Eric Walters - The Rule of Three

“And you have those tools?”

The man set down the handle of the wagon and then pulled a thin piece of metal out of a toolbox on the rack underneath the cart.

“I’ve seen one of those,” Brett said. “It’s a slim jim. Car thieves use them.”

“And mechanics and tow truck drivers,” the man said.

“Are you a mechanic?” I asked.

“I can fix anything with a motor—at least anything with a motor that doesn’t have a computer.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Not as interesting as what’s going on here,” he said. “What is going on here?”

“Maybe I could have somebody explain it to you. Look, our whole neighborhood is having supper in about an hour. Would you and your family be interested in joining us?”

“We can’t just let anybody in!” Brett snapped.

“Look, we don’t want to cause any trouble,” the man said.

“It’s no trouble. Please join us for a meal.” This was the exact type of person Herb had mentioned we needed.

“Are you sure you have enough to share?” the man asked.

“I think they can spread it to feed another four mouths. Besides, I have somebody I want you to meet.”

As I’d thought, Herb had been very interested in the family I’d invited to dinner, and began asking the father—his name was Paul Robson—questions about his experience as a mechanic. After dinner, he had a quick discussion with key members of the committee, who agreed to invite the Robsons to stay and found them a temporary home with an elderly woman on my street.

Of course, the Robsons didn’t have any way of knowing that they’d be attending a funeral the next day, along with what seemed like everybody else in the neighborhood. That morning they were at the periphery of the procession—which was where I bumped into them and they thanked me again. I told them they should have been thanking the committee and not me, but they just thanked me a third time.

I wanted to be at Mike Smith’s funeral to pay my respects even though I really hadn’t known him that well. Sure, I’d seen him around the neighborhood, but I hadn’t spent any time with him. When I closed my eyes I could still see him in my mind, blood flowing from the wound, eyes clenched shut, face distorted in pain.

His wife, son, and daughter followed closely behind the casket, which was being carried by six men. The casket was a simple, handsome pine crate assembled by the new carpenter’s shop that had just gotten up and running this week. Once again Todd’s father had taken the lead.

We had no funeral home or cemetery, and we didn’t even have a church, a temple, or any other place of worship, although we did have a Methodist minister in the neighborhood. He was to lead the service.

It had been a long time since Smith’s death, and the body had been stored in the cooler at the grocery store, the generator keeping the body on ice. It would have been better to put him in the ground earlier, but between the family and the committee there had been lots of argument about how and where he was going to be buried.

My mother said one of the differences between humans and animals was how we treated our dead. But I knew that we hadn’t treated the dead very well lately. There were those dead men along the driveway at the Petersons’ farm and those men killed trying to invade our neighborhood, but this was different. Mike Smith was one of ours.

There were hundreds of people. It seemed like everybody who wasn’t on duty or working was here. It was as if it were more than just a funeral—more like a wedding —a ceremony to join together everybody in the neighborhood. Herb had said it was good to have a funeral because it reminded people what was at stake: life and death.

The line of people snaked along the edge of the field, underneath the lifeless power lines, down the creek, through an open gate in the fence, and beneath the highway overpass above the creek. It was strange to see all of these people—some really dressed up—negotiating the rough, narrow path. Above their heads the highway was silent and empty; all of the abandoned cars had been harvested. It was a smooth, barren stretch of asphalt and cement. I thought about how it would be a nice landing strip for my ultralight or how even a Cessna could put down there. I wouldn’t admit it to Brett, but I wished that’s what I had. A Cessna could have taken me to Chicago and back, with my father at the controls for the return flight.

The spot for the burial had been chosen just on the other side of the highway. It was outside the neighborhood but still close. The soil was soft enough to dig, and most important, there was enough space for others to be buried there as well. When my mother had told me that last part it had sent a chill up my spine. We all knew there would be more bodies, but hearing her say it made it more real. How many more people would die before this was all over?

As the mourners assembled around the grave site, I took up a position well off to the side and to the rear. Still, I was close enough to hear the sobs of his family. The minister started talking, but I couldn’t make out more than a word or two. I actually didn’t care what he was saying. It wasn’t like any words were going to make Mike come back or change what his family was feeling.

I looked away, back to the highway, and saw Herb atop the overpass, looking down at the ceremony. He had a scoped rifle strapped to his back. That made the whole thing more real and less real all at once. Here we were at a funeral for a man who was shot defending our neighborhood, and Herb was up there ready to defend the funeral itself. I realized that I wanted to be up there with him more than I wanted to be down here.

Slowly I backed away, leaving the Robson family behind, and then moved quietly through the underbrush. I scaled the side of the embankment and then climbed over the guardrail and onto the highway. Herb acknowledged my presence with a subtle nod. From this distance I could see everything but hear nothing. That detachment made me feel better.

“It’s good to get him in the ground,” Herb said.

“I guess it will give his family some comfort.”

“I wasn’t thinking about their comfort so much as the need to dispose of the body. It’s never good to have bodies piling up,” he said in typical Herb fashion.

“Nope, I guess not. At least we’re doing the right thing here today.”

“We are. Not just for the family, but for the neighborhood. All those people being here is part of us coming together. These are the events that bond us as a unit and prepare us for what is still to come.”

“I think people are working well together,” I said.

“That’s to be expected in the initial stages.” He looked off into the distance. “The scavenging team is out again looking for food.”

“Is that where Brett is?”

“Yes, he’s leading security on that team.”

“Is he going to be in charge of security for all the trips outside the neighborhood?” I asked.

“Maybe not all, but many of them. His skills and temperament are better suited to doing than to standing and waiting.” He paused. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” I said. “It’s just that I don’t know if I really… well… I don’t know how to say it.”

“You don’t know if you trust him?” Herb asked.

“I guess that’s it. I don’t trust his moods. He just seems so unpredictable,” I said.

“He is a wild card, but I think he’s better when he’s acting than when he’s thinking. We can put that to work for us. We’ll see how that plays out.”

“Makes sense. I guess even I’d feel more secure going somewhere if he was there with me.”