Glen Tate - 299 Days - The 17th Irregulars

“Well, yeah, it is. You’re coming with me,” Grant said with a smile, too. “No, I just want to find out what you’re doing down here. How everything is going for you. What kind of people are coming to the gate.”

“Sure,” Al said, a little flattered that the “big wigs” wanted to see what he was doing out there. He had been doing this for several weeks and no one had shown any interest in it. Now he felt important. Al motioned for Grant to follow him into the fire station and the little table Al used as his desk.

“Well, most of the time I’m just a backup guard,” Al said, pointing over toward his shotgun which was against the wall of the fire station near his desk. He had a revolver on his belt, too. Al, who wasn’t in great shape, wouldn’t be a frontline guard in a firefight, but he could sure help.

“Dan tells me what I can do to help,” Al said. “That’s usually making sure everyone eats, knowing who is on which shift, helping unload things, keeping an eye on the guards to make sure they’re not too tired or getting heat exhaustion. That kind of thing.”

Grant nodded. This guard force was a very well-oiled machine.

“There are two kinds of people coming to the gate: residents and strangers.” Al said.

“Wait,” Grant said in a panic. “Residents are coming and going?” Rich had said only approved people would go into town on the FCard runs; approved people who would maintain the story about the “fifty Marines.”

“Oh, no,” Al said. “There are the town run people. They’re the guys Rich and Dan have to go into town with the FCards. They bring back food. Dan said that only certain people go into town; the well-armed ones. Apparently, it’s really dangerous in Frederickson and along the road to and from.”

Grant was relieved. The town runs were made by the same people. Thank goodness.

“So,” Grant asked, “if residents aren’t coming and going into town, why are residents showing up at the gate?”

“They have been trapped in a city like the foot doctor,” Al explained. “They’re making their way here, which can take a very long time with all the roadblocks. Almost all the residents who are showing up now are cabin people. They have a place out here and didn’t get out of the cities when it was easier to do. Gas is so hard to get that some people had to save up gas until they had a full tank, which can take a while with what gas is going for in the cities. But eventually they are getting here. And they’re damned glad to be here.”

Hearing this reminded Grant how fortunate it was that his family came out when they did. He couldn’t imagine them trying to get out there now. He thought of what a gang’s road block might demand of his wife or even—God forbid—daughter to get through.

“Some of the people coming to the gate are residents or their approved guests,” Al continued to explain. “I tried to get a list of all residents, but one doesn’t exist, so I try to figure out who knows who. Who I can get a hold of to verify that a person is a resident.” Al pointed over to Heidi, the communications person. “It really helps having her. She can call into the Grange and connect us with someone who can verify if a person lives out here. Sometimes it takes a few hours to get a person verified, and they usually get mad having to wait. But, it’s my job to make sure some criminals don’t walk right in. Why have all these guards and this gate if dirt bags can just walk in?”

Grant nodded.

“Residents are pretty easy to verify,” Al continued, “even if it takes a while. The harder ones are the residents’ guests.”

“Isn’t there a list people provided of their approved guests?” Grant asked, remembering that this was discussed at a Grange meeting.

“Yeah, there’s a list,” Al said. “But sometimes relatives or friends who aren’t on the list try to show up. They remember someone had a cabin out here and they come hoping their uncle or friend or whatever will let them stay. That means we need to reach the resident and ask them if it’s OK to let the person in. The resident almost always says ‘yes’ when they are put on the spot like that.”

“That’s when the Immigrations Committee kicks in?” Grant asked.

“Yep,” Al said. “If a resident says they will sponsor a new person, we take it to the Immigrations Committee, which is pretty much me and Kate Henley. We get the information about what resources the resident has to support the new person. We take that information to the Grange and they vote on whether to let the person in. They approve people when there is proof the resident can take care of them.”

“We also report to the Grange if people show up with food and guns,” Al said. “Oh, and if someone looks like they might have health issues, I get one of the medical people to look at them.”

“So most people coming in don’t get a medical screening?” Grant asked.

“Nope,” Al said, “they don’t. I think that needs to change, especially if the rumors are true.”

Grant got scared. “What rumors?”

“There is supposedly some flu or something going around,” Al said. “Mostly on the East Coast. The rumor is that it’s bioterrorism, but we hear so many wild rumors, I have no idea if that’s true.”

“At the next Grange meeting,” Grant said, “I will support medical screenings for all new people coming here.” Grant, by saying “I will support,” sounded like a politician. He caught himself sounding that way, but didn’t care. It was important to do whatever it took to prevent a disease from infiltrating Pierce Point. Grant needed to do what he could to make sure it didn’t happen, even if that made him a “politician.”

“So far, there haven’t been any ‘neck tattoos,’” Al said, referring to the Grange discussion a few weeks ago about a resident’s approved guest who looked like a criminal and whether to exclude them even if a resident wanted them in.

“What about strangers?” Grant asked.

“Like I said at the Grange,” Al answered, “we’ve seen a spike lately. Today, for example, we’ve had four. Three were kids. Well, college kids. The fourth was a homeless-looking guy. We turned them away. We let them fill their water bottles in the creek and told them to move along.”

Al paused and looked out at the gate. “The strangers that come by are telling us that there are people walking on the roads with their things. We should be seeing many more coming here.”

Al started getting a little choked up. “I hate turning people away, especially the little kids. I get nervous every time Heidi says someone is coming—how does she know in advance? It’s like there’s an observation post out there.”

Grant knew that Sniper Mike was calling in approaching people to Heidi, but Grant didn’t want that getting out, so he changed the subject.

“Do you work twenty-four hours?” Grant asked.

“No, I try to go home at night,” Al said. “We just hold onto people who come overnight and I sort them out in the morning. Since deciding who to let in is so important, and I’m the only guy who really knows who to let in, Dan thought it made sense for me to be the only one making that decision.”

Grant was surprised there weren’t more strangers trying to come in. He had always thought of a collapse resulting in roving bands of homeless people, but he hadn’t appreciated how different a partial collapse was. The government’s ability to supply some level of food to the cities and to keep the utilities on was apparently slowing that down. Grant assumed this meant there was probably more food in the cities than people could find out wandering around. Good.

“I’m former Border Patrol,” Al said. “Kinda comes in handy now.”