SDN In the Sea of Time

[PhilosopherOfSorts]

Well, I think he was talking about sailing up the Rio Grande, though I don't know how practical that would be.

[Simon_Jester]

Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce that I've got a 4500-word update coming up this evening, set around Day Five. It and the follow-up, which should be out within a week or so (I hope!) explore the events around the time of the formation of the Council, including the obvious question: "How the hell did the Shark ever end up there?"

Also, kh1's proposal has given me inspiration for an extra bonus scene set around Day 255. Here goes:

---

Tuesday, July 13th, 1249 B.C., 5:30 p.m., Planning and Logistics Office

Simon slumped in his seat and groaned. Getting the Eagle off a few weeks ago should have been a joy, but it turned to ashes in his mouth when the Council sentenced Dumfries to a month on Muskeget for the "crime" of leading yet another protest. I had things back on track, damn it, and now it's falling apart again!

At least Gordon was doing a good job of picking up where Kevin's jail time had forced him to leave off. The island might even have barely enough to eat in the upcoming winter, even without the Eagle... or not. Too soon to tell.

He needed a boost. The last of the office's coffee was gone, of course, having done sterling service as an industrial lubricant. Maybe there was still some unreasonably sugary soda kicking around... probably not. Caffeine being in short supply, humor would have to do. Simon stuck his head out the office door and called into the next room.

"Hey, Hal! Could you pass me something interesting from the suggestion box? I need a lift."

"You want good interesting, or bad interesting?"

"Either. Both. Anything to get my poor abused brain going."

"Got just the thing." He grabbed a paper airplane from his desk and tossed it at Simon. "Catch!"

Simon fumbled and picked the letter up off the floor. "Hal, you know I can't catch... hmm." He smoothed it out. "Hmm. This is... definitely interesting. Merits a letter of reply. Let me get some of the new paper."

For minor business, Planning and Logistics had taken to using the island's very own homemade recycled paper, an ongoing project that so far hadn't achieved much success. The batch they had to work with now was a bit limp and sort of gray, but it could take ink from the manual typewriter Simon had salvaged from an attic. Sooner or later the ink would run out, but it saved on the truly irreplaceable printer ink. Good enough for this work.

*********

To: K. H. Owen
From: Simon Jester, Chair of Planning and Logistics
Re: New Mexico Sulfur Mining Proposal

We have received your proposal to send an expedition to mine sulfur from the gypsum sands of New Mexico. Before explaining our decision, we would like to review the logistical problems faced by such an expedition.

First, consider that your proposed method for extracting elemental sulfur from gypsum sands might require advanced equipment. As you say, the process was not developed until the early 1900s, by which point the Industrial Revolution was in full swing. A more realistic industrial base, given our own capabilities, would be that of the 1850s.

Assume for the sake of argument that a supply of gypsum sand suddenly appears on our doorstep by act of Q. Is it practical to make sulfur from the gypsum at the temperatures and pressures we can expect to achieve? I do not know, and absent an answer to that question, refining sulfur from gypsum is a chancy proposition.

Second, bear in mind that any useful production run of gunpowder must range up into at least tons, preferably tens or hundreds of tons in the long run. Sulfur makes up roughly 10% of gunpowder, so we're looking for a sulfur source that can provide hundreds of pounds at a minimum, preferably many tons. We must either be able to mine this source continuously and pick up regular shipments, or send a massive expedition to extract many tons of sulfur in one go. Given the logistics of travel from Nantucket to New Mexico (see below), we would have to adopt an expeditionary model.

Third, consider the matter of shipping. The ship(s) carrying the expedition must depart with mining equipment and supplies for the expedition, and must return carrying tons of sulfur or sulfur ore (which, in effect, gypsum is, assuming we can get elemental sulfur out of gypsum without blowing ourselves up). This requires large vessels, with many tons of cargo capacity.

We have very few large ships. Our largest and best, the former USCGC Eagle, might be suited for this purpose, being an 1800-ton steel-hulled sailing barque with auxiliary diesel. It is not, as you claim, a "trawler," and is most definitely capable of long sailing voyages, more so than any other ship we have. However, as you may have noticed, the Eagle recently departed this island amid cheers and celebration, and is hopefully somewhere off the coast of Spain by now. It is not expected back until some time in October, at best.

