Glen Tate - 299 Days - The Community

The Team would use their CBs to keep in contact with one another whey they were on the road. Scotty quickly detached the magnetic antenna on his truck and put it on Mark’s truck, which was a black Chevy four-door Silverado. They were good to go.

Grant and Chip would stay behind for guard duty. Paul was the backup guard. Chip probably could have gone into town, and he wanted to, but he realized that they would need at least three guys to repel anything that could come. There probably wasn’t enough, but it would have to do.

At 9:30 a.m., the trucks rumbled out of their little compound with Mark in the lead. Mark’s diesel truck made that distinctive pinging sound.

Once they got past the guard shack and onto the paved road, they were all on high alert. Not only for cops or bad guys, but also to see what life was like in a quickly collapsing America.

It looked like everyone in Pierce Point was home on this Tuesday morning. No one was going to work, which made sense. Other than for essential services, like Tammy at the power company, there wasn’t much point in people going to work with the internet down, gas in short supply, and everyone worried about their family’s safety. School had been cancelled days ago, so parents needed to stay home.

Families were outside talking to their neighbors with their kids running around. No one was visibly armed. It looked like a block party with everyone out and talking to each other, except there was no party atmosphere. It reminded Grant a little of 9/11. Back then, neighbors were out talking to each other; sometimes for the first time ever.

Many nice people waved to Mark and the strange collection of trucks and people with him. They went by the Pierce Point Store, a little country store the size of a convenience store with a gas pump. There was a sign on the pump saying, “Out.” The store was locked up; presumably with emptied shelves.

There were several cars in the parking lot, with people talking at one another from their windows. They waved at Mark and looked at the rest of the convoy of strangers. Some in the parking lot had been noticing quite a few strangers. They figured that people with cabins were coming out and bringing their friends. That was fine with the Pierce Point full-time residents. The “cabin people,” as the “full timers” called them, were usually nice and spent their money there. The cabins at Pierce Point weren’t so fancy that most of the cabin people were stuck up.

The three mile drive through Pierce Point was quiet. They noticed one guy going to his mailbox with a gun on his belt, which seemed odd. Not the gun, but the fact that anyone would be expecting the mail to be delivered. Mail service had been suspended days ago. It was probably this guy’s normal routine to check the mail in the morning.

As they came down the hill toward the turn onto the Frederickson road, there were a few pickups of men with rifles and shotguns guarding the bridge. There was a beater car parked sideways blocking the bridge and acting as a gate. This was the bridge over a little river that Pow had noticed when he came to see the cabin months ago. It was a natural choke point. A volunteer fire station was situated on the Pierce Point side of the bridge, where most of the trucks were parked. Nearly 100 yards of road and the turn off toward Frederickson was on the other side of the bridge. The 100 yards of road allowed those turning off the Frederickson road a chance to slow down and park before they were cleared to cross the bridge. It was an ideal checkpoint. Beyond ideal: absolutely perfect.

Mark recognized the lead guy at the checkpoint. It was Rich Gentry, a former county sheriff’s deputy. Mark had always liked Rich, who had quit the force a few months ago because of all the corruption. Rich was a very respected guy in the community.

The convoy slowed down, and Mark waved at Rich and his handful of men. One of them signaled for Mark to stop, so he did. Scotty grabbed the CB. Mark mouthed, “They’re OK” about Rich and his guards, and Scotty said into the radio, “Mark says these guys are OK.”

Rich came up to Mark’s window. He was in his mid-thirties and in good shape. He was part Indian, and had relatives on one of the nearby Indian reservations.

Rich said, “Howdy, Mark. How are things?”

“OK, given the circumstances,” Mark said. “Glad to see we have a guard set up. Been any trouble?”

“Nope,” Rich said. “Not so far, but there will be. Some druggies will try to get in here, including our local druggies.” Rich meant the Richardsons, a family of meth addicts and their shitbag friends. Pierce Point had been putting up with them and their petty theft for a while, but that had been when there was law around. Most people wanted to shoot the Richardson trash, but that wasn’t possible with the police there to apprehend “vigilantes.” However, things were different now.

Rich continued, “We’re also making sure people coming in have some business in here. We wave in the full timers and we ask the cabin people where their cabin is or the cabin they’re coming out to. So far, everyone has checked out.”

Rich, a curious cop by habit and training, looked at the other trucks full of strangers. “Who are these?” he asked Mark.

Mark trusted Rich, but didn’t want to go spilling the beans at the drop of a hat. “Friends of mine,” Mark answered. “They’re friends of Grant Matson, the cabin guy who has a place by me. They’re solid. Some young guys from the city who need a safe place. They’re a clean cut ‘yes sir, yes ma’am’ kind of guys. We’re taking Grant’s family into town to get some supplies. We’re carrying concealed, of course.” Mark didn’t think it necessary to mention Wes’s hidden AK or all the ARs in the trucks.

Mark pointed to his shotgun that was in the cab of the truck. Rich nodded. Scotty had thrown a jacket over his AR, which was between his legs. Scotty was glad that Mark had a “duck” gun in the cab of his truck instead of a tricked out SWAT shotgun. The duck gun looked much less threatening to the law, or whatever Rich was right now.

Rich said, “We hear things are pretty rough in town. Not full-on violent, just very tense. In fact, I’m surprised the stores are open, but they are. Most, anyway. Even some of the gas stations. My former colleagues,” Rich meant the sheriff’s department, “are pretty much gone. They’ve been working nonstop for several days. Most are back with their families. The single guys are sitting in grocery stores and trying to stop fights. There’s no law anymore.” Rich wanted to say more, but didn’t.

“There’s no law anymore” rang in Mark and Scotty’s ears. It sounded so weird for someone to say that.

Mark nodded. They needed to get going. “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

Rich said, “Beware of the Mexican gangs. They’ve always kept to themselves, but I’m hearing that they are starting to get aggressive now.” Frederickson, like many towns in the West, had a sizable Mexican population. The vast majority were hardworking families, but in every group there were always a few bad apples. The Mexican gangs were tolerated by the law-abiding Mexican populations, and the cops tolerated them too, making lots of “donut money” on the side for looking the other way. This is why Rich and all the decent cops had left the force.

“Will do,” Mark said. He looked at Scotty, who nodded. Mark waved and Rich gave the signal to move the car. A man jumped in and drove a few feet forward, opening up the bridge for traffic. The Over Road trucks drove past, each driver making sure to make eye contact with the guards and wave. Rich was writing down their license plate numbers on a clipboard.