”

“Just pry my fingers loose when we get back.”

Chapter 6 – 10

The bicycle ride gave Dusty time to think about how stupid it was to taunt the Junior Dragon. He could have ordered his men to kill Dusty at any time. Dusty imagined that scene, and how silly he would feel if he got to heaven, and they asked him how he died. “Well, you see, I gave the Junior Dragon a ration of crap, and he had me shot.”

Dusty was good for his usual leisurely pace on the bike, but this time he was racing to warn Bill. He hammered around the final turn and sprinted down Blanton Chapel Road until he reached the front guard houses. He hopped his bike across the ditch and let it roll across the grass on momentum. The youngest of the Hall boys, Jeremy, met him on the back porch.

“Hey, Dusty!”

“Hey, Jeremy. Are you on watch?” Dusty asked, knowing Jeremy was not old enough for solo watch duty.

“No, I’m on support. Jeffry is upstairs. The watch has been doubled.”

“Where’s Bill?”

“In bed, I guess. You knew he got shot in Nashville?” Jeremy asked.

“No. I thought I’d heard the story, but I missed that part.”

“He’s ok. He got hit in the leg and the shoulder. He’ll be limping for a while.”

“I gotta talk to him,” Dusty said, still winded from his ride.

“Ok. Head on down. I’ll call you in,” Jeremy replied.

Dusty walked his bike over to the gate, unhooked the chain, and left it open as he rolled across the pasture and down the hill. He knew Jeremy would take care of the gate. He crested the slope overlooking Teeny Town and grunted with relief when he reached the gravel access road. From there, it was a high speed coast into the center of town, one skidding left turn and a bounding dismount onto Bill’s front porch. Dusty knocked on the door one time before Aggie pulled it open.

“Hello, Mr. Baer.”

“Hi, Aggie. I just heard about Bill. Is he alright?”

“He’s fine, other than being grumpy and chomping at the bit.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Ok, he’s upstairs. It’s a full house up there.”

Dusty took the stairs two at a time. He clomped across the upstairs landing, walked into Bill’s room, and found that he could barely fit. Kirk was there, along with John Hall, Terry, and two men he didn’t recognize.

Bill said, “Hey, Dusty. I expected you to show up. I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Jackson of the State Police and his second in command, Sergeant Dillon.”

“Hey, fellows,” Dusty said, shaking hands with the men, “I’m Dusty Baer. Pleasure to meet you. What’s going on?”

“Well, I imagine you’re missing some key bits of the story, but the short version is that they came to warn us that trouble is brewing, and to help us out.” Bill said.

“That’s what I came to do. I just ran into about eighty boys from Columbia, and they were looking to find the Jenkins.”

“Yeah. The Attorney General overheard a conversation between the Grand Dragon, who we fought in Nashville, and his son, who I’m guessing was the guy you met. The Dragon sent his kid down here to team up with the Jenkins for the specific purpose of getting revenge against us.”

“Well, shit... What’s the plan?” Dusty asked, looking worried enough for everyone in the room.

“Unless something really amazing happens, we’ll fight,” Bill said. “We knew it would happen eventually. We weren’t counting on a bunch of white-robed crazies from Columbia joining in, though. That’ll make it tough.”

“So, what should I do?”

“As far as we know, the Jenkins, except for the Judge, don’t know where we are. That buys us a little time. I’d like you to use that time to start a quiet campaign against the rich families. Without giving too much away, I want you to find as many people as you can, people who are fed up with living under the boot heel, and may be willing to fight to change it. Let them know their chance is coming.”

“I don’t know if that’ll work,” Dusty said.

“It probably won’t, by itself, but I’ve got an idea that will give the people a taste of the good life. Just get started. You’ll get some help soon.”

“Ok, Bill.”

“Oh, and Dusty? Take a truck back. Might as well start showing off a little. Park it on the square where people can see it during the day,” Bill said.

“Somebody might steal it,” Dusty replied.

“Fuel for the fire. Even if it sits for an hour, that’ll be good enough to get the rumors flying. Dusty, you may have the most important part in all of this. You have lots of friends in town, and the real war is going to be fought in their hearts and minds. They’ll either knuckle under to the fear and intimidation of the families, or they will reach for something better.”

“Yeah, let’s hope they still have dreams.”

“Thanks for rushing out, Dusty.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.”

Dusty nodded to the men in the room, winked slyly at Terry, and headed out.

Bill wasn’t finished. “Kirk, I’d like you to give the Lieutenant and his men a tour of the neighborhood. Explain our defensive situation, and get their feedback. Then you all figure out the best way to work them into our plan.”

“Ok, Bill. Will do,” Kirk answered.

“Lieutenant, I’m afraid you’re here for the duration. We’re well equipped to deal with the locals, but throwing in another army of bad guys means we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“No problem, Mr. Carter. We owe you, big time. Even my wife would agree.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant. Talk to me after you’re done with Kirk.”

Jackson and the silent Dillon filed out the door after Kirk, leaving Bill alone with Terry.

“Terry, in the morning, you and Seth head back up to Murfreesboro. I need you to make arrangements with Charlie. On the way, talk to Larry and his boys. See if they can drum up some of their neighbors to head out this way. If they look shaky, tell them there’s plenty of food for the duration, which they should know by now. If that doesn’t do it, tell them the best way to guarantee the help they need is if we owe them a favor.”

Chapter 6 - 11

With new winter gear, Dad was able to stay out longer with Arturo and Kirk. They spent the next few days gathering up everything they could lay their hands on, starting with the building supplies. They siphoned the gas out of vehicles scattered around Manchester as they went. By the time they were done, there were materials and gear stacked all over the barn, on top of the firewood, in the drying racks, outside under the lean-to, everywhere except the stalls. New tarps were nailed over the hay bales around the barn, and over any supplies that needed to be outside. Almost as soon as the tarps were in place, they became as hard as glass. There was still no snow, but the rapid changes in temperature and extreme cold were building a permanent layer of frost over everything outside.

I was put in charge of keeping the well pump fire tended during the day. I fed a steady stream of wood into the blaze, and shoveled the ashes away at least once every afternoon. The week before, my every thought was about firewood. This week, it was about that particular fire. The one thing I learned was that our incredible supply of firewood was not nearly enough. Somehow, we would be back out for more. Mom tried to assign Juannie to the woodstove inside. Dad had quickly attached a long piece of flue pipe to both of the stoves. The smoke exhausted into the upper reaches of the barn, and was quickly whisked away on the wind. Juannie neglected the stove, of course, and forced two cold starts in two days. That’s when I was put on double fire duty. It seemed like all I did was walk back and forth with an armful of split wood. In any case, the barn stayed above freezing for the most part, and the water continued to flow.

Mr. Carroll was careful to come out at least a couple of times a day. He would thank me like I was the real hero of the operation, and he would offer to help. I always told him I had it covered, and he always told me I was the first eleven-year-old he had ever met with my determination and responsibility. I thought the job was pure drudgery but still better than running into town for supplies. By then, I understood what kind of danger was in the world.