That notwithstanding, the question arises: could we send the Eagle (or a comparable ship, if we had any) to get sulfur from the gypsum sands of New Mexico? This leads to:

Fourth: the difficulty of the voyage. Eyeballing a map of North America, it is roughly two thousand sea miles from here to the mouth of the Rio Grande. Granted, much of this voyage would be coastal, but there would be some considerable dangers despite this. Sending the ship out at a time that places it in the southern Atlantic seaboard, the Caribbean, or the Gulf of Mexico any time between August and November would be very unwise, because that is the local hurricane season. You may perhaps remember such devastating storms as Hurricane Katrina from our home time; if we lose the Eagle in such a storm we will never be able to replace it.

Fifth, let us assume that the ship manages to safely pass through these waters without getting crushed by a hurricane; competent timing guarantees this. The Eagle proceeds to the mouth of the Rio Grande. Here, it encounters a critical difficulty: on consulting an encyclopedia, it is revealed that the Rio Grande is not navigable to ocean-going vessels! In fact, it is barely navigable at all except by small boats, being a wide and shallow river.

Therefore, the Eagle, which draws roughly seventeen feet of water, will have to stop, find a safe harbor (and even the harbors in Texas are not hurricane-proof, as the Galveston hurricane of 1900 showed). There, it must wait while the expedition proceeds up the Rio Grande using its own transport.

Sixth, we should review the available transport. Basically, our options boil down to traveling on foot or in small boats. If the expedition proceeds on foot, it will not be able to carry back any meaningful amount of sulfur or sulfur ore without a long train of pack mules or oxen. If you happen to have a train of pack mules or oxen to hand, I beg you to inform us, and remind you that it would be in your interests to do so thanks to the Council's ruling on salvage of vital capital items. If you happen to have any tame elephants lying around, that would be nice too.

I presume that this is not the case, and that we cannot count on the sudden materialization of a swarm of mules, oxen, camels, elephants, Clydesdales, or other beasts of burden. If so, the expedition will be restricted to the use of small boats on the Rio Grande if it wants to bring anything worthwhile back from New Mexico.

Seventh, let us consider the fate of this riverine expedition. To reach New Mexico, the expedition will have to make their way up the Rio Grande in their small boats for roughly a thousand miles. Providing liquid fuel for motorboats on such a scale is completely out of the question, and it seems unlikely that the prevailing winds will make it easy for the expedition to sail upriver. Therefore, for much of the trip the expedition will have to row its boats, loaded down with mining equipment and supplies, upstream for a thousand miles.

At this point I would like to remove my name from consideration for the expedition.

Eighth is the question of whether the Rio Grande is navigable clear up to the New Mexico gypsum deposits. To this question, I have no answer, and doubt you do either. Even if the Rio Grande was navigable circa 2009, there is no reason to assume that it will be today. Remember that three thousand years of erosion and roughly 150 years of manmade improvements to the channel have yet to occur! Should the Rio Grande feature any rapids or, God forbid, waterfalls, the expedition will be forced to portage its boats around these, while carrying the aforesaid mining equipment and supplies. Speaking for myself, I seem to recall there being organized white water rafting tours through the canyons the Rio Grande flows through. Which indicates a great deal of portaging.

At this point I would like to remove the names of all my close friends from consideration for the expedition.

Ninth is the question of the local terrain. In my experience, past the coastal belt the American Southwest is mostly one form or another of desert, limiting the available food supply for the expedition, and forcing it to carry still more supplies, which increases the difficulty of both rowing the boats up the river and portaging around any obstacles they may find. Moreover, the further up river the expedition goes, the deeper it will penetrate into terrain best described as "beautifully scenic," which is to say "insanely precipitous." This further increases the risk of running into rapids or, God forbid, waterfalls. It also makes the task of portaging more difficult, as finding land routes around obstacles in the river will be more challenging in the mountains.

At this point I would like to remove the names of all my friendly acquaintances from consideration for the expedition.

Tenth is the question of the local inhabitants. It is unclear exactly what kind of natives might live along the Rio Grande and how they make their living. Hopefully they will be non-hostile. If they are not, then the expedition may be faced with the threat of ambushes while it is portaging heavy equipment through the mountains, a daunting prospect. To deal with this threat, the expedition would probably have to be supplied with modern firearms, which cannot be replaced and may be lost on this trip. Otherwise, casualties from native attacks are nearly guaranteed should the natives prove to be less than fully peaceful towards random strangers wandering through their territory loaded down with precious goods.

