GWOT 2 - In A Small Town
Jul. 26th, 2023 11:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT 2 - In A Small Town
(Yes, this might be a reaction to a currently popular song.)
The sound of loudly idling Diesel engines was not one that had been heard for some months.
As with many small towns in California, before the Firecracker the town had a few small shops and restaurants and one grocery store. All were closed now. Food distributors had been the first to shut down.
The phones worked, mostly. The power, now and again. The gasoline station? Out of fuel for months.
But the town was half-abandoned. Those who could, had left and moved in with family elsewhere, closer to services and what food aid could be had. Many had been drafted. "4F or fifty, you're going to war," was the propagandist refrain.
If one cared to listen to the radio, or the handful of authorized satellite and television stations, one could hear all about the War on Terror and America's desperate attempt to keep China from attacking. Or counter attacking. Everything else was re-runs, programmed by bored junior technicians.
But most people were too busy tending small gardens, doing work for each other from home, and taking turns keeping an eye on each other's places. On foot. Gasoline was horrifically expensive and driving tended to get one stopped by a patrol. Tolerable if it was the sheriff. Not so if it was Homeland.
People pooled their money to afford to run their wares and crops once a week into a larger town, and bring back what they could buy at the swap meet they sold at.
The only really safe reason to leave one's home was to go to church. Even then, both the remnants of the sheriff's office and the local Homeland patrol captain made a point of attending. Not to worship. Just to listen.
Every now and again, a patrol stopped by someone's house. This was rarely good news. Sometimes it was to deliver a draft notice, which was to say pick up a person who should have reported in. Sometimes it was an arrest.
Once in a while, the Homeland patrol would bring the fire department with them. To stand by and protect exposures after they set the house afire. Anti-American partisans. The accusation was sufficient.
There had been no resistance. Not after the town's crotchety old man had shook his fist at the Homeland patrol captain, and been casually shot. Body left in the street until the next day when a brave neighbor had rolled it onto a piece of plywood and dragged it off. His reward had been a patrol visit to his house, and a departure for China. Drafted at sixty.
Before the Firecracker, there had been ambulances. Pharmacies. Food aid for the poor. Social services. All one with last winter's snows now.
If you were sick, or had run out of your medications, and had good friends, they could take you to hospital in the city. Or you could - much safer for all concerned - stay at home and wait to die.
So the rumbling of several Diesel engines in the heart of town was not - could not be - good news.
A loudspeaker spoke.
"By order of the district commandant, this town is closed."
Crews from the MRAPs - armored fighting vehicles - blocked off the small downtown by pushing old cars into the major intersections. They entered and swept the larger buildings. A few unwise or unlucky people were herded from the buildings into the back of an MRAP, whose armored door slammed.
"Salvage crews will be working in the area indicated by the barrier tape. Do not enter or you will be shot as a looter."
The salvage crews - government looters - were stripping out appliances and furniture of value, and tossing the rest in the street.
At dusk, they and the Homeland task force left for the night. They took with them the town's fire equipment. It was no longer needed here.
The next morning, when the crews returned, there were a handful of people waiting.
The loudspeaker spoke again, in a bored monotone.
"This is an unlawful assembly you are all under arrest put your hands in the air or be shot."
More people for the backs of the MRAPs, except the one who tried to run. Her body, added to the piles of garbage.
Then it happened. A gunshot. Someone's rifle, from a rooftop of one of the houses in the middle distance.
The Homeland troopers had been waiting for that.
For the excuse. For something to do. Their one casualty was just part of the game.
They localized the sniper and fired the house, and kept cover until the screams told them the threat was neutralized.
Then they picked three nearby houses at random and did the same. Just because they could. The fire spread to another house. They didn't care.
That afternoon, on their way out, a few touches of the chainsaws and the town's signs were taken with them. Not that they were worth anything as scrap. Just that there had been a town there, and now there wasn't.
The signs that went up now were the standard skull-and-crossbones Homeland Restricted Area. Some were metal, but most were stenciled and painted on any convenient wall.
Now patrols were something to fear. They shot at dogs. They shot at movement. They occasionally swept houses, particularly if there were any signs of gardens or yard maintenance.
Anyone encountered was detained for trespassing in a Homeland restricted area. That usually meant internment. Unless the Homeland troopers were bored, or the person was attractive. Or they were bored enough to find them attractive.
More patrols, to put down the dogs that fed on the bodies.
By then, anyone who could leave had left, for anywhere else but there.
The town's sin?