When the supply runs were complete, Dad switched to construction mode. He had a quiet talk with Mom, and made some changes in the roster. Juannie was put on daycare, and responded in a way that made us wonder if she even liked children. Lucy got my fire duty after we spent a morning working the fires together. Mom was still organizing the new supplies, and almost cried for joy when she found a new pile of food underneath some plywood that had been hastily leaned against one of the barn poles.

“David, where did you find this?” she asked.

“There was a little grocery store out on the Woodbury Highway. Bars on the windows and no one in sight. We yanked the bars with the station wagon and dumped everything out the window. We got everything. There’s another pile over there,” Dad said, pointing to the dark area behind the stalls.

“That’s terrific! I didn’t expect you to find any food.”

“We didn’t either, but we figured it was worth a look. One less possum for supper...” Dad said wryly.

Dad, Arturo, and George went to work on the shelters outside while Kirk and I got a job that made me miss fire patrol. We got to dig. Dad told us to start at the front stall, and to dig each stall at least five feet deep. We were to use the wheelbarrow to pack the excess dirt between the round bales outside. Mr. Carroll had pushed the bales tightly together, but there were still plenty of gaps for the cold to seep through. Dad also made sure that we understood not to undermine the stall supports, and showed us where he thought it would be safe to dig. Before we could even begin, we had to move a great deal of firewood and salvage to make paths to the stalls wide enough for the wheel barrow. In the case of the first stall, the path started right by the area where we sat in the barn. We were destined to spend hours trying to back a loaded wheelbarrow around the wood stove.

Kirk and I stood in the first stall, looking at each other in the dim light and wearing a pair of where-to-start expressions. Finally, I shrugged and took my first shovelful of about twenty thousand, and tossed it in the wheelbarrow. I stayed near the middle and Kirk started cutting the edges where Dad had shown us. When he had a start on the edges, he joined me in the middle. An hour later, we were pretty sure that the whole job was just a sneaky prank that Dad was playing on us. What could be the possible purpose for digging out the stalls? Oh, well. It’s not like we were missing anything good on TV. We dug.

Kirk did most of the wheelbarrow work, but once the hole was too deep, I had the clever idea of digging a ramp into the pit, so that Kirk could roll the thing down to our level. This is one of those tricks that I only learned after trying to throw soil up to a wheelbarrow I couldn’t see. The ramp was too steep to call it a great idea, but it was an improvement. To our surprise, we had a four-foot hole before the men came in to warm up. Dad checked our progress and declared it to be excellent work.  We climbed out and parked our dirty bodies near the woodstove for a while.

“How’s it going out there, Dad?” I asked.

“Pretty good. I think we’ll finish the outhouse by dark. Figured we should do that first, since you’ve been doing fine on the well pump. Plus, we don’t want a cold women rebellion on our hands.”

Dad caught Mom’s dirty look, but for me, it was another sign of my slow entry in the brotherhood of men. Ten minutes later, the men bundled up and stamped out the barn door. Kirk and I went back to work. We were tired, but the six-foot mark came and went fairly quickly. We were forced to use buckets to lift the dirt out by then. Not sure of our depth, we kept going. The strange part was that the deeper we went, the warmer we felt. I shed my coat somewhere around six feet and broke into a sweat. At first, I thought it was just hard work and stacking fatigue, but when we were as deep as we could go and still escape, I climbed out on Kirk’s shoulders and realized that it was much colder on the edge than it was in the pit. Maybe it was just the wind.

I chose a square edged shovel from the lineup on the barn wall, and dropped back into the hole to scrape the ragged walls into something I thought would pass Dad’s standards. When I began, I thought it meant that we were almost done. The amount of dirt I scraped off the walls turned into another ten wheelbarrow loads, and Kirk was eyeing me with open disgust before we lifted the last of the loose soil out of the pit. In another show of cleverness, I built a simple ladder out of some weathered two-by-fours, and Kirk helped me lower the heavy thing into the pit.

The heavy sky made it difficult to notice that night was falling. We had been working in near darkness for longer than I could remember. I guess my brain was trying hard to forget the experience. We tested the ladder and climbed out for the last time that day. With no digging to keep my internal furnace stoked, I got cold almost immediately and put on my coat. Even so, I still found myself huddling by the woodstove to stay warm against the drying sweat and icy wind.

Chapter 6 – 12

Terry carried a strong proprietary feeling for Big Bertha, even though he understood that she belonged to the community. He pulled the keys from his pocket with satisfaction, unlocking the doors with an unnecessary flourish. Luckily, Seth was on the far side of the truck, waiting for the locks to pop, or he would have made fun of Terry for the entire trip. Terry had spent twenty years without ever leaving central Coffee County. Now he was trusted with a huge and valuable armored machine to travel all the way to Murfreesboro, and the weird part was, it already felt normal. He guessed that Bill was right. People can adjust to anything.

He climbed up into the driver’s seat and carefully clipped the seat belt. He read the dashboard laboriously, since he had not driven enough to make the process automatic yet. He inserted the key, turned it, and broke into a toothy grin when the big diesel clattered and caught, rumbling to life. The truck was big enough that getting out of the barn was the biggest challenge yet. Once he passed through the doors, he felt home free. The gate guard was doubled in light of the new threats, and they had the gate opened long before he passed through and turned left onto the pavement. Terry couldn’t resist honking the horn when he passed the gatehouses on the main road, and he settled into the routine of driving as he turned onto Highway 41, heading northwest.

Twenty minutes later, Big Bertha was approaching the now-familiar farm truck in Beech Grove.  Terry took it slow. He didn’t want Larry and his sons to get too nervous at the approaching truck. Terry needn’t have worried. One of Larry’s sons was moving the flatbed off the highway before Big Bertha reached the highly unofficial roadblock. Terry pulled off on the side of the road, and shut down the  engine. He and Seth, armed only with handguns in holsters, dropped onto the gravel shoulder and held up their hands in greeting.

“Hey, Larry. You probably don’t remember us...” Terry began.

“Sure I do. You’re Terry and that’s Big Seth.” Larry finished.

Seth folded his massive arms across his chest and flexed. “How’d you guess?”

“You’re one to remember, Big Seth.” Larry grinned. “You know, this highway has had more traffic in the last week than it has all spring. What brings you fellows out this way? Did Bill send you to check out my place?”

“Well, not really...” Terry said, until Larry interrupted him again.

“Oh, before I forget... A convoy of six big trucks full of armed men went that way yesterday afternoon.” Larry jerked his thumb to the east. “They were on the interstate, thank goodness. We saw them go by on the overpass.”

“Well, Larry, that’s kinda why we’re here. Bill sent me to ask you if you remember the terms of our potential deal.”

“Sure I do, but I thought we were a long way from having a deal,” Larry said.

“That’s true, but he wanted me to remind you about the part where if we call for help, you come running. We need the manpower.”

“Don’t you think that’s a lot to ask, seeing as how we have no deal yet?”

“Yeah, honestly I do, but personally, I’m new to Bill’s community. Seth here was born and raised under Bill’s protection. I think both of us will tell you the same thing. If there’s a good risk in this messed up world, it’s betting on Bill.” Terry said, while Seth nodded in support.

“He seems like a good guy.” Larry agreed, hesitantly.