At this point I would like to remove the names of all my neutral acquaintances from consideration for the expedition.

Eleventh is the question of actually mining the gypsum. Let us assume the expedition makes it to New Mexico and is not forced to turn back by weather, hostile Indians, starvation, or other factors. Now they must proceed to the most convenient gypsum sand dune or other deposit, and start extracting the goods. Murphy's Law being what it is, I doubt they will find gypsum crystals lying by the river bank. Thus, the expedition will have to proceed on foot into the desert, without benefit of pack animals, carrying mining equipment and supplies, until a suitable source of gypsum is found. There, they must extract tons of gypsum, and carry it back to the boats. Once again, they will be doing this through the desert, on foot, without benefit of pack animals.

At this point I would like to remove the names of all my disagreeable acquaintances from consideration for the expedition.

Twelfth is the matter of returning the gypsum to the river mouth. The many tons of sand and rock must be loaded into the expedition's boats, along with remaining supplies and (hopefully) the mining equipment. Now the current works with our stalwart heroes, and the task of going downriver becomes much easier than the laborious process of rowing upriver. However, this silver lining comes with its own cloud: the boats are now laden down with tons of sand and rock!

Therefore, all the portages made by the expedition coming upriver will have to be repeated, this time by men who are worn down by prolonged fatigue, possible food shortages, and possible casualties. Who must not only carry the boats and equipment by hand around rapids or, God forbid, waterfalls, but must also carry the tons of rocks and sand they extracted at such great pains from the deserts of New Mexico. They may again face Indian attacks, accidents causing serious injuries, and other perils.

Alternatively, if a portage seems too daunting, they may choose to shoot the rapids in a rowboat full of rocks.

At this point, I would like to remove the names of my enemies from consideration for this expedition, save only one who I particularly dislike.

Thirteenth, we consider events at the river mouth, assuming all these obstacles have been overcome. Our valiant band, heroes of civilization, stagger from their boats into the sand of the Rio Grande delta, having successfully navigated two thousand miles of river and howling wilderness, braving mountains and deserts to obtain a supply of gypsum- perhaps enough to make as much as a few hundred pounds of gunpowder per person who put life and limb at such terrible risk in the process.

The expedition links up with the Eagle, assuming it has not been destroyed by a hurricane. In the event, the Eagle will almost certainly be all right. If not, the entire effort was a horrible waste of time and resources and they're all going to die, but let us not dwell on that at the moment. If When the remnant of the expedition returns to Nantucket, a year or more after they set out, you may be assured that I will do everything in my power to welcome the survivors, and will petition the Council to strike a medal in honor of their efforts. They'll have earned it.

In conclusion, your proposal to mine New Mexico gypsum for sulfur to make gunpowder is tabled for the time being; perhaps it will be reevaluated in our grandchildren's day. Be assured that we are considering other options to obtain sulfur, in greater quantities, higher grades, and at far less cost and risk than your proposal.

Also, I regret to inform you that your application for a job on the Planning and Logistics board has been denied.

Sincerely,
Simon Jester, Chief of Planning and Logistics.

[Darth Nostril]

Alternatively, if a portage seems too daunting, they may choose to shoot the rapids in a rowboat full of rocks.

At this point, I would like to remove the names of my enemies from consideration for this expedition, save only one who I particularly dislike.

Sincerely,
Simon Jester, Chief of Planning and Logistics.

Nicely worded

[Simon_Jester]

Nicely worded

Thanks. I was trying to channel a bit of the spirit from comic-bureaucratic masterpieces such as "Rocks are NOT free, citizen!"

Anyway, here's the promised update.

---

Day Five, 8:45 a.m.

"Gordon! Hal!" Simon called as he came down the stairs of the house that was being used as the central office of "Planning and Logistics." He'd just left the bedroom the boss was working out of. I worry about him. He's not a young man, and lying face down on cold cobblestones didn't do his lungs any good. "Change of plans! We've got a new job!"

Hal responded first, in a Midwestern drawl: "Where now?"

"A crew's going to Siasconset on the East End, to figure out what's been going on over there. Aaand guess who's appointed to go with them and take notes?"

Gordon had just gotten up from going over a list; he sagged. "Fuck. Weren't they shooting at each other yesterday?"

