Текст книги "Sunrise"

Автор книги: Mike Mullin

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter 16

We did farm work in the morning and early afternoon—watering, planting, harvesting, cutting wood. Darla invited the other girls—Rebecca, Anna, and Alyssa—to help her build Bikezilla II in the late afternoons. Rebecca and Anna were enthusiastic; Alyssa flatly refused. She had no interest whatsoever in anything mechanical or anything that might get her hands greasy. Or maybe she just didn’t want to spend more time around Darla than she had to.

Max, Ed, and I finished a woodcutting expedition to Apple River Canyon State Park early one afternoon, so I went out to the barn to say hi to Darla. She was holding a lit welding torch and gesturing at the flame with a metal rod, while Rebecca and Anna looked on.

“The oxygen and acetylene combine in the inner cone of flame. Right at the tip of that inner cone is the hottest part of the torch—that’s the part you want to use for welding.” Darla noticed me and released the lever on the welding torch. The flame went out with a pop, and the room darkened considerably.

“Need any help?” I asked.

“You’re not allowed,” Rebecca said.

“I’m not—”

“This is the Girls’ Excellence in Engineering Klub. We’re the GEEKs! No boys allowed.”

“Um—”

“Particularly not older brothers of club members,” Rebecca said.

“What about boyfriends of club members?” I asked Darla.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

I shrugged and headed out of the barn. On the way out the door, I thought of something and turned back. “Maybe you should call it ‘Girls’ Excellence in Engineering and Science Education,’ so it would be the GEESE club.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Anna responded, “Maybe we’ll call it ‘Guys are Notably Dumb and Especially Ridiculous’—the GANDER club.”

I knew when I was beaten. I left the barn without another word.

I peeked in on the GEEKs now and then over the following days. They took two bicycles and the snowmobile completely apart. The idea was to weld the two bicycles together side by side, with the snowmobile track between them where their back wheels had been. The front wheels of each bike would be replaced with skis. I didn’t quite understand how it was going to work—the whole process seemed to involve a lot of welding and cursing. But I knew Darla would figure it out—there was no apparent limit to her genius with all things mechanical.

One day Darla surprised me by visiting me in the woodlot—the area outside the greenhouses where we sawed and split the logs we had hauled back to the farm, turning them into firewood. “Time to call it a day,” she said.

“Why are we stopping?” I asked—it was only midafternoon. “We can get in a couple more hours.”

“You don’t know?” Darla said. “Seriously? October 2nd?” Oh. I’d totally forgotten my own birthday—for the second year in a row. We had a subdued party, all ten of us. There was no birthday cake, only kale and pork like always. We lit a candle, and I blew it out almost immediately; we couldn’t afford to waste the wick. We did manage a pretty good rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” All in all, the best part of my seventeenth birthday was the kiss Darla gave me when it was over.

It took more than two weeks for the GEEKs to finish Bikezilla II. Then Darla and I started ducking out of afternoon chores completely to bike to Warren and knock on doors, asking folks to visit Mayor Petty and talk to him about building a wall.

I was worried when we started. I figured we’d get doors slammed in our faces, people yelling at us, maybe even running us off. And a lot of people did answer their doors with guns in their hands. Darla and I approached each house slowly, our hands in plain view, loudly calling out “hello” as we came. Most of the houses we checked were vacant.

But the people we did meet were universally friendly after they figured out who we were. Almost everyone invited us in, and some of them even offered us a snack: sometimes a bit of ham, sometimes dried kale chips. Their generosity was overwhelming. Only two months ago, we’d all been starving; now folks were sharing their food willingly—eagerly, even.

That wasn’t to say that they all agreed with us. Plenty of them liked Mayor Petty. They’d known him forever; he’d kissed their babies and shaken their grandparents’ hands.

On the third day of our campaign, we met a middle-aged woman living with her two teenage sons. Before I could even say hello, she spoke up, “Hell, yes, I’ll talk to Petty about a wall!”

Darla laughed. “Best sales job you’ve done yet.”

“I haven’t said anything yet!” I said.

“Exactly.”

The woman invited us in, and we spent a few minutes talking to her sons about the protest campaign. Word had gotten around about what we were doing. As we got up to leave, the woman said, “You hear Mayor Petty’s looking for you?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said.

“If he had built a wall and gate, he’d have found us the moment we came to town,” Darla said.

“He’s put out the word,” she said. “Wants to talk with you, I guess.”

“We’ll head down to his office now.”