Being in patrol range of a Homeland base, without redeeming qualities that made it useful to keep it running.
(Yes, this might be a reaction to a currently popular song.)
The sound of loudly idling Diesel engines was not one that had been heard for some months.
As with many small towns in California, before the Firecracker the town had a few small shops and restaurants and one grocery store. All were closed now. Food distributors had been the first to shut down.
The phones worked, mostly. The power, now and again. The gasoline station? Out of fuel for months.
But the town was half-abandoned. Those who could, had left and moved in with family elsewhere, closer to services and what food aid could be had. Many had been drafted. "4F or fifty, you're going to war," was the propagandist refrain.
If one cared to listen to the radio, or the handful of authorized satellite and television stations, one could hear all about the War on Terror and America's desperate attempt to keep China from attacking. Or counter attacking. Everything else was re-runs, programmed by bored junior technicians.
But most people were too busy tending small gardens, doing work for each other from home, and taking turns keeping an eye on each other's places. On foot. Gasoline was horrifically expensive and driving tended to get one stopped by a patrol. Tolerable if it was the sheriff. Not so if it was Homeland.
People pooled their money to afford to run their wares and crops once a week into a larger town, and bring back what they could buy at the swap meet they sold at.
The only really safe reason to leave one's home was to go to church. Even then, both the remnants of the sheriff's office and the local Homeland patrol captain made a point of attending. Not to worship. Just to listen.
Every now and again, a patrol stopped by someone's house. This was rarely good news. Sometimes it was to deliver a draft notice, which was to say pick up a person who should have reported in. Sometimes it was an arrest.
Once in a while, the Homeland patrol would bring the fire department with them. To stand by and protect exposures after they set the house afire. Anti-American partisans. The accusation was sufficient.
There had been no resistance. Not after the town's crotchety old man had shook his fist at the Homeland patrol captain, and been casually shot. Body left in the street until the next day when a brave neighbor had rolled it onto a piece of plywood and dragged it off. His reward had been a patrol visit to his house, and a departure for China. Drafted at sixty.
Before the Firecracker, there had been ambulances. Pharmacies. Food aid for the poor. Social services. All one with last winter's snows now.
If you were sick, or had run out of your medications, and had good friends, they could take you to hospital in the city. Or you could - much safer for all concerned - stay at home and wait to die.
So the rumbling of several Diesel engines in the heart of town was not - could not be - good news.
A loudspeaker spoke.
"By order of the district commandant, this town is closed."
Crews from the MRAPs - armored fighting vehicles - blocked off the small downtown by pushing old cars into the major intersections. They entered and swept the larger buildings. A few unwise or unlucky people were herded from the buildings into the back of an MRAP, whose armored door slammed.
"Salvage crews will be working in the area indicated by the barrier tape. Do not enter or you will be shot as a looter."
The salvage crews - government looters - were stripping out appliances and furniture of value, and tossing the rest in the street.
At dusk, they and the Homeland task force left for the night. They took with them the town's fire equipment. It was no longer needed here.
The next morning, when the crews returned, there were a handful of people waiting.
The loudspeaker spoke again, in a bored monotone.
"This is an unlawful assembly you are all under arrest put your hands in the air or be shot."
More people for the backs of the MRAPs, except the one who tried to run. Her body, added to the piles of garbage.
Then it happened. A gunshot. Someone's rifle, from a rooftop of one of the houses in the middle distance.
The Homeland troopers had been waiting for that.
For the excuse. For something to do. Their one casualty was just part of the game.
They localized the sniper and fired the house, and kept cover until the screams told them the threat was neutralized.
Then they picked three nearby houses at random and did the same. Just because they could. The fire spread to another house. They didn't care.
That afternoon, on their way out, a few touches of the chainsaws and the town's signs were taken with them. Not that they were worth anything as scrap. Just that there had been a town there, and now there wasn't.
The signs that went up now were the standard skull-and-crossbones Homeland Restricted Area. Some were metal, but most were stenciled and painted on any convenient wall.
Now patrols were something to fear. They shot at dogs. They shot at movement. They occasionally swept houses, particularly if there were any signs of gardens or yard maintenance.
Anyone encountered was detained for trespassing in a Homeland restricted area. That usually meant internment. Unless the Homeland troopers were bored, or the person was attractive. Or they were bored enough to find them attractive.
More patrols, to put down the dogs that fed on the bodies.
By then, anyone who could leave had left, for anywhere else but there.
The town's sin?
Being in patrol range of a Homeland base, without redeeming qualities that made it useful to keep it running.