"Exactly. Tuesday the Watch sent a truck out there just to scout. Everything seemed normal, and there was one bunch more or less in charge. Wednesday the next truck heard shooting, so they pulled back. Now they want to go back for another look.

One thing Simon was learning about Hal, you could trust him to spot minutiae: "Tuesday? Wednesday?"

"Gah! You know what I mean. Until the astronomers tell me otherwise, it was Sunday when we got here, just like it was Sunday when we left."

Gordon, more of a big picture guy, had an eyebrow raised, and was staring at his fellows: "Screw calendars. Did I miss something, or are we driving into a gunfight?"

Simon fielded the question. "Our friendly neighborhood Watch says the fighting was pretty sporadic yesterday and died off towards evening. If it starts up before we get there, we just turn around."

"So... what if it starts up while we're there?"

"Hmm. No orders, come to think of it. Personally, I'd say "Oh, shit. Run!"

"Ah, so you're in charge then?"

"Oh, no no no. That honor goes to our good friend Mr. Fernandez. Or the guy running the Watch squad. Or… both? Let them hash it out."

Hal snorted. "I'll bet on Fernandez. Man's got dignity; he'd make a good gavel-plyer."

He had a point; a lot of the question of who was in charge here came down to personalities and case by case decisions. The lines of command between the Watch and the civilian leadership were still hazy at best. Simon wasn't sure whether to expect the end result to be civilian control of the military or military control of the civilians; at the moment the Watchmen mostly played their own game and coordinated with non-members if and when they felt necessary. We need some kind of a unified civil government, something the gunmen can talk to, or they'll take over pretty soon just because no one else has.

The one saving grace of the situation was that the Watch wasn't actively bidding for power, insofar as that mattered when they already had it.

"So… if we're not in charge of them, that means they're in charge of us?"

"But of course, but of course. What did you expect?"

Gordon nodded; Hal made a sour face. Can't blame him. All three men were within a few years of twenty-five. Most of the Island's emerging senior leadership took more notice of them than they would of a pack of teenagers… but not much more. The boss was arguably an exception, but that might be self-defense; if he was out and about more he wouldn't need to trust his deputies as far. Better carry on, though.

Simon started gesturing, not so much to illustrate his words as to have something to do with his hands. "Basically, the Watchmen guard Mr. Fernandez while he tracks down someone who's more or less in charge. In theory, he figures out what's going on, negotiates a cease-fire between all parties, and brings them into the righteous fold of the Someone or Other's Possibly-a-Republic of Nantucket." This last was said with a pious expression and a raised finger, both of which drooped as he continued. "In practice, he probably backs one bunch and scares the others into shutting down, same ending. Either way, we're along to count beans and bullets. Especially bullets. We've still got a while to get our stuff together, though; the Watchmen aren't coming through until ten."

**********

10:30 a.m.

The Watchman in the passenger seat of the pickup listened to his squawking handset, then turned to the passengers in back.

"OK, boys, the lead truck is stopping at the edge of the golf course up ahead to have a look around. If the fighting has stopped, we go in. Going to be at least ten minutes, so make yourselves comfortable." The irony wasn't lost on Simon; the truck body was just wide enough that the three-man team could sit abreast without digging into each others' ribs too badly. I'm not helping, Simon thought, trying to squeeze a fraction closer to the passenger-side door.

Should I dig out my book? The notion flashed through his head for only a moment before he quashed it. Trawling through a volume of Kipling for his old favorites had helped to keep him sane these past few days, but there were times and places. This was neither.

The lead truck held Fernandez and most of the Watch squad's firepower. Normally Watchmen carried pistols, but of the four men in the truck, one had a shotgun, one something Simon couldn't identify any more closely than "hunting rifle," and a third had what he could swear was an M4 carbine. The senior man in the trailing truck, who'd just spoken had yet another shotgun. I can see why they pulled out all the stops for this, but… where did they get the machine gun?

He looked out the open window, nervously. They were surrounded by scrub and low, twisted trees. Except for a handful of scraggly spruce and pine trees, the leaves had fallen off nearly everything; November in Massachusetts was no joke. They were near the coast, as shown by the faint sound of surf half a mile to the east and across the lake to the north. He didn't hear anything in particular over the surf. Would I notice gunfire at all from here? The seconds crawled by. Finally, more squawks came from the radio.