“He is a good guy. He’s a builder. The lights went out when he was eleven years old, and he has spent his entire life making a place that looks a lot like the old America. He believes in that place, and not the way the Manchester families do. They want to own everything and keep everyone working for them. He believes that the product of the work should be shared with everyone who helps make it happen. If he went far enough to make you any kind of promise, then he believes you are one of those people, too.”

“I’m not arguing. I’m just trying to look out for my family,” Larry said.

“I think that’s entirely fair, Larry. The thing is, we have trouble coming, and if you are looking for help from Bill’s promise, then it makes sense that Bill needs to come through this trouble with the ability to help. I don’t know all the details, but I’ve seen what we’re up against, and I’d say there’s a fair risk to the community.” Terry spoke, and Seth nodded as he felt appropriate. The end result was Seth looking like a giant bobble head, but an earnest one.

“What are you asking us to do?”

“We’re asking you to round up as many neighbors as you can, anyone who is willing to fight against the rich Manchester families who abuse the people of our county and their cohorts in the armed convoy, and to help us stand up for the kind of world that Bill is trying to build.”

“You make pretty speeches, Terry, but you’re asking too much. You want us to risk our lives for someone I’ve met twice.”

“I do, but it’s not just for Bill. I think you can see that it’s for you and your family as well. You can sit out here and wait until the Manchester families draw a bead on you, or you can take a chance and stop them now.”

“Well...”

“I’ve known Bill for less than a month. I’ve known Seth for... What Seth? About ten days, and I would fight for either one of them. In fact, I’ve fought with them.”

One of Larry’s boys spoke up. “I think he’s right, Daddy. I think we should round up the boys and help them out.”

“Tate, you stay out of this. I’ll handle it.” Larry snapped at his boy.

“No, Daddy. We’ve been half-starved my whole life. We got a chance to change that, we oughta do it.” Tate stood firm and tall. “No offense, Daddy, but me and Gray have talked about it, and I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you honestly think you’ve done everything you could to make things better, or did you quit somewhere along the way?”

Larry’s face turned a hard shade of red, and if it weren’t for the witnesses, he would have smacked his son to the ground. He looked at each face in turn, and forced himself to calm down. He waited fifteen seconds before he answered. “No, son. You’re right. I haven’t always done everything I should. I may have given up when I ran out of ideas. I may have given up when we started our little roadblock here. I’m not the smartest man in the world, or the best, but I tried my hardest, right up to the point when I thought I tried everything.”

“Well, I’m not saying I blame you for any of it,” Tate said carefully, “But I am saying that when there’s something to do, something that looks like a shot at something better, then we oughta take it.”

Terry stood quietly while Larry thought it over.

Finally, Larry said, “I should speak to my wife...”

Tate shook his head. “Mama’s been waiting for you to make the right decision for years. Here it is. Make it.”

“Ok, we’ll do it. We’ll fight.” Larry was defeated on all sides. He had risked too much over the years, and had fallen into a rut of gaining nothing by risking nothing, until he had forgotten what it meant to risk and to win. Luckily, his boys were young enough that they had missed the really hard lessons and still had the idealism to fight.

“Great, Larry. Thank you.” Terry reached over and shook the man’s hand. It was limp and shaking just a bit. “Bill also told me that you will be fed as long as you are there, ok?”

Larry brightened at the news. “Really? I hadn’t thought about that. We’re still working on the food you gave us.”

“Really. Bill told me that some famous guy once said that an army fights on its stomach. He wouldn’t ask you to fight without food, and he has plenty. Gather up your family, and anyone who is willing to come, and head out as soon as you can. Up the highway, and right on Blanton Chapel Road. Someone will meet you.”

“Is my wife supposed to fight?” Larry asked.

“No, but she will be put to work supporting the fighters. We do have women who fight, but they’re trained to it. Your women will be kept as safe as we can make them. Children too.”

“Ok. Well, hell. If nothing else, we’ll get to eat.”

“You’ll get a lot more than that, Larry. You do this and we’ll owe you. If we survive the fight, then you can rest assured that Bill will move mountains to get your farm up and running. He’s that kind of man.”

“I suspect that’s true.”

Chapter 6 – 13

Charlie Bell bounded into his office eight seconds after Terry and Seth took their seats. It seemed to be his standard method. Terry watched the Attorney General whirl through the handshakes and greetings at high speed, coming to rest on his big leather chair.

“What’s the word? How is Bill?” Charlie asked.

“He’s still laid up, “Terry replied. “He sent us up to ask a favor. How’s Mike doing?”

“Oh, Mike’s looking better. He’s even lost a few of those bandages. I figure another month and he’ll be able to get back to work. It’ll take a while before he goes back in the field. Those head injuries heal slowly.”

“Bill also said thank you for sending the Lieutenant and his men. Looks like we’re going to need them.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. We moved the Dragon away from Jenkins. They’ve already compared too many notes. I should have thought of that,” Charlie said with a frown.

“Bill said you’d say that, and he told me to tell you that even though the Dragon’s men complicate things, he knew he would have to take on the Jenkins and their ilk sooner or later.”

“Well, he’s probably right. Some people take and take until there’s nothing left. Still, I could have made things a lot easier if I had just kept those assholes away from each other.” Charlie replied, shrugging until his shoulders hit his neck.

“We could think of it as killing two birds with one stone.” Terry said with a half-smile.

“Pretty tough birds, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

“Three things. The first is that Bill would like you to send some standard aide shipments into Manchester, but instead of sending them through the county government, he would like you to deliver them straight to Dusty Baer. Bill has him stirring up the Coffee County citizens, hoping they will decide to fight the families when the time comes.” Terry said.

“Clever, that man. What’s number two?”

“If Dusty can’t get results, Bill asks that you come down to Manchester in your official getup, and do some stirring of your own. He said that he believes you can be quite persuasive. You could come down to make a public announcement of the case against the Judge, and do a little talking on the side.”

“I could do that, if my wife lets me leave town. She’s a little touchy right now, and she’s ten times meaner than I am when she gets riled up.”

Terry and Seth chuckled at that, not really knowing how tough wives can be. But having heard the stories, they got the joke.

“Ok, what’s the third favor?”

Terry hesitated before he spoke up. “Bill asked that you hang the Dragon and the Judge as quickly as you can.”

“Now we’re talking about the law. There’s nothing I can do except let the process work, especially with these high profile assholes. Every move I make will be scrutinized.” Charlie propped his elbows on the desk and folded his hands together.

“I’m just the messenger, Charlie, but I’m sure Bill has every confidence in you,” Terry responded.

“I’m thinking you were a politician in a former life, Terry.”

“Huh? No, I just read more than average.”

“It shows. I can see why Bill keeps you close at hand,” Charlie said with a knowing smile.

Seth reached over and thumped Terry on the back hard enough to knock the wind out him. “Nah, Charlie. Bill’s just looking for someone dumb enough to marry that mean-ass daughter of his. You’re looking at the poor bastard, right here.” Seth pointed at Terry with his huge thumb.

Terry blushed and smacked Seth’s hand away. Charlie leaned back and laughed until it looked like the chair might topple over. Even Terry joined in after Seth started his own bellowing laughter.

***

After the boys from Coffee County left, Charlie sat quietly for a long time. It was not like him to be still, and the silence eventually drew his secretary to the office door.

“Can I get you something, sir?”

“No, thank you, Becky. I’m just thinking.”

“All right.” She left as quickly as she had appeared.

The aide shipments were no problem. Charlie could call in a favor and have food supplies on the way by mid-morning. The other two favors were problematic. With the right bottle of wine, he could probably talk Judith into letting him go to Coffee County for an official trip, but she wouldn’t be happy about it. He could remember the last time he had denied her and the long weeks of suffering that had resulted. That was his punishment for marrying the daughter of a gentleman farmer in a time when farmers controlled all the wealth. She expected to get her way and generally did.

The third favor was the hardest one, by far. He wasn’t even sure it was a good idea to rush the proceedings. If both men were dead, it could take the wind out of their respective army’s sails. It could just as easily inflame both groups until they ran over Teeny Town like berserkers. He could keep the two criminals from talking to each other, but he was sure that train had left the station. He could not legally keep them from having visitors, which meant that all kinds of information could change hands right outside the jail, between party members, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it. The only solution for that problem was to hang the bad guys before they received any more visitors. Legally, that was completely impossible.

Charlie realized he was going in circles. He was dedicated to his legal and moral obligations, and that was that. He got up from his chair and told Becky he was leaving early. He walked down the two flights of stairs to the main rotunda. He traveled the room in a slow circle, looking up at the depictions on the ceiling. He strolled to the center of the room and brushed his fingers over the stone monument to mark the geographical center of the state. He caught himself and strode rapidly out the main doors, ignoring the bemused look of the blonde girl behind the information desk.

The four blocks to his home was an easy walk, but he was sticky with sweat before he opened his front door. He walked straight to his study and pulled out a rare bottle of original, pre-Breakdown Jack Daniels. It was much better than the stuff they made nowadays. He poured about five shots worth into a cocktail glass on the credenza and set the bottle down. He stared at the glass for a solid minute before he picked it up and took a long sip. He was hoping it would slow his brain’s whirling to a more palatable rate.

Judith walked in, took one look at the glass in Charlie’s hand and said, “Ok, what’s wrong?”

Charlie winced at her sudden presence. He was so far inside his head, he didn’t hear her on the hardwood floors. “Oh. Hey, Honey. How was your day?”

“Forget my day. Tell me about yours,” Judith said it as if it were an order.

“How’s Michael?” Charlie went for the stall tactics.

“Fine. I’m waiting.”

“You know me too well, My Dear.” Charlie prepared for the inevitable surrender.

“That’s right, and that’s why you’re going to start talking.”

“Ok. First, Bill Carter asked me to make a trip to Coffee County,” Charlie said, waiting for the lash.

“Why?”

“He’s got a fight coming, with the clans of both of our prisoners at once. Because I was stupid... The Judge and the Dragon connected the dots and as we speak, the Dragon’s people are down in Manchester offering to team up with Jerry Doan Jenkins’s family. Before it’s over, they will most likely drag the other wealthy families into it and line them all up against Bill Carter. I got him into this mess. I have to try to help.”

“Fine. You’re right. That man saved our son. You go do whatever you can to help.” Again, Judith made it an order.

“Really? I was expecting...”

“Yes, I know, but this is different. We owe that man our son’s life. We pay our debts.”

“Ok, well... Good... Thank you.”

“You said ‘first’. What else?” Judith demanded rather than asked.

“Damn, woman. Can’t sneak anything past you.”

“No. I don’t even know why you still try. The only time I ever catch you in here drinking that stuff is when you are in the middle of some impossible dilemma, so out with it.”

“Ok, Bill also asked me to speed up the process and to hang those men as soon as possible.”

“And?”

“And I’ve made my life about protecting that process. I can’t just call a trial tomorrow and rush it through. Things have to happen. My hands are tied.”

“Charlie Bell. I’ve never heard you say that. You’ve tackled everything that has ever crossed your desk, even the things that cause you to get out that bottle. Why is this any different?”

“It’s the process. I have no choice.”

“Aren’t you the one that says there’s always a choice?”

“Well, yeah...”

“I understand the problem, but I think you already know the answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you what to do, even though I like to pretend I can, but I can say the same thing about this as I say about your trip to Coffee County. We owe Bill Carter more than we can repay. If you can help, you will help.”

Charlie took another long sip. He knew what she meant, and he was somewhat amazed to hear it. And as quickly as that, his dilemma was solved.

***

The Attorney General walked into the State Police Building at one in the morning. He found the only entrance to the jail guarded by a single State Police officer. It was simple statistics that caused that officer to be one of the men rescued from Nashville, but to Charlie, it felt like a sign from God.

“Evening, Jack. Are you mending up ok?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Bell. I still have some ugly scabs and bruises, but I’m doing much better.”

“Good, good... Listen, I’m working this case, and I need to ask the Dragon some questions.”

“We’re not supposed to bother the prisoners after 10 PM.”

“I know. I wrote the rules, but I’m sure you’ll agree this is a special case, and there’s a ton of public pressure to move things along.”

“Well, I’d like to see the Dragon hang myself. I guess it’s your rule to break.”

“Thank you. I’ll be ten minutes at most.”

“You know where I’ll be, sir. Holler if they don’t cooperate,” the officer said, brandishing his night stick.

Charlie smiled at the implication, and waited for Jack to open the door. He stepped into the long hallway with its sickly golden paint and flickering fluorescent lights. A faint buzz emanated from a faulty ballast. He saw right away that Jerry Doan Jenkins was sleeping on the hard cot in the first cell on Charlie’s right. The Judge was using his duster as an extra blanket. Charlie walked past the first four pairs of cells and the concrete partition that separated that set from the second set of cells. He knew the Dragon, aka Gary Tucker, was in the last cell on the right.

Charlie squared himself to the Dragon’s cell and gave a sharp kick to one of the bars. The Dragon rolled over and opened bloodshot eyes just enough to see the source of the noise. When he saw Charlie standing there, he raised his middle finger and rolled back to face the wall.

“You might as well answer my questions. It all turns out the same way in the end, Tucker.”

“If that’s the case, why should I bother?”

“Because I can decide that you smell bad enough for a bath and send in some nice officers with a fire hose. Maybe you’d rather stay dry.”

Tucker rolled back to face Charlie and sat up. “You make a good argument, Mr. Attorney General.”

“Excellent. First, I’d like to say that I enjoyed your little conversation with your boy. You’re locked up in jail and still making lives miserable.”

“Miserable for other people, not me.”

“So, the whole racist, white-robe act is just a show, huh?”

“Seemed like good idea at the time, and I got a couple of counties worth of scared morons to show for it,” the Dragon said with obvious pride.

“Good for you, I guess. Why not just ride in with a typical band of pirates, shoot a few innocents for the fear factor, and steal what you want?”

“Well, the interesting part is that it not only works on the morons, it works on my people as well. Some of them actually believe in that shit. Just to keep ‘em happy, we cleared the region of non-whites years ago. I figure if you’re killing for show, might as well have a show.”

“What about your boy? Does he believe in it?”

“Hell, no. I taught him better than that. He believes in nothing, except taking whatever he wants. I guess you know... The next thing he wants is that asshole you sent to kill me.”

“Yeah, I heard. The interesting part from my end is that I sent Bill Carter to find out what happened. If he missed your show, odds are he would have headed straight back here to report, and by the time we got our act together, you would have been long gone. After you decided to burn two good men to death, he felt morally obligated to stick around and kill you.”

“He missed,” the Dragon said with a snarl.

Charlie pulled out a case of cigarettes he had brought, though he didn’t smoke. “Want one?”

“Why not? Nobody lives long enough for cancer these days.” The Dragon got up from his bunk, and took three slow steps across the cell. He ended up facing Charlie from eighteen inches away, legs spread in a defiant stance and head tilted back to look the taller man in the eye.

“So, I’m just curious. We only have witnesses for the last two, but how many men have you killed?” Charlie asked, as the Dragon took a cigarette and waited for Charlie to light it.

“Myself, just a few. Like I said, I have people for that.”

“Ok, how many have you had killed?”

“Hundreds... Thousands, maybe... Who knows? Who cares? You can’t hang me for any of them. Hell, you can’t hang me for the rapes, or the robbery, or the towns I burned to the ground. None of it,” the Dragon said with the demeanor of a man who just won an Olympic medal.

“You’re right, Dragon. I can’t, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I will rid the world of you and save all the victims you haven’t touched yet.”

“Whatever helps you sleep, big man.” The Dragon took a long drag on the cigarette, and leaned his head back to blow the smoke into the air. His arrogance was incredible. “Personally, I thi...”

Charlie’s silenced bullet entered below the Dragon’s jaw, passed right through his reptilian brain stem and erupted from the back of his skull with a small spray of bone, hair, blood, and gray matter. The Dragon dropped like a sack of horse feed.

Charlie made two more mistakes, aside from the obvious. The silenced gun was not nearly as quiet as he had believed. The sharp, slithering crack echoed off every hard surface in the cell jail. He expected the door to open any second, but it did not. The second mistake was that the Dragon’s body fell in a way that left the hands well inside the cell. After slipping on a pair of leather gloves, Charlie had to drop to his hands and knees, stretching his arm to the limit in order to place the tiny pistol in the Dragon’s dead hand.

The Attorney General was feeling the need to finish the job. He peeled the gloves and strode back to the Judge’s cell. Charlie fought the strong urge to put a bullet in the man’s back and to run out the door. Instead, he rapped on the Judge’s bar with the pistol, and put it back inside his coat. Jerry Doan Jenkins stopped snoring, and looked over his shoulder at Charlie.

“... The hell...” the Judge muttered.

“Get over here, Jenkins. I got a couple questions for you.”

“You can just bugger off.”

“You’re not going to want to miss what I have to say. It concerns your family.”

The Judge’s eyes opened wide. He rolled off the cot and walked over to the bars, grasping one in each hand. “What about my family?”

“I overheard a conversation in the visiting area. You know the Dragon?” Charlie asked.

The Judge glanced down the hall. “Yeah...”

“Well he told his son to take a company of men down to find your family and kill them all. He said he couldn’t work with a moron like you.”

“That son of a...”

The second bullet entered the Judge’s left temple and plowed through his brain at an angle, bursting free from the middle of the far side of his head. Jerry Doan Jenkins lived long enough to suffer, but he quickly lost enough blood to stop his heart. Charlie had hoped to provoke the man to turn his head long enough for the shot. He was lucky that it worked. Charlie gripped the Judge’s hand on the bar as the man died to keep the hands within easy reach this time. When the body hit the floor, Charlie put the gloves on again. His legal opinion was that these were two entirely plausible suicides. Hard to explain the guns, he expected, but the Junior Dragon may have brought them in.

Unfortunately, Officer Jack Burton heard the second shot and threw the door open, with his own weapon drawn. He was just quick enough to see Charlie’s hand retreating from the second tiny weapon, just placed in the Judge’s hand. The officer’s mouth dropped open at the sight of the highest official in his chain of command committing murder. Charlie’s own gun was back inside his coat, and Jack reasonably concluded that the murder weapon was in plain sight in the Judge’s hand.

Charlie raised his hands and stood up before Burton gathered his wits to speak.

Charlie spoke first. “Listen, Jack. These guys are conspiring to send both their clans against the man who saved you. He’s going to be badly outnumbered, and everything I can do to help, I have to do. The last thing Carter needs is these two masterminds running the show. Understand?”

Jack nodded slowly.

“Here’s what happened. You never saw me. The Dragon’s kid smuggled these pistols in to his father who somehow gave one to the Judge. They committed suicide before we could hang them.”

Jack found his tongue. “What the hell, sir? You can’t just...”

“I know, Jack. I know. If you had asked me this morning, I never would have even considered this, but the situation is changing fast and I owe Bill Carter. You do too. This gives him a fighting chance. Is there any doubt in your mind that these two would be dead in a month?”

“No. I was looking forward to the hanging.”

“Right. All I did was speed up the justice system to save Bill and his people the trouble that these two would add to his problems. Even so, it’s going to be a hard fight. Every little bit helps, and if this helps, I’ll live with the guilt. Understand?”

Jack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Ok, I agree with your argument, but in the morning, my ass is fired.”

“Jack, you know what you need to know. If you protect me, I’ll protect you. It won’t matter for more than a few days. Everyone wanted these two to die, especially inside your own department.”

Officer Burton though for ten seconds. Finally, he nodded and said, “Ok, Mr. Bell. They committed suicide on my watch. I’ll take the heat. You have my word.”

“Thank you, Jack. I won’t forget.”

Chapter 6 – 14

Terry waited with Seth in the Carter kitchen. As usual, Aggie had something to eat sitting on the counter. The men munched on squares of cornbread with butter and strawberry jam, while they waited on Aggie to get Bill ready for visitors. They had been turned away from Bill when they had returned the previous evening. Aggie told them firmly that Bill had done too much that day, and whatever they had to say could wait until morning. They had shrugged agreeably, and Seth had taken Terry home to his family’s house to give the Carters some peace. Now they were back, bright and early, in a golden haze of morning that promised another hot and humid day in Tennessee.

Aggie walked into the kitchen, having completed the arduous task of waking Bill. He was a handful right now, a man of endless work stuck in bed. She was ready to kick him out the door and let him hobble around town, annoying everyone else.

“Ok, boys. He’s awake, but that’s about all I can promise,” she said. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Aggie,” Terry replied.

Seth mumbled something around his cornbread, and smiled at the boss’s wife as they set their dishes by the sink. As they made their way upstairs. Terry could almost feel Bill’s foul temper before they entered the bedroom. He was squinting in the bright light glaring through the windows and grimacing from the pain and stiffness.

“I should be feeling better by now. It sucks getting old, men. Sucks!” Bill declared.

“Morning, Bill.” Terry greeted his leader. “Hey, we got Big Seth, the human crutch. Wanna go outside?”

“My wife will string me up if I leave this bed,” Bill replied, pouting like a little boy.

“And you always do exactly what she says, right?” Terry asked with a sly smile.

Bill grunted in surprise and said, “Come here, big guy. I’m starting to hate this room.”

Seth stepped over and set his hands under Bill’s arms with a disarming gentleness, and effortlessly lifted Bill to his feet. Bill winced at the motion, but settled quickly to a point of balance. Seth was too tall to serve as the human crutch, and Terry took his place supporting Bill’s left side. They stepped out to the head of the stairs, where Seth joined back in and simply carried Bill to the first floor. From there, it was an easy limp to the front porch. Terry left Bill holding the porch rail, with the notion that Bill could move around a bit, while still having some support. Terry stood a carefully calculated distance to Bill’s left, and Seth stepped off the porch to face Bill from the street level.

“This ok, Bill?” Terry asked.

“This is good,” Bill replied, swaying slowly from side to side. “Good idea.”

Seth saw Aggie watching from the glass, and gave her a massive thumbs up. “I think she’ll let you live, Boss. Me and Terry, maybe not.”

“Don’t you worry, boys. She’s likes the young men,” Bill said, turning his head to look at Terry.

Terry was suddenly uncomfortable, and covered it by giving his report. “So, we talked to Larry...”

“Don’t keep me waiting. What did he say?”

“He agreed to help out. It took some talking, and there’s no telling how many he will bring, but he said he’d come.”

“Good. How did you convince him?” Bill asked.

“I didn’t. I got him to the fence, maybe. His son, Tate, kicked him over,” Terry replied.

“Really? I wasn’t even sure those boys could talk. Miracles never cease...”

“Anyway, they could show up as early as today, depending on how hard they try to recruit the neighbors.”

“Ok. We’ll have the front guards on the lookout for them. There are six men up front now, and double on the patrols.” Bill was thinking out loud.

“We talked to Charlie. Mike is getting better, but it’s going to take time for the head injury.”

“Mike took a serious beating, all right. Did you give Charlie my requests?” Bill asked, all business now.

“We did. The aide shipments are on their way this morning. Getting Charlie down here was iffy. He wants to come, but he sort of said that his wife is a little touchy about her men traveling right now.”

“Understandable, I reckon. Still I hope he can work it out. We need more people, and I think Charlie can help talk a few into helping us,” Bill said, staring into the middle distance.

“Yeah, all I know for sure is that he understands, and he wants to help.”

“What about the third favor?”

“Charlie said his hands are tied. He has separated the Judge from the Dragon, but he can’t legally stop them from having visitors. He can’t really speed up the process much, but he said just about everyone wishes that he could.”

“Well, the good news, I guess, is that since the Dragon showed up out of nowhere, he doesn’t have too many friends in Murfreesboro. The bad news is that he showed up out of nowhere, which means the State is blind in his territory. He could have ten thousand men ready to fight and we wouldn’t know it. If we had some time, I’d send Kirk down there to find out, but things are moving too fast. I need everyone close to home.” Bill sighed heavily. There was never enough time, resources, or manpower.

“What’s next, Bill?” Terry asked.

Bill focused on Seth. “Big Seth, how did our boy do?” he asked, jerking his head towards Terry.

“He’s a good talker, Boss. Real good. Heck, he talked me into letting him drive.” Seth made everything sound like fun.

“Ok. In that case, I want you two to jump into Big Bertha and head into Manchester to help Dusty do some talking. Make a show of it. The word’s out on us, so now we want to look as strong as possible. The only thing to keep quiet is our location. We need to save that secret as long as we can. Otherwise, we’ll get overrun by too many people to feed and organize. Hopefully, we can feed them with the aid shipments, while we make our case.”

“Yes, sir. Can I talk to my folks?”

“Absolutely. Make sure you give them some food, but tell them to stay put. Soon enough, they’ll be in the safest part of the county,” Bill said. “If you get Manchester moving in the right direction, I want you to head over to Tullahoma, and see if you can drum up some support. Seth, you’ve got some people there, right?”

“A few, Boss. Don’t know how much use they’ll be, though. Might be better if we just pretend they don’t exist.”

“I know what you’re saying, Seth, but when this thing is over, assuming we come out on top, we’ll have to deal with them anyway. It might work better if Tullahoma owes us a favor.”

“Gotcha, Boss,” Seth replied, nodding.

“Ok, men. I’m really starting to miss that dang old room of mine. How about lending me a hand up the stairs?”

Chapter 6 – 15

By the end of September, Kirk and I finished digging out the stalls. What had started as hard, backbreaking work slowly turned into pure tedium. Our young hands were tough as oak, covered in calluses, and attached to a set of wiry muscles that could dig all day. In a way, we were disappointed by the conclusion of the task, as if we had created some kind of momentum for shoveling the earth. In the long process, we had transformed the massive hay bale walls into an airtight shell around the barn. When we ran out of barn bales to pack with dirt, we moved over to the Carroll’s house and repeated the procedure. We discovered that if we took a bucket of water along, we could pack the mud into any shape we needed, and it would freeze in place almost immediately. The only trick was working fast enough to keep the water in the bucket from freezing solid.

Other than a light dusting of snow on the 23rd, the main problem was the simple buildup of a frosty crust. Those of us working outside had developed the habit of carrying a hammer to knock frozen objects loose, which worked fine unless the object in question shattered like glass.

Arturo probably made the single biggest contribution to our well-being. Once the outhouse was enclosed in a sandwich of sheet metal, wood framing, and square hay bales chinked with mud, a scavenged wood stove was installed in the six-foot space behind the original outhouse. A big black piece of PVC pipe vented the waste pit through all the layers to the outside, and stainless flue pipe vented the stove. The outer door was a foot thick, filled with sheet foam insulation, and edged in as much foam and rubber gaskets as we could find. All in all, the outhouse became a relatively pleasant place to take care of business. Even with all of that, Arturo made it infinitely better.

He was happy to have a job that didn’t rely too heavily on his aching leg. He took a pile of old bricks, and some bags of mortar they had pulled from the supply yard, and enclosed the woodstove in a massive brick labyrinth. From the outside, it looked kind of like one of those barbecues that people had once built in their backyards. It was a rectangle that rose in stages to the top, where the flue escaped. The lowest platform was like a hearth, and covered the entire floor behind the old outhouse. The second layer contained the stove, and rose up to a shelf about eighteen inches wide. The third layer was the top of the construction, and eventually gave way to a brick chimney that enclosed the flue pipe to the roof.

He called it a masonry heater. On the inside, it was far more complex. Through a painstaking process of sketches and trials, he laid the bricks in series of channels to cause as much brick as possible to contact the escaping heat. This efficiently warmed the entire brick mass, which radiated the heat into the entire building. When he was done, the outhouse was our version of a luxury spa, warm, comfortable, and efficient with firewood.

We worked as a team to laboriously drag an old cast iron tub from the old homestead, up the hill, and into the improved outhouse shed. The tub barely fit through the door on its side. It was a wrestling match. We tipped it up on end to get around the original outhouse and set it on the hearth layer of the masonry heater. We had to push it right to the end of the hearth to keep it from blocking the door of the stove, but the fact that it did indeed fit was another vast improvement. Dad rigged a drain under the wall with some PVC and ran the pipe far enough that the water would flow downhill, in theory. In reality, we were tasked with shoveling dirty ice away from the outflow every time the tub was drained. From then on, the tub was kept full, along with a row of buckets on the second ledge, so that warm water was always available. It’s hard to explain how much that meant to us during that winter, but it’s safe to say that Arturo was our hero once again.

Dad pronounced our stall excavations perfect, except for one thing. He had us cut tunnels between the pits in each stall. Kirk and I were so immune to digging by that point, we didn’t even grumble. Compared to the pits themselves, the short tunnels were nothing. In fact, they were more like thick doorways than tunnels. Again, we had no idea what we were doing, but we had learned that Dad always had a plan, and we paid close attention when he showed us how to use plywood and two-by-fours to shore up the doorways.

With the doorways complete, Mom joined the pit team. She directed the careful transfer of our food supplies into the front stall. She handed the containers down, and Kirk and I stacked them where she wanted. Once the food was stacked in the pit, it looked like we had enough food for an army, but even then, I knew it was an illusion.

Arturo built a smaller masonry heater in the well pump house, but it lacked the mass and multiple channels of his first masterpiece. He planned it to get the most out of every last brick, and declared himself thankful that it was warm enough inside the little house for the mortar to cure. When that was done, we had another warm shelf for water buckets. The heat was more direct, able to cook certain foods if we wanted, but not nearly as even or enduring. We would need to manage the pump fire more closely than the outhouse. Between the two stoves we had scavenged, the two from the old homestead and the one in the Carroll’s house, we were maintaining five fires at all times. Mom preferred to keep the cooking stove hot. It was much easier and more efficient than starting a new fire several times per day. Dad watched the wood supply, and decided that five fires were too many.

George stopped by for his daily visit, one bitter afternoon right at the end of September. Martha had taken to huddling by the wood stove in the living room of her home. If we didn’t go to the house, we never saw her. She said she couldn’t tolerate that kind of cold at her age.

“Hey, folks. How goes life in the barn?” George asked some version of the same question every day.

“Not too bad, George. How’s life in the house?” Dad’s reply never changed much either.

“Well, to be honest, not too good. It’s okay by the stove, but the rest of the house is well below freezing. Martha’s having a tough time of it.”

“Yeah, George. I can tell by the melt pattern on the roof that you are losing a ton of heat straight up,” Dad said.

“It is an old house. Never had much in the way of insulation. I think some of it is just old newspaper.”

“Well, George, I was going to talk about that same problem, from the other end.”

“What do you mean?” George asked, a little defensively.

“The hard fact is that we’re using too much wood. We can still go out and get more, but that’s going to become impossible soon. Of everything we are heating, the barn is the least efficient right now. We’re sending heat into space, but we’ve been working to fix that. Second least efficient is your house. With no real insulation, there’s no way to hold in the heat. A month from now, you and Martha may be lying on top of that stove to stay warm.” Dad accompanied his lecture with lots of hand gestures.

“So what can we do?” George asked.

“We can work hard to tighten up your house, but to be honest, making the barn efficient will be faster and easier. This may be a tough call for you, but I think you and Martha should move out here with us. That’ll be one less big stove to feed, more bodies to share warmth, and a basic consolidation of resources and effort. In the spring, you can just move back in.”

“You think it’s going to get colder,” George said.

“I think it’s going to get extremely cold,” Dad replied with a hard expression. “I’ve been tracking the temperature on your big thermometer since we moved in from the woods. If the general trend continues, we’re looking at North Pole conditions - fifty, maybe seventy below. If it gets that cold, a trip to the outhouse will be life threatening. I’m sorry, but there’s no way you will survive in the house. Even if we do everything right, it’ll be dangerous enough out here, with everyone living and working together.”

George looked up into the shadows of the barn, then back to Dad. “Ok, David. I’ll talk to Martha.”

Chapter 6 – 16

My birthday was on December 2nd. Mom was doing her best to get a decent cake out of the wood-fired oven, and it wasn’t going well. Powdered eggs do not apparently lend themselves to a moist and delicious cake. The makeshift ingredients combined with the uneven temperatures in the oven began to drive my mom into a frustrated whirl of aggressive motion. This state was further exacerbated by the crowded conditions.

The snows had finally come in mid-October. At first, it brought the same thrill that kids always get when snow falls, but it quickly became apparent that there was no playing in the snow. Then it kept snowing until everything outside became a vague white lump with never ending dark clouds. Anyone looking from a distance would have seen a blurry, dead land, only broken by three faint streams of wood smoke. More often than not, even the smoke was lost to the blizzard conditions. Dad had strung a triangle of rope from the barn to the outhouse to the well and back to the barn. There was a time almost every day when the rope was all that kept us from being lost in the unceasing storm.

The good news with the snow was that every time the snowfall grew heavy, the outside temperature climbed. It was all relative of course, but it was bizarre to learn to feel the difference between twenty-five below and fifty below just by the icy bite on my four square inches of exposed skin. We all learned to hold our bladders until there was another reason to go outside. We fell into a slogging routine of tending fires, huddling for warmth, and passing the time. Days lasted forever.

The larger spaces in the barn had been abandoned. By the first week in October, we had built flat roofs over the stalls, moved the two stoves into stall three, which became our tiny common area and kitchen, and constructed a two-stage entry vestibule for the same stall. We had pulled the square bales from the outer walls of the barn and buried our horse-stall living space underneath them. The end result was a rabbit-warren of a home that kept us well above freezing, but packed eleven people into three barn stalls. It was bound to cause problems.

For one thing, Juannie was as intolerant as always. She seemed to treat the situation as a prank that we were playing on her. She clearly thought we wanted her to suffer, and that we spent our time thinking up ways to make her miserable. She split her time between crowding the woodstoves in the barn and sitting for hours in the outhouse shed. She was the number one user of the bathtub, even though we had set and agreed to a regular schedule for bathing. We all had the responsibility for refilling the tub after we used it. If we didn’t want to brave the cold running back and forth with buckets, we could always take option two, and simply skip a bath. Juannie left the tub empty every time. The only exception to the rule was for Tommy and Jimmy. Mom and Juannie were supposed to take turns handling the boys’ bathroom activities, but true to form, Juannie rarely took her turn.

So it was on my birthday - another day in which Juannie had failed to lift a finger to contribute, and my mom had stepped over her twenty times in her frustrating attempt to bake my cake – when Mom finally snapped.

She stood over Juannie’s legs as she looked in at a cake that was one third black, and two thirds raw. She made a weird growling sound as she slammed the oven shut. She looked down at Juannie’s indifferent expression, and said in a very calm voice. “Juanita, if you do not get out of my sight in the next three seconds, I am going to kill you here and now.”

Dad rose from his standard sitting spot in the corner, but Mom halted him with a sharp “stop” gesture thrown to her side. Juannie took Mom’s statement with the exact same concern as she took the end of the world. That is, she ignored it.

After exactly three seconds, Mom lunged and wrapped her hands around Juannie’s neck. From four feet away, I could not process what I was seeing. That was my mom, choking the life out of someone. Arturo got to his feet but made no move to intervene. He and Dad looked at each other and made the tacit agreement that the women would just have to work it out. Kirk made a move to jump in, but Dad held him back. George and Martha had retreated into their tent in stall four and showed no sign that they knew what was happening. Lucy looked on with an expression I had never seen before and then quickly herded the boys over to stall two, out of sight of the fracas.