Mayor Petty smiled just as brightly and shook our hands just as vigorously as he had the last time we’d met him. “Why’re you two stirring up trouble in my town?” “We need to prepare to defend our town. Prepare for the future,” I said. “I’d prefer it if you’d work with us.” “This is about that wall nonsense again? Nobody here wants to be drafted into some kind of work party to build a wall.”

“I bet you could convince them.”

“What I want is to convince you to drop this whole rigmarole. Dividing people against each other isn’t doing the town any favors.”

“I’m not dropping it,” I said.

“Nobody’s going to be forced to waste time building a wall while I’m mayor.”

“Then you should resign.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I’m not dropping it.”

“I’ll ban you from the city.”

I thought a moment before answering. “Good. Do that. The only way you’ll be able to keep me out is by building a wall.”

“Or by ordering you shot on sight.”

Darla and I spoke at once:

“You wouldn’t,” I said.

“If you shoot him, I will end you,” Darla said.

Mayor Petty glowered at us. “Don’t push me.”

“So Yellowstone is claiming another victim,” I said, “democracy in Warren.”

“We’ll hold proper elections when my term is up,” Mayor Petty said, “in two and a half years.”

The mention of elections sparked an idea. “So let the people—your constituents—decide. Hold a special vote on whether or not to build a wall.”

“And if I do?”

“We’ll go away. Win or lose, we’ll quit bothering you, quit trying to stir up public opinion.”

Mayor Petty was silent for a moment. A crafty look shadowed his eyes. “I’ll hold an election, all right. For mayor. You against me. You win, you run the show, build the wall, do whatever you damn well please. I win, you stay out on your uncle’s farm and out of my town.”

“I don’t want to be mayor,” I said. “I want a safe place we can move to, a walled town capable of defending itself.”

“You’re not so excited about wall building when you’re on the hot seat, huh? When you’re the one who’d have to implement your crack-brained plan.”

I thought for a moment. I didn’t want to be mayor, didn’t want to run Warren, didn’t want to do anything but create a safe space for Darla, me, and my family. I certainly wasn’t qualified to be mayor, but could I be any worse than Petty? I would at least consult Ben on military matters, Uncle Paul and Darla on engineering questions, and Dr. McCarthy on medical issues. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll do it.”

Mayor Petty smiled in a way that was more cruel than mirthful. “First Tuesday in January. Ten weeks from now. That suit?”

“Why not next Tuesday?” I said.

“’Cause that’s the way I want it. And I’m the mayor. Everyone who wants to vote’ll meet at St. Ann’s Church. Voting machines won’t work without electric, so we’ll use paper, pens, and an old-fashioned ballot box.”

“We’ll count the votes publicly,” Darla said, “immediately after voting closes. While everyone’s there watching. Won’t even need to lock the ballot box, that way.”

“Agreed.” Mayor Petty rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I’ll beat the pants off you. Wait. Don’t quote me on that. Don’t want anyone to get the idea I’m one of them pedophiles, do I?”

I couldn’t summon nearly as much enthusiasm as Mayor Petty. I shook his hand and left his office in a state of stunned disbelief.

After Mayor Petty agreed to the election, our daily routine didn’t change much. Darla and I worked on the farm every morning and biked to Warren every afternoon, to campaign instead of trying to convince people to protest. When they could spare the time—which was rarely—Uncle Paul, Alyssa, Max, Rebecca, and even Anna walked to Warren to help with the campaign. Mom came along occasionally, but she never campaigned. When I asked her what she did in town, she said she was “visiting” and evaded my questions about who she was visiting with. Ed worried that his past would be a liability and stayed behind on the farm. Ben had neither the skills nor inclination for politics.

Campaigning meant going door to door and talking with people, often while we helped them with their chores. There was no radio, no television, no flyers, and nobody had time to attend rallies, so the campaign had a decidedly low-tech feel. Darla kept meticulous notes on everyone we talked to. She said it wasn’t much different than keeping track of cows. She thought we’d win, but it would be close—within twenty votes.

After about five weeks of this, something changed. People stopped answering their doors when we approached. Several said they were too busy to talk. One guy, a Petty supporter, pointed a shotgun at us. I could understand being tired of talking to us—heck, I was tired of talking, myself—but the change came about almost overnight. Nobody would tell us why

I sought out Nylce Myers, who’d led a squad during the attack on Stockton. She was a huge supporter and one of the toughest women I had ever met other than Darla. Surely she would tell me what was going on.

“It’s nothing, Alex. The mayor’s people are spreading ugly rumors, that’s all. I’m sure it’s not true.”

“What’re they saying?” I asked.

“They claim Stockton attacked us because of you. They say you told them we had stockpiles of pork.”

“That’s . . .” my voice trailed off as I thought about it. What had I said on that icy road in front of Stockton last year? Before Darla and I started off to find my folks? I strained to remember. “Oh, f—”

“What is it?” Darla asked.

“I did tell them. When we were trying to buy medical care for Ed. The guy said he’d heard Warren had plenty of hogs, and I said yeah, thousands.”

“So you didn’t really tell them.”

“But I confirmed it.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

“You mind keeping this under wraps until he decides?” Darla asked Nylce.

“Sure, whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” I said and gave her a hug before leaving.

After dinner that night, I trudged out to the greenhouses to sit on the warm soil and think. It came down to this: what did I value more, my integrity or the town’s survival? Framed that way, it was easy. I’d choose lives over morals any day. But I couldn’t quit thinking about it—couldn’t come to terms with my decision to lie about what I’d said in Stockton.

I’d been out there a good long while when Mom entered the greenhouse. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re working too hard. You look like you’ve been beaten more than a threadbare rug.”

“Really, I’m okay. I’m thinking.”

“It’s Darla. She’s pushing you too hard.”

“She’s the one who keeps me sane, Mom.”

“Stay home tomorrow. Spend some time with Alyssa. Relax for once. We’ve hardly seen you all month.”

“I can’t. Maybe after the election.”

“Mayor Petty says Darla’s putting all this election nonsense in your head. You don’t have to do everything she tells you to, you know.”

“What’s with you and Darla anyway? Why don’t you ever talk to her? You talk about her enough.”

“I don’t—”

“You do! You complain about her to Uncle Paul, to Alyssa—even to Max! What’d she ever do to you?”

“Alex, I love you, and I only want what’s best for you.” “Darla is what’s best for me.”

“You haven’t been the same since you met her.”

“I haven’t been the same since Yellowstone erupted.” “That’s true. None of us have. But can’t you see? She’s just not right for you.”

“No. I can’t see that.” I noticed I had been scooping up handfuls of earth and clenching them in my fists. I forced myself to relax, the dirt flowing through my fingers. “Does this have anything to do with Dad?”

“What? No. How could you even say that?” Mom’s fists were clinched too.

“We all went to Iowa City. Darla came back. Dad didn’t.” “It’s got nothing to do with that. She’s too controlling. Always bossing you around—never giving you any space to relax.”

“She’s a lot like you, Mom.”

“I’m nothing like—”

“You are. Or were. Organized, tough, driven. She’s as passionate about farming as you were about being a principal. Or about protecting the girls in the Maquoketa FEMA camp. Maybe that’s one reason I love you both.”

“I . . . I don’t feel very tough. Not anymore. Not since . . .” “You’re still grieving for Dad. We all are. If Darla died, I’d never be the same. Take it easy on yourself.”

“That’s my point. She pushes you too hard. You need—” Darla pulled back the flap of plastic that served as the inner door to the greenhouse. “Who pushes him too hard?” Mom yelped, “My God, you just about scared me out of my skin.”

“Sorry.” Darla sounded anything but sorry. She stepped toward me, but Mom was between us. There wasn’t room to pass easily in the tiny aisle between the closely spaced rows of kale. “What were you talking about, anyway?”

Mom looked over her shoulder at Darla. “Oh, nothing. I was chatting with my son.” They stared at each other for a moment. Then Mom pushed past Darla, their shoulders brushing.

“What was that about?” Darla asked when Mom was gone.

“Mom’s losing it.” I tried to keep my tone light, but I could tell I wasn’t fooling Darla. “She thinks you’re putting too much pressure on me.”

“As if,” Darla said.

“Yeah, well. Her solution is to add some pressure of her own.”

“You okay?”

“I’m being squished between the two women I love most.”

“Eww,” Darla said.

“That didn’t come out right, sorry.”

“What’s it really about?” Darla asked.

“Dad. I think she can’t, or won’t, blame me for his death, so she blames you.”

Darla nodded slowly.

“It’s not fair. I decided to go to Iowa City—”

“I’m glad,” Darla said softly.

“And Dad decided on his own to come along. I’m to blame, or Dad, or better yet, the Dirty White Boys.”

“Yeah,” Darla said softly, “I blamed you for my mom’s death for a while. But you weren’t responsible for Target escaping from prison. You didn’t pull the trigger—he did. He was to blame. And you killed him.”

Darla choked back a sob, and I stood, wrapping her in my arms. Pretty soon I was crying too, crying for my dead father, for my estranged mother, for the whole disaster the world had become. Somehow it felt right to let it out there, in that greenhouse, our tears watering the kale that kept us alive. Only survivors are allowed the luxury of sadness.

Chapter 17

It was bitterly cold on the day of the election. By the time we reached Warren, the strip of exposed skin around my eyes was red and windburned. Darla chained Bikezilla to a streetlight in front of St. Ann’s Church. Uncle Paul rode along on Bikezilla’s load bed. Nobody else on the farm was registered to vote in Warren. I briefly contemplated getting back on the bike, pedaling back to the farm and forgetting about this whole exercise in tilting at windmills. My hands were shaking, so I jammed one into a pocket and took Darla’s hand with the other, hoping her touch would still the tremors.

The sanctuary was lit by a dozen torches set into sconces in stone walls. Even though I was a half hour early, dozens of people were already there. Most of them clustered around Mayor Petty’s wheelchair at the back of the sanctuary. He wore a suit, tie, and elegant dark-gray coat. His coattails flopped straight down past the stumps of his legs, almost brushing the floor.

I hadn’t given any thought about what to wear. I was in my normal, everyday clothes, the same clothes I’d been working and campaigning in: long johns and jeans on the bottom; a T-shirt, over shirt, and sweater on top. Over that, I wore insulated overalls and a coat. I peeled my scarves and hat off my head, and Darla fussed with my hair.

Steve McCormick approached us, asking a question about where the wall would run in relation to his house, and quickly Darla and I were engulfed. Two competing knots of people formed at the back of the sanctuary: one swirling around Mayor Petty, one around me, like eyes in the gaping face of the church. The face was lopsided, though; there were always more people around Mayor Petty than me.

As the sanctuary filled, it warmed up. The torches and the body heat of hundreds of people were more than enough to overcome the draft from the constantly opening doors. I took off my coat and slung it over a pew.

Mayor Petty’s voice rose over the hubbub. “Shall we start?” People parted in front of him, and he rolled himself down the aisle toward the front of the sanctuary I followed him, mentally cursing myself—I should have suggested starting, taken the lead. There was a folding table holding a couple dozen pencils, a stack of tiny slips of paper, and the ballot box—a crude plywood cube with a padlock on its front.

Mayor Petty turned to face the crowd. Every seat in the church was filled, and the side aisles and back were full of those standing. It was the kind of crowd that would give a pastor ecstasy and a fire marshal apoplexy. “Here’s how this will work,” Mayor Petty said in his booming baritone. “We’ll have two short speeches, say, ten minutes each.” He looked at me, and I nodded. My hands were still trembling, so I jammed them into the pockets of my coveralls. “Then you’ll all form a single-file line, approach the ballot box one at a time, and vote. Write either Bob or Alex on your ballot. The votes will be counted immediately after they’re all cast, right here in public. Questions?” There were none. Petty went on, “We’ll flip for who speaks first. Dr. McCarthy, if you’ll do the honors?” I called heads, won, and elected to speak second.

“You all know me,” Mayor Petty started. “I was born at Katherine Shaw Bethea Hospital just down the road in Dixon. I’ve lived in Warren all my life.”

I wasn’t sure what to do as I listened to him. I felt awkward standing in front of that huge crowd, so I backed up to the communion rail and sat on the kneeling bench.

“I’ve been to your weddings, your babies’ baptisms, your parents’ funerals. I’ve seen Warren grow from a sleepy village of fifteen hundred to a thriving town of fourteen hundred.” A few chuckles rippled through the audience. Thanks to our campaigning, I knew the current population of Warren exactly: 381, of whom 264 were registered voters. Most of the nonregistered citizens were under eighteen. In fact, the vast majority of the survivors were between ages six and thirty-five. The death toll among those older or younger was horrendous. I glared at the audience—didn’t they realize how wrong Mayor Petty was?

“But on a more serious note, I know this town. I know you. My opponent moved here less than a year ago. And while I applaud his taste in choosing to relocate to our fine city, he hasn’t got any roots here.”

That was not exactly true either. Didn’t my uncle count?

“This is a time of trials. We need stability, experience, and leadership. I’ve led this town as your mayor for nearly ten years now. I’ve gotten us through some tough jams before, and I’ll get us through this one.”

Tough jams? What, did the only railroad crossing gate in Warren quit working?