"It's all clear. We're going in." The driver started the truck and began rolling south. Soon the trees and scrub opened out as they crossed the golf course. The road slanted southeast, nearing the coast until Simon could look across Hal and Gordon's seats and see the ocean between the houses on the far side of the road. Up ahead, the road bent to the right; the lead tuck with most of the firepower had already rounded the bend. Another garbled radio message came in, and the Watchman riding shotgun sounded apprehensive. "Stop! They say they've run into a checkpoint. No weapons in sight."

The truck stopped; there was silence on the handset for a minute. "All right, they seem peaceable enough. Fernandez talked them around. Will says to stop on the far side of the checkpoint and wait for further orders, though." He pulled a map out of the glovebox and sketched out a route with his finger. The driver nodded and mumbled agreement, and they continued around the bend, onto what the maps back in town had called Sankaty Avenue. Sankaty ran straight south towards the main built-up area, and they could see the checkpoint ahead. Someone had managed to improvise a barricade of parked cars and a few felled trees, narrowing the road to one lane. There was a young men standing by the side of the road in a visible position, about fifty feet short of the barricade. They pulled up by the group. One of the… might as well call them locals… greeted them.

"You guys are the other truck they said would be coming?"

The passenger-side Watchman replied. "Yup."

"OK." He waved his arm, signaling to an unseen comrade behind the barrier. "Ah, did they tell you where to go?"

"Yes."

"All right; we won't stand in your way, sir."

The truck started again. As they passed the barricade, Simon saw two teenagers watching them from the south side of the wall. They were standing beside a heavy, gnarled tree trunk with improvised handles nailed to it. Was that to block the gap with? Looks fresh. Someone must have cut that on purpose… definitely some organization here.

Once they were well past the blockade, they pulled right onto a narrow side street, but the driver kept the engine running. It was about five minutes before the team in the lead truck told them to proceed. They pulled back onto Sankaty, following it south to a shallow left turn. Just past the turn, they took a right onto another street; Gordon looked out the driver's side window and murmured "Coffin Street… oh, joy." The houses on both sides were large, with big lawns; they mostly looked like millionaires' summer homes. Some of them were far back from the road, screened by trees. Here, the autumn leaves had mostly been bagged or blown aside; the ground was clear. As they neared the far end of the street, the driver slowed down. Another teenage boy was standing by the side of the road in the mouth of one of the driveways, waving his arms.

"Hey! Mr. Dolsen is in the house up ahead on the right, but you'll want to park here and cut through, like the other guys did, OK? I mean, to stay out of the line of fire."

The driver spoke up: "Line of fire? Has there been shooting?"

"Not today, but Mr. Clay says not to take any chances."

The driver glanced over at his fellow, who said "All right." The truck pulled up to the curb. They piled out, and Simon saw the other Watch pickup parked a short distance down the road. The radioman spoke into his handset for a minute, then waved to the driver and the Logistics team. "Come on. Will and Fernandez are already inside talking to the local leaders."

**********

The group cut across the property line, headed for the house on the corner. A big circular driveway looped up from Coffin Street on the south; the house looked to be set about fifty feet back from each street. These houses are so big they're ridiculous… The teenager sidled up to the front door and knocked. After some rattling from inside, the door opened and he announced them: "It's the rest of the bunch from over in town!"

A resonant baritone echoed from inside "Come in, come in!" The Watch and Logistics crew entered the vestibule. Turning, they saw Mr. Fernandez and a local seated on a corner sofa in what looked like a living room. The local had dark hair with a hint of gray at the temples and an engaging, toothy smile

The pistol-carrying Watchman Simon had seen get into the lead truck was standing by the entry to the living room; the others were nowhere in sight. The Watchman on guard nodded down the hall, and the two who had come with Simon went off that way. Mr. Fernandez gestured the Logistics team into the living room. Simon looked from one man to the other, trying to size up the stranger.

Hmm. Looks like he's trying to play up the "I radiate authority," angle, with success. Just like Fernandez. I wonder what happens when two Gravitas Fields collide…

"So, these are your staff?"

"Not really; if they're anyone's staff they belong to our Chief of Planning."

"Ah, yes, you mentioned him. Loved his work. I hope he's all right?"

"Caught a nasty cold on Arrival Day, I'm afraid. He… seems to be on the mend."

"Good. In any case, Mr. Dolsen…"

"Please, call me James."

"Thank you; call me Bob. As I was saying, they're mostly here to take inventory; we're especially trying to keep control of the firearms and medicine."