All of the reactions occurred in a few seconds. By the time I refocused on the actual fight, Juannie was clearly struggling for air, and Mom was showing no signs of letting up. She kept squeezing until Juannie’s hands waved erratically at her face. I was projecting how to deal with a Mom-murderer in my head, because it looked for all the world like Juannie’s time was up. Juannie’s eyes were fluttering and starting to roll up when my dad snapped, “Beth! Enough!” The sound was pure command, military, and startlingly loud in the pit.

He got through. Mom released Juannie’s neck with one hand, stopped squeezing with the other. I could actually see the white fading from her knuckles in the slow-motion moment. Mom waited for Juannie’s eyes to clear while still pinning her to the ground with her hand. When it was clear that Juannie was back in the picture, Mom slowly drew back her free hand, and delivered a snapping punch straight to Juannie’s nose. The blood exploded out of her nostrils and across her chest.

Mom stood up and backed away. “Juannie, you are completely useless, you spoiled bitch. I’ve been covering your ass since the day you showed up, and it stops, now! Get busy, or get lost.” Mom took another step back and wiped her sleeve across her mouth, dragging the spittle from her lips.

Juannie looked up at Arturo, expecting him to defend her. He just shook his head at his wife.

“You’re taking her side?” Juannie asked, her whining bubbling through bloody lips.

“I’m taking our side,” Arturo said, indicating the whole room. “Beth’s right. Even your little boy does more work than you. Everyone here does whatever it takes to survive. You do nothing, except eat, get in the way, and make more work for everyone else. In case you didn’t notice, everything is different now. There’s no more room for spoiled princesses.”

“What kind of man are you? You don’t even take up for your wife,” Juannie said, groping for traction with dripping disdain.

“I’m the kind of man who drives into Armageddon and gets shot in the leg to save his wife, and keeps working anyway. You reward me by sitting on your ass and embarrassing me every day. I made a mistake. I should have left you to fend for yourself. I’m sure you would have pedaled that pretty face soon enough.”

Juannie’s surge of fury brought her to her feet, breathing hard enough to speckle Arturo’s face with tiny drops of blood. She swung her arm wide to deliver a slap to his face, but he caught her wrist mid-swing and squeezed it hard enough to bring a fresh surge of tears to her eyes.

He held her locked in position, and said his final words to his wife. “I brought you into this, and I apologize to everyone here for that. If you work, you can stay, but you and me... We’re done. If we ever find a judge again, I’ll make sure that’s official. Get out of my sight.”

Arturo released Juannie’s hand and waited for her Latin temper to rise to a boil. He had seen it often enough to expect it. Instead, she stepped back and searched his eyes for any sign of leeway. She saw nothing. It was like a whole new set of eyes staring back at her, a different man. She scanned the room for any support and still saw nothing. She turned and climbed the ladder, crawling out of sight.

George ducked through the tunnel after a few seconds. He stepped to Arturo’s side and placed a big farmer’s hand on his shoulder. “Takes a strong man, Arturo. I’m sorry.”

Arturo gave George a wilted nod and ducked out of the packed room to apologize to his son.

We all assumed that Juannie was on her way for another extended stay in the outhouse, but we were wrong. We stumbled across her body seven months later. She had managed to walk almost a mile in the bitter cold.

End Part 6

Author’s notes:

I suppose the theme for Part 6 is, “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Bill follows his moral compass to rescue the State Police in Nashville and collects a powerful and sinister new enemy in the process. Arturo drives to hell and back to save his wife from the Breakdown and gets himself shot on the return trip. For his trouble, he discovers that he has married a beautiful but useless woman. There are bound to be limits to the legendary luck of the Carter clan.

I found Juannie hard to depict in that light. It’s much easier for me to draw a negative male character than a negative female one. I expect that I’ll get better and learn to spend more time in the gray areas of real life where no one is purely good and no one is purely bad. In the meantime, we have Juannie, who is not necessarily a bad person. She is simply unequipped for the harsh change in her reality. She grew up like a Latin princess, married a man who maintained the tradition just for the joy of being married to a beautiful woman, and suddenly found herself dumped into a world where nobody had the resources to hold up her privileged way of life. Instead of accepting the fact, she resisted as any spoiled child will resist. When push came to shove, she still resisted. With no margin for error, she paid the price. Her final act of defiance leaves a child behind, one who will struggle to understand,and a husband who will pay in guilt, like any other survivor of suicide.

As for Bill, he’s always been swimming upstream. It makes sense to me that when the supports of society get yanked from underneath us, anyone who survives would naturally fall back to a more primitive form of society. I’m defining “primitive” as the norm for earlier times in our own history. I’m also assuming that we consider our democracy advanced, although recent events might make me argue that assumption. In Coffee County, life has taken a feudal turn. It’s not formalized. No one who found themselves in the position to take power was likely to be enough of a historian to set up a complex system of ranks and responsibilities. They simply divided themselves into haves and have-nots, and the haves make the rules.

It’s no accident. I see ourselves trending in that direction every day. We live under laws that benefit the haves and barely make sense to the rest of us. We lose a little liberty every time a new pile of paper winds its way through Congress, chock full of hidden pieces that have nothing to do with the theme of the document. We have outrageous societal demands for safety and security and handing our responsibility to anyone who will take it. We treat our children like blank slates, filling them with ideas that even they know go against the grain of human nature, and then wonder why they snap somewhere along the way. Then we fill them with Ritalin so they will be calm enough to stay out of the way of our overly busy lives. But I digress... Badly.

In Bill’s case, he’s built the lone holdout against a feudal society that could go on forever. He has always known what that means, that sooner or later, he will grab the tiger by the tail. That tiger is mean and well-armed. Bill represents a bit of our own American past, the part where we decided that we did not want to be ruled by an ivory tower king who never walked among us, who made arbitrary decisions about our lives without so much as a Gallup poll to check how we felt about it. In response, we grabbed our own historical tiger by the tail and came up with a system to prevent those kinds of rulers in the future. Of course I’m oversimplifying, but here we are, still ostensibly living under those documents, and day by day we are losing the ideals on which they were written.

I’m writing this story now to remind myself, if no one else, that those ideals matter and that we should pay attention to the health of our own principles. Even if good deeds go hand in hand with punishment, they are still worth doing.

About the Author:

Creative people tend to be lousy at self-promotion, and I fit the cliché almost perfectly. After many years of asking myself why I have anything to say that is worth writing, the answer can only be that I have finally, in middle age, managed to make enough mistakes to say something solid about how not to live life. If I hold up a mirror to my own life, I get a backwards reflection that may actually contain some value. More importantly, I have been fortunate enough to know many people who may have suffered, but did so with far more skill and grace than I have, and they set a solid example for a realistic method of how to live well.

In the meantime, I live in Washington with my wonderful wife, who happens to be one of those good examples, and our five rescue dogs, who manage to encompass an entire school bus full of joyous, childlike personalities. And to add to the rapidly mounting collection of loose fur and allergens, I also share the house with two cats; one with no social boundaries, and one who is nothing but social boundaries.

In a difficult denial of the self-promotion bit, I must suggest that you stop by my semi-neglected blog and leave me a note. That way, I’ll be able to say that not everyone who signs up is preparing a spam attack.  http://www.jfperkins.com

Thank you for reading.

JF Perkins