WWIV - Basin of Secrets (3 page)

The pair chuckled as they began scanning labels for census information. They knew exactly what Tarlisch had in mind for these families.

The faint sound of running came from the hall. As the slapping of boots on linoleum came closer, Tarlisch stopped his reading in the militia folder and paused to listen for a voice.

“Willem,” a woman’s voice came from the door.

Tarlisch rolled his eyes and screwed up his mouth. “What is it, lieutenant?” His words dripped with boredom in her presence. “I assume you found something interesting to report?”

She nodded briefly. “Yes sir. Would you like to come see?” She watched as he slowly turned to face her, now leaning back against the cold cabinets lining the wall.

“I can’t think of anything duller than to run off with you and play ‘see what I found’, Melinda. Please,” he rolled his hand in her direction, “just give me your report, and make it snappy.”

Coming to attention, she placed her hands squarely behind her back. The blonde soldier cleared her throat. “Weapons, sir. In the basement. A lot of weapons…” Her equally blonde eyebrows rose, showing her excitement.
 

Tarlisch squeezed his nose, hoping for more. “Like, how many? Hundreds?” Her head shook quickly. “Thousands?” She smiled and nodded. Tarlisch grinned, seeking out the eyes of his second-in-command. “See Howard, I told you they were well stocked.”

“And,” Melinda interrupted his thought, “quite a stockpile of ammo. Rodgers is down there counting right now, but I’d say at least 100,000 rounds sir, maybe a lot more.”
 

Clapping his hands, Tarlisch let out an evil laugh, deep and throaty. “I told you boys, these people were loaded for bear. They took every citizen’s weapon in the name of peace. All for the militia.” Strolling toward the only woman in the room, he slid an arm over her shoulder. Giving it a squeeze, he continued. “And now our wonderful Lieutenant Melinda has brought us the good news we deserve.” He lightly kissed her cheek before releasing his grip. “The militia of Salt Lake has only the weapons and ammo currently on their bodies. No backups, no seconds. They are at our mercy now. Just like the 6,000 or so residents they left behind.”
 

The group shared a laugh, congratulating one another on their coup. As their voices quieted, a sole man stepped forward with a pile of cream-colored folders.

“Better hold off on that number, Will.” Andy Tarlisch set the folders on the conference table in the center of the room and scanned the others’ faces. He noticed confusion on most.

“What am I missing, cousin? You have more news?” Tarlisch asked. Quickly, he scanned through the top folder. “These are the census reports?” Andy’s head bobbed up and down several times. “And?”

Opening the first folder, Andy began. “Each page has 50 names. It also has addresses, ages, sex, militia status and several other columns I’m not sure of yet. Each folder has 10 pages, so 500 names per folder.” Andy stared up into his older cousin’s questioning eyes.

“And?” Tarlisch responded.

“There are 27 folders, Will.” The collective group stepped closer. “That means the population is a lot closer to 14,000, not 6,000.”
 

Tarlisch’s open palm slammed down on the table, causing many to jump. “I knew it,” he shouted. “I just knew that Erickson was a liar.”

“But sir,” a man asked from the side of the table, “why would they lie? Why not just tell the people the real number?”

Plopping into a chair, Tarlisch studied the folders like a miser counting gold. “Because,” he paused, casting a glance at the old tin ceiling, “they only produce enough food every year for 5,000 or 6,000 people. Not double that.” Leaning back, he stared around the room at the confused faces of his troops. “You see, once upon a time they had a nice stockpile of food. And they told the population four or five years ago it was gone. But, they’ve been using that last bit of the stockpile to shore up the deficit.” No expressions changed; everyone was still as lost as before.

“That means,” he started again slowly, “that they must have been supplementing their stockpile from somewhere else. The logical choice is from the north, since we know about everything to the south. Right?” A few heads nodded, many faces still were confused. “They’re loaning their militia out like mercenaries, boys and girls. Guns for hire.”

“And that means exactly what, sir?” asked Melinda from a corner.

A grin crept slowly across Tarlisch’s dirty, tan face. “That means our honorable mayor, and the honorable council, and those honorable self-righteous three families who run this town, haven’t been so…” He rolled his hand hoping someone, anyone would finish his sentence. “Honorable, you cretins!” he screamed, causing a few to jump. “They’ve lied to their people about everything.” Rolling his head around his shoulders, Tarlisch sighed. “Including us being the bad guys. For years, they took from our farms and gave us no thanks. For years, we protected the south entrance for them. And what did they do in return?” His face tensed recalling the past.

“Treated us like ugly step-children, killed my father and my brother, took all of our southern farmland, and branded us the bad ones. The unfit. They banished us to the desert, took everything that was ours, and used it for their own.” Rising from his seat, he strolled to the large window at the front of the office.

“And all this so Erickson and his cronies could stay in the good graces of the Kanes, and the Cormats and the Williamsons, Salt Lake’s favorite families, the cream of the crop.” Spinning quickly like a snake about to lash out, he leaned on the far end of the conference table. “Well, starting tomorrow, those lucky families are going to learn something that the Tarlischs have known for years.” Striding confidently toward the door, his cousin stepped in front of him.

“What have we always known, Willem?” Andy asked.

Tarlisch patted his cousin’s shoulder and grinned. “Payback’s a bitch,” he snapped.
 

Andy finally grinned back.

Eyeing Melinda, Tarlisch winked. “Okay lieutenant, show me what you’ve found.” Quickly, the pair left the room. Willem’s second ran after them as they made their way to the dank basement.

Skeptically, the middle-aged woman’s gaze darted between the enclosure’s gate and the footprints in the fully encased garden. Her green eyes then surveyed the chicken wire overhead and every inch of the sides. Wringing her thin hands, she looked back at the garden supervisor for the camp.

“Explain that to me again, Dave. I don’t think I followed your explanation.” She knelt, inspecting the stalks of the harvested cauliflower. “You say animals snuck into a gated – and locked – space, and somehow managed to harvest 50 plants, and made off closing the gate behind them.” A gentle breeze caused a wisp of fine red hair to escape her tight bun as she quizzically stared up at the man.

“Well,” he started, blushing slightly, “now that you repeat it like that, I suppose that doesn’t make any sense, Cara.” He removed his ball cap and wiped his brow. It was still early morning and she could see he was already sweating.

“Who was supposed to be on duty here last night?”
 

Dave sighed. “Well, my Agnes was here until a few hours after dark.” He paused, holding the last name intentionally from her prying gaze.

“Isn’t Kirby normally on after her?” Cara rose with her question.
 

Dave stared down at the slight woman. “Yeah, but I haven’t confirmed that exactly yet.” His head tipped to one side, showing his apology.
 

Cara smiled without teeth, patting Dave’s forearm. “Where is he?”

Letting his eyes fall away, Dave shook his head. “Probably still sleeping, if I had to guess,” he answered.

Cara stepped carefully to the gate and the pair left the large enclosure. Starting back for the camp, Cara soaked in the early morning sunshine. Filtered rays, streaking between the pine branches, lightly lighted the woods. The smell of fresh pine filled the air. Birds chirped all around, singing their joy of another perfect day to come.

“I remember when my husband and all of you built these enclosures,” Cara stated. “I thought the chicken wire on the top was extreme, but Steven insisted. As did you, if I recall.” She peeked and noticed Dave’s boyish grin. For almost 40, he was still young in many ways.

“Yeah,” he replied. “We had to scour all over out here to find that much chicken wire.” They paused and faced one another. “That old farmer north of here, you remember him?”
 

Cara nodded. “Mr. Haskills. Yes, I remember him well. He had the final pieces we needed. The only way to keep all the raccoons out. He drove a hard bargain.” She peered back at the enclosure, now behind her. “But it was worth it.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Cara’s eyes became dark. “But we all agreed that come harvest time, we needed people watching these seven gardens, day and night.” Dave gave a quick nod. “Kirby’s our only single man here. I was against him from the beginning.” Another quick nod from her companion. “And after only nine months with us, this is his third strike.”
 

Dave toed the ground between the pair. “I know,” he answered softly.
 

Cara folded her hands in front of her waist. Noticing the dirt on the top of each hand from the day before, she wondered if they would ever be clean while in the middle of harvest.

“I’ll meet with the rest of the assembly,” she said without emotion. “He’s going to have to go, one way or another. We’re only as strong as our weakest member. And right now, that’s Kirby.”