"I can see why, after the mess we're in."

"Yes, that is more or less what we're afraid of. A splinter group sneaking off with a case of pistols and ammunition and striking off on their own…" Mr. Fernandez shook his head. "Not good, not good at all."

"We've got them pinned down, but… well, honestly, I'd be lying if I said I was sure we could get them back under control. We don't really have the firepower. Some good men, but not much to arm them with. Do you think you could spare…"

"Ah, I'm afraid not. But I think I can convince Will to bring in some reinforcements."

"Suppose that'll do. But those, those thugs… I'm not sure we're going to be able to solve this without storming the place. They're like animals, Bob."

"Surely it's not that bad, James?"

"I think it is. They ran off with something like a fifth of our stockpiled ammunition and canned goods and… well, as I said, they opened fire on one of our search parties without warning; one of the poor boys is badly hurt. And to make things worse, when we found out they were gone yesterday morning, two of the girls were missing."

"Oh, God."

"There were no signs of a struggle, so we hope they left voluntarily, but… well, I think you see why I'm not optimistic about a truce."

Fernandez was slumped in his seat. He looked… badly out of his depth, trying to come up with something to say. He took a long breath, then carried on: "I think I'll get Sergeant Roberts moving on that backup team. There are only ten of them, you said; we ought to be able to handle ten." He stood up, then turned. His eyes were unfocused; they settled on Simon. Me in particular, or am I just standing closest?

"Simon, this sounds like a good time for you boys to start inventory work. James, if there's anything you're in urgent need of…?"

Simon cut in: "Sir, you said something about an injured man. Should we be bringing up a doctor along with the reinforcements?"

Dolsen nodded sharply. "Good idea, ah…"

"Simon. This is Gordon, and this is Hal." He turned to Fernandez, who had been about to leave the room. "Sir, would you mind making a note of that when you talk to Sergeant Roberts?"

"Right. And I think the ladies at Point Breeze may want to send up a delegation to talk to… Cheryl, wasn't it?"

"Thank you." Dolsen blinked, then smiled again. "Feels like the cavalry's arrived."

Fernandez left the living room and went down the hall, presumably to meet up with the other Watchmen. The local leader said nothing for a moment; Simon cut in.

"So, Mr. Dolsen, we should probably get to the inventory work. The sooner we figure out what's in short supply here, the sooner we can try to even things out."

He smiled again. "You wouldn't happen to have any gas to spare, would you?"

"Sorry. Don't think I can swing that. Everyone's low on fuel, obviously. I've heard someone promise that he knows how to convert car engines to burn fermented wood gas, but I'll believe it works when I see it."

"Heh. Might be worth a shot; we've got more low quality timber around here than we know what to do with."

"Well, I hope to see it, put it that way, sir. Now, if we could get down to business?

Dolsen nodded. "I see what you mean. We've got caches all over the place, wherever we could find storage space. I've been able to keep people pulling together, but the paperwork has been… spotty. So we've got a tally of our own, but it might not be complete. There's a copy next door that I've been working on; I've tried to stay near here since the standoff started."

"I see. Thank you; that might be a good place to start. What about firearms? The Watch would definitely like a record of what you've found in that department. Policy; they've been worried since Day One about, well, what seems to have happened here."

"Smart men. As for the guns, you'd really want to talk to Tom upstairs." Dolsen saw Simon's confusion and expanded: "Tom Clay. Good man, been very helpful. Good shot, too. Calling him our Secretary of War would be pretentious, so we just call him 'sheriff.' He's been running our side of the line so far in this mess. He had riflemen up in the windows of the houses around the one the Animals forted up in by noon; that's how we've kept them contained so far. But it's been quiet, so he should be able to talk to you. And he'll definitely have the gun inventory straight."

"Thanks." Simon turned to Gordon and Hal. "How about you guys go and look over their inventory, and I go upstairs to talk to Mr. Clay?" Hal replied "Sure" and nodded to Gordon. The two men walked out the door.

As Simon turned to the stairs, Dolsen added "He should be in one of the bedrooms, probably the room at the end of the hall on your left. And I'll go get someone to relieve Tom. When your "Night Watch" backup arrives, we can have a little council of war down here."

**********

As he crested the stairs and turned left, a thought struck Simon. No sense surprising a man with a gun. He called out ahead "Mr. