Glen Tate - 299 Days - The 17th Irregulars

If Winters had a clear head, he would have realized that Rich was an Oath Keeper, a Patriot, and a threat to Winters and all the corrupt thugs in the courthouse. It was very obvious. But Winters was distracted by paranoia and drunkenness. It happened slowly.

Winters had been scheming for years leading up to the Collapse about how to steer all that pork to his people. He broke many laws to do it, which made him progressively more paranoid. He thought everyone was out to get him. Someone would turn him in and try to take his power. He was saving the county. Anyone who got in his way was classed as some right-wing nut who was against progress. He wasn’t sleeping much at all. He had terrible nightmares about…things he was doing to people. They would haunt him in his dreams. He was drinking all day long and never even knew what time it was. He would invite his receptionist into his sleeping quarters in the conference room, but could tell she hated it. Sometimes she would cry afterwards.

Winters looked for good news anywhere he could find it, even when it didn’t make any sense. He would believe things were fine when, if he were thinking straight, he could have instantly seen they weren’t. Now that he lived behind barbed wire, Winters had to have good news. He craved it. When people told him how great he was and how he was saving the county, he believed them. He became addicted to people kissing his ass and telling him things were fine, because at night, the nightmares came. He needed to spend all day thinking things were fine to make up for what the people in his dreams were telling him.

“Are you in charge out at Pierce Point?” Winters asked Rich. He wanted to make sure he was dealing with someone who could enforce whatever deal they came up with.

“Yes. I’m it,” Rich said, lying. He knew that it was a community effort out there, he wasn’t the only one running the show. Hell, they had a library committee; Rich wasn’t a dictator.

“Good,” Winters said. He leaned back in his chair and let it creak. He thought for a moment. He leaned over and got two cigars out of a box and motioned to Rich to take one.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Rich said. That cigar was worth about $1,000 in old dollars. Rich wanted to play the part Winters seemed to want him to play: Rich as the boss of Pierce Point, and this was two bosses making a deal over a cigar. Let him think that, Rich thought.

Winters lit his cigar first—to show who was in charge—followed by Rich’s. They both puffed for a while to get them going.

“OK, here’s the deal,” Winters said, feeling that rush of power he loved so much. “I need to know that Pierce Point is loyal.”

“Of course,” Rich said quickly and with a shrug. “Why is that even a question?”

Winters handed Rich the fax of the Pierce Point Patriot with the picture of the hanging.

Oh shit, Rich thought. This looked really bad. All of a sudden, Rich didn’t feel so safe and comfortable. He rushed to keep his body language and emotions in check so he didn’t give away how terrified he was. He had been in stressful situations like this, like when he did undercover work, so he flipped into “no fear” mode.

“Yep,” Rich said. “That’s the paper someone is doing out there on some little tiny copy machine,” he said as he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and that’s Frankie Richardson,” Rich said. “Child rapist. Confessed.” Rich looked right at Winters, to project a lack of fear. “You guys were busy, so we handled it.” He shrugged like it was no big deal.

Winters sat back in his chair. It creaked again. He just stared at Rich, sizing him up. Winters was scanning Rich for body language that would indicate he was lying. He didn’t see any.

“You ‘handled it?’” Winters asked.

“Yes, sir,” Rich said, nodding like he was seven years old and talking to his dad.

“Was it some mob thing?” Winters asked. He was fascinated that people were taking care of things like this. He had assumed everything was done through official channels—that is, through him—but was now realizing that he just controlled Frederickson, not the country side.

“No, sir,” Rich said. “We had a trial with a jury and everything. We hung his accomplice and jailed two others. They were stealing things and would have been shot soon anyway breaking into a house.” Rich shrugged again. He was amazing himself at how calm he was.

Winters was convinced. There was probably a lot of this kind of thing happening in the county. But there was something that bothered Winters much more than hanging people.

“What about this ‘Patriot’ thing?” Winters asked, with an obvious edge to his voice.

“That’s the name that guy came up with for the paper,” Rich said quickly, like it was no big deal. He had been anticipating this question and had an answer ready to go.

“We can’t have that,” Winters said, leaning toward Rich and exuding power.

“No, sir, we can’t,” Rich said quickly. “The name of the paper, now that I think about it, needs to be changed. I’ll take care of it.”

“Yes, you will,” Winters said, again exuding power. The brandy was kicking in. Winters was in his element. He was smoking a cigar and ordering people around. It reminded him why he loved his job.

“I can count on you, can’t I, Deputy Gentry?” Winters asked as he poured another glass of brandy. He wanted to use Rich’s former title to remind him that he had recently been part of the “club” of government.

“Of course,” Rich said. “Pierce Point just wants to make it through this and then help with the Recovery. Just like the rest of America. Recovery. That’s what matters.”

This was music to Winters’ ears. He and the government people all around him constantly talked about the “Recovery.” They promised it to the people. They explained that temporary things, like barbed wire around the courthouse, and seizing things like the brandy and cigars, was all to help the Recovery. The Recovery—well, the hope of the Recovery—was what gave Winters all his power. He loved that word.

“You’re right, Deputy Gentry,” Winters said. “May I call you Rich?” he asked, knowing the answer to that question. He did it just to be endearing.

“Yes, sir, you may,” Rich said. He was sensing that Winters was a weak politician. A weak, drunk-ass politician. Playing little charm games like “May I call you Rich?” That was all Winters really had. Deal making from behind barbed wire.

But still. Why pick a fight, even with this weak drunk, when you didn’t have to? Rich didn’t want to bury one, or more, of his Pierce Point guards just to prove a point with this sad idiot.

“Rich, I like you,” Winters said. Another politician’s trick to charm someone. “I’d like to help Pierce Point. Would you like me to do that?”

“Of course, sir,” Rich said with a smile, like he was desperate for help. Rich was in full deception mode to convince Winters that Pierce Point needed things and could be bought off. That’s what Winters wanted to believe so he might as well foster that delusion. And get some stuff.

“How you doin’ on FCards?” Winters asked. “Your people getting fed?”

“We’re doing OK, sir,” Rich said. “Your people are issuing FCards and we send in a crew every day to make a grocery run. Save gas that way.”

“Your crew is pretty well armed, I understand,” Winters said.

Oh crap. The fifty Marines thing, Rich thought. Think fast. “Yes, I have some guys working for me at Pierce Point. Keeping order and all,” Rich said with a wink. He wanted to imply to Winters that Rich ran a gang just like Winters did, but on a smaller scale.

“Marines?” Winters asked. He was still leaning back in his chair. He didn’t want to lean forward and signal that he was concerned.