The five faces of the assembly gave no smiles. Most shook their heads in disgust, disgust with the young man’s negligence, disgust with what the group had to do next. Each pondered an alternative to what would be a death sentence for the young man. Jointly, they hoped for a solution from someone else, anyone but themselves.

“Chet,” Cara began. “What are your thoughts? You are the oldest member, so you should go first.”
 

Wiping the table clean of any debris, Chet Carlson pondered his options silently. Finally, after a noticeable pause, his gray eyes focused on the others.

“I was against taking in a single man if you’ll all recall,” he spoke quietly to begin. “I knew – no, we knew – this would be a problem. And what? Less than a full growing season later, here we are again, discussing Kirby Atkins.”

“Now Chet,” Carol Johnson interjected. “There’s no sense in discussing the past. What’s done is done.” She searched the others for support while pulling her long blonde hair behind her ears. “Isn’t that right, Cara?”

She nodded after a pause. Cara knew Chet would begin this exact way. “Yes,” she answered. “Let’s just keep at the task at hand.”

“It’s easy then.” Another male voice jumped into the discussion: Charlie Watson. “He’s gotta go. We have to kick him out. Third offense.” Scanning the crowd for dissenters, he found none. He shrugged again, “Banishment.”

Three of the five flinched hearing the word “banishment”. “I don’t know, Charlie,” Cara added. Turning to her left, she asked for help. “Emily? Any thoughts?”
And please, something decent this time,
she thought to herself
.

Gazing from one face to the next, Emily Bradley finally let her tired, small eyes focus back on Cara. “Everyone always bitches that banishment is like a death sentence.” Most nodded their agreement. “So let’s give him a choice. Banishment or hanging.”

Cara and Carol blanched noticeably at Emily’s suggestion. Cara was quick to shake it off. “We’ve never hung anyone, ever.” Her eyes bore into Emily’s soul, hoping she might take back her idea.
 

When Emily gave her a small nod, Cara sighed. Looking back to the group, she found them pondering the thought.

“We cannot serve up justice like that, people,” Cara cried. “We aren’t like the others. We don’t harm anyone.”
 

Emily rose from the table. Carefully inspecting the gathering, she nodded again. “And banishment is far more civilized.” Looking away quickly, she crossed her arms over her chest. “The last two men we sent on their way were both dead in two days. I think we all agree that last poor soul was dead within 24 hours.” Grim expressions claimed everyone now. Heads lowered, eyes narrowed and no one dared utter another word. Emily strode away, but turned with one last thought. “Do what we have to. Just know that either has the same result. Kirby Atkins is a dead man in the next 48 hours and we all know it.”

Watching Emily disappear back into her small dwelling, Cara refocused on the remaining bunch.

“We know how she feels. Anyone else?” Her question met the remaining stone faces of her group. One by one, they rose and left to tend to their chores. The last person to wander off, Chet, patted her shoulder softly.

“Why don’t we give him a choice, Cara? Let the boy decide.”
 

Cara’s mouth tightened. Her hands shook slightly.

Chet squeezed her thin shoulder one last time. “Why don’t you run it by Steven? Maybe he’ll have a better alternative.” Chet slipped away quietly into the morning camp commotion.

Cara’s body quivered.
My husband won’t want anything to do with this justice,”
she thought.
That’s what Steven will say
.

“Jeremy!” Betsi shouted from the living room of their small rambler. “Go out back in the shed and find those two aluminum canteens.” She stood momentarily without moving, listening for his response. “Jeremy!” she shouted, this time louder.

Jeremy came running from the bedroom, hoping to avoid his wife’s wrath. “Heard you, babe. I can only do one thing at a time though.” Noticing the large backpacks on the old oak floor, he nodded. “All the clothes packed?”
 

She ignored him. She had to. He was packing and acting like they were going on vacation. But she knew the urgency of the situation.
 

Scanning the dining room table, she noticed another pile of socks – his socks. “Damn it,” she squeezed out between gritted teeth. They were losing time by the minute. Staring down, she saw her fists clenched in tight balls, like she was trying to squeeze the life out of something tiny in each palm. She flexed her fingers several times, hoping to relax.
Keep it together, Bets,
she thought.
Hang in there
.