Glen Tate: 299 Days: The Stronghold

“With who?” Rich asked.

“Us,” Bennington said, looking down because he was ashamed. “Commissioner Winters and us, the FC, the government,” Bennington said, like Rich was stupid not to know that.

“Oh,” Rich said. Always the curious cop, Rich asked, “What kind of business do you do with them?”

Bennington was embarrassed, but he wanted to tell Rich what was going on. So he said, “Oh, the Mexicans run the gas sales. We sell them the bulk fuel that we get from FEMA and others. They get to keep the profits. We let them run the drugs and girls. They have a lot of their own girls they use for that.” Bennington could see in his mind’s eye the faces of the teenage Mexican girls working the streets and it almost made him cry. He hated that. Hated it. He wished he could figure out a way to make it stop.

“So all you get out of this is sales of bulk fuel?” Rich asked. That didn’t seem very lucrative for all the trouble Commissioner Winters was going to. There must be more.

“We get a couple things out of it,” Bennington said. “First of all, we get peace. We have zero problems with the Mexicans. That’s a big deal. We don’t have the resources to be fighting more people. It’s hard enough to keep the anglos,” a term meaning non-Hispanics, “in line. The fewer people we have to police, the better. Commissioner Winters also gets customers from the Mexicans.”

“Customers? For what?” Rich asked.

“The stores,” Bennington said. “We get a cut from the food and other sales on the FCards. And we make reports to Olympia on the number of people we’re feeding. Headquarters likes to see that we’re feeding lots of people and have relatively less violence than elsewhere. We’re kind of a model.”

A model? Rich thought. An ethnic ghetto, sex slavery, God-awful corruption? That’s the model? Apparently so.

“There are some nice political benefits, too, for Commissioner Winters,” Bennington said. “The Senorita goes on radio and the internet and talks about how the government is taking care of everyone of every skin color.”

“Yeah,” Rich said, “if ‘taking care of’ means letting them run a sector and running rackets. Is that really ‘taking care of’ people?” He realized he shouldn’t have said that.

Bennington snapped back, “It’s complicated, OK? It’s complicated.” He was quiet for a while.

Rich broke the silence by saying, “Sorry, man. I realize you’re playing the hand you’ve been dealt.”

Hearing that was a relief to Bennington. “Thanks, man,” Bennington said. “Playing the hand I’ve been dealt. That’s right. I hate the way things are.” Bennington stared out the window. He was looking at closed down businesses. People were walking around aimlessly, and looked scared. Scared to be on the streets. Vandalized cars. Broken windows in stores from smash-and-grabs. A burned out restaurant. It looked like L.A. after riots. And this was the “model.”

As they drove toward the hospital, Rich noticed some graffiti. It was everywhere. It was painted in yellow and said, “I miss America,” and “Resist.” Rich figured it was Patriot graffiti, but thought he’d ask Bennington.

“What’s that?” Rich asked, pointing to the graffiti.

“Some Patriot bullshit,” Bennington said. “I do miss America,” he said. Then he caught himself, “But those Patriots are just a bunch of terrorists, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I heard,” Rich said. He was starting to get the feeling that Bennington was a closet Patriot. Maybe that’s why Bennington wanted to brief Rich on the conditions in town.

Nah, Rich thought. That was just wishful thinking. But Rich couldn’t shake the feeling that Bennington was an ally trying to reach out as much as he could. Rich would tuck that away in his mind and see if future information supported or contradicted that theory.

More silence. Finally Rich asked, “So what’s the deal with the FC? How do they fit in?”

Bennington said, “Oh, they’re a joke. Really. They can’t do a thing without back up. And by ‘back up’ I mean the National Guard. Those FC ass munchers are basically here to keep an eye on Commissioner Winters and make sure he’s doing what FEMA and Olympia want. That we’re not stealing too much,” Bennington said, darting his eyes down to the floor of the cab. He was embarrassed by that.

“We could have them…offed in ten seconds,” Bennington said, “But then the Guard would come here. So we put up with their stupid FC forms and occasional directions. Of course, we let them run their own rackets. Little ones. We let them sell stuff on the side. One of them has a real problem with the ladies. We,” Bennington looked down at the cab floor again, “look the other way when he does bad things.”

Rich felt sorry for Bennington. Rich had more in common with him than he had thought when they started the bribery that morning in the gas station parking lot. Back then, just an hour or so ago, Rich felt like Bennington was the complete opposite of him. But now he realized Bennington wasn’t. It was complicated, Rich now realized.

“Can’t you do anything about it?” Rich asked. “Or would that get the National Guard or whatever involved?”

Bennington just nodded. He realized that Cindy was in the extended cab and could hear all of this. He didn’t mind confiding in a fellow cop, or ex-cop, like Rich. But there were limits; he shouldn’t be saying these things to a civilian like Cindy. Bennington needed to change the subject.

“The hospital is coming up,” Bennington said, even though Rich knew exactly how to drive to it. Rich had been there hundreds of times when he was a cop. Cindy got out her clipboard.

“Things like these medical supplies,” Bennington said. “That’s another kind of thing Commissioner Winters runs. Any miscellaneous thing people need like this. It comes through us. We control these things and we make the money.” He seemed less embarrassed about it now. It was like he got some things off his chest earlier in the ride.

Cindy hadn’t been to her old job for almost three weeks. That was when medical personnel quit coming to work because it was too dangerous. The hospital never told people to stay home, but all it took was one key person to be gone, like a key medical device technician, and all the work several others did was on hold. There was no use coming to work, so most people just stopped coming. On Cindy’s last day, she was one of the only people there.

She had renal patients on dialysis. They would…die without the treatments. She couldn’t think about it. She got to know them from their regular sessions. Mrs. Fitch, Simon Butler, little Tony. What a brave little boy Tony…was. Past tense. Was.

Cindy felt so guilty about not being there with them when they died. Part of her job, and her calling as a nurse, was to comfort and encourage people. But she abandoned them. Left them to die, even though she knew she couldn’t go in to work. The last day she was at work she convinced herself of that. As she left work that last day, she watched helplessly as the car ahead of her at the stop light got car jacked. God only knew what happened to the young woman driving and her baby.

Back in the rear cab of Rich’s truck, Cindy shuddered as they drove through that same intersection. What had happened to that woman and her baby? Cindy prayed—she literally folded her hands and prayed—that losing the car was all that happened to them. Oh God. What had happened to America?

“You got your list?” Bennington asked as he turned his head back toward Cindy.

“Yes,” she said. It was the first time Cindy had said anything in quite a while. She thought Rich and Bennington didn’t know she was back there the whole time listening to how horrible things were.