“My opponent knows nothing about the adult world. The toughest problem he’s had to face is a pop quiz in arithmetic class.”

A few people laughed. Would punching a guy in a wheelchair hurt my chances of winning the election? I glanced at Darla; she was standing in the front row at one edge of the sanctuary. She had a huge smile plastered on her face and was pointing at it with both index fingers. Her eyes weren’t smiling—they were glaring at me. I got it and did my best to plaster a neutral smile on my face without looking like a zombie.

“And while it’s widely known that my opponent helped in resolving our conflict with the Reds, what’s not so well known is how he caused that conflict. How he—through his inexperience and youth, if not outright malice– betrayed our fine community.

“A few of you know I’ve had a houseguest for the last two weeks. Now I’d like to introduce him to all of you: Mr. James Sawyer.” Mayor Petty turned to look at the door to the vestry. A man nudged it open and stepped out. With a shock, I recognized the man I had met with outside of Stockton, the one whom I had bargained with, trying to buy medical care for Ed. He had a long, red, knurled cut along his right check, held closed by dozens of neat black stitches. Sawyer strode forward confidently, but he missed the step down from the chancel, nearly flying head over heels. He stood next to Mayor Petty’s wheelchair, hands on his hips, beaming as he turned his head back and forth to take in everyone. His smile was broad, but his eyes were cold and wary.

“When I heard rumors of what he’d done,” Mayor Petty pointed at me, “I knew I needed to learn the truth. I knew you needed to learn the truth. And so I sent a team to Stockton. They brought back Mr. Sawyer here, and he tells me he’s so thrilled by our community that he wants to stay! Isn’t that right, sir?”

“Yessir!” Sawyer practically shouted.

I was instantly suspicious. I could understand wanting to leave Stockton and Red behind, but why move here? He could be spying, planning another attack. In fact I was willing to bet he had family in Stockton under Red’s thumb. I made a mental note to talk to Darla, Ben, and Uncle Paul about it later.

“Tell the good folks of Warren what you told me,” Mayor Petty said.

“I was on guard duty when this fellow,” Sawyer gestured at me, “came to trade. Wanted to buy medical care for a flenser.” A scattering of weak boos emerged from the crowd. “While we were talking, the subject of hogs came up. Fellow said he didn’t have any hogs to trade, but he knew where we could get them. ‘Thousands of hog carcasses,’ he said.” The boos were louder this time. “We’d heard rumors that you all were eating well, but we didn’t know how much pork you had ’til he came along. When I reported on that conversation, Red was mighty interested. He started planning the attack that same day.” The boos were overwhelming now, and Sawyer had to stop.

When the ruckus died down, Mayor Petty said, “Thank you, Mr. Sawyer. Now some of you might be thinking, ‘What if the Reds attack again?’ I want to assure you, that fight is settled. We licked ’em, and we still gave them three trucks full of our own supplies. We’ve got food. They’ve got food. There’s no reason for them to come back.

“I know how much effort it takes just to stay warm, clean, and healthy in these terrible times. The last thing we need is some whack-a-doodle government project to build a wall. Nobody’s got the time or energy for it. Those of you with property around the town don’t want the government taking your land for some wall.”

“I’m okay with it,” someone called from the crowd. Someone else replied, “Give ’em your own land, then. Don’t take mine.”

“Quiet down,” Mayor Petty said. “This here’s a speech, not a town hall meeting . . . thank you. Now if some of you want, as private citizens, to build walls on your own land, well that’s your right, and I won’t stand in your way.

“But imagine how foolish you’ll feel on that fine spring day that’s coming soon—I know it is, I can feel it in my bones—when the army will roll up here out of the East in their tanks and Humvees and put this part of Illinois to rights. That wall you spent thousands of hours building is going to look pretty silly then.” More people in the crowd nodded.

“I’ve appealed to the commander of the FEMA camp in Galena for help—several times now. And while he says it’s not part of his mission to intervene in local disputes, he’s radioed our plight to Washington. The government out East is still a going concern. The American spirit can conquer anything, even a supervolcano. And one fine day—very soon—we’re going to look to the east and see an honest-to-God sunrise.” The mayor’s tones were hushed, reverent. He had every ear in the room straining to listen. “And out of that sunrise the cavalry will ride– not on horses but in Humvees. And they’ll carry food: fresh fruit, chocolate, and coffee.” An orgiastic sigh floated from the audience. “Soon,” Mayor Petty promised again.

“Now some believe,” Petty glanced at me, and every eye in the room followed, “that we should further strain our limited resources and aching backs building a wall. We could do that. The people of Warren are equal to any task set before them by man or God. But how many will die– yes, die—in that endeavor? We have neither the equipment nor the trained personnel to build a wall.

“This foolish proposal illustrates why you should vote for experience over youth. Why you should return to office a trusted leader with almost a decade of experience leading this town. You can choose a man you know and trust or a boy who can’t even grow a proper beard yet.” That was not exactly true. I couldn’t grow any kind of beard, let alone a proper one.

“A boy who betrayed us. Vote for experience, steady leadership, and trust. Vote for the man who will hold us together until those Humvees ride out of the east. Write Bob on your ballot. Thank you.”

The applause was long and thunderous. When it died down, I stood slowly. I ignored my still-shaking hands. I had prepared a speech in which I denied Mayor Petty’s charges and rehearsed it a dozen times in front of Darla. It left my mind completely. I could not even remember the first word. The silence in the room started to grow uncomfortable, maybe even a little malevolent. I coughed, and it echoed.

“I did not betray this town. At least not knowingly. But what Mayor Petty and Mr. Sawyer said is true.” Darla winced and hid her head behind her hands. “I told the Reds there was pork in Warren.” A few people booed, but their neighbors quickly shushed them. “Or at least I confirmed it. I made a terrible mistake, and I’m deeply sorry.

“It’s a cliche, that everyone makes mistakes, but it’s also true. A teacher told me once that responsibility has nothing to do with making mistakes. Responsible people own their mistakes. They do everything possible to fix them. And I’ve done that.

“When Mayor Petty led that disastrous march on Warren, I asked him to put out scouts to flank our advance.” Mayor Petty was shaking his head in denial. “My friend Ben Fredericks told you—told all of us in a public meeting—that the attack was doomed, that we should attack at a time and in a direction the Reds didn’t expect. I realize that since Ben and his sister, Alyssa, are even newer to Warren than I am, it may be hard to listen to them. But these are hard times, times that call for a leader willing to hear good advice even from unusual sources.” Many people were nodding now. “But Mayor Petty ignored Ben’s advice.

“I listened. I organized and led the attack that invaded Stockton and gave us the bargaining power to reclaim our food. Everyone in this room has a full stomach because of that attack. Because of me.”

Someone in the audience yelled, “We wouldn’t have lost the food in the first place except for you!”

“Probably true,” I replied. “But anyone you elect—me, Mayor Petty, or the second coming of Abraham Lincoln– would make mistakes. The difference is this: I acknowledge and fix mine.

“Let me remind you: Ben predicted that our attack on Warren would fail. He also planned the attack that reclaimed our food. And now he says we need a wall. Without air power, artillery, or tanks, walled cities will rule the land. We can either build our own or be overrun.

“We’d all freeze to death if not for the wood we burn for heat. And that wood is not an inexhaustible resource. We’re going to run out. Darla and my uncle have a plan for using the wind farm to our east to provide a sustainable power source. We need resources to test and implement that plan. Resources Mayor Petty has refused to provide.

“I don’t want to be your mayor.” Darla winced again. “But I want to live!” I practically shouted the word. “I want a place where Darla and I can get married, have kids, grow old together, and die together. I’m going to create that place. Small groups won’t be viable in the future. A decent way of life demands manpower and womanpower and division of labor. It demands a group large enough to defend itself. If the only way I can create that is to lead it, then that’s what I’ll do. That’s why I’m running for mayor.

“I liked that story Mayor Petty told about the sunrise and the Humvees and the coffee, the chocolate, and the fresh fruit. But it’s just that. A story. There’s no help coming. Ever. We must, we must survive on our own resources with what we can make and raise with our own hands.

“So I ask you for your vote. If you vote for me, we’ll start preparing for the long term. We’ll build a wall. We’ll develop a sustainable way to stay warm. If I’m wrong, we will have wasted some time and effort, sure. But if I’m right about the future, then a vote for me is a vote for survival itself. Thank you.”

As I sat down, a scattering of polite applause echoed hollowly in the church. It was quickly extinguished, as if the clappers were embarrassed or maybe afraid to be seen supporting me.

I lost the election. It wasn’t even close. So much for my political career—doomed from the start.

“Did you even use three words of the speech you practiced?” Darla asked as we pedaled back to Uncle Paul’s farm.

“Nope. Just two,” I replied. “‘Thank’ and ‘you.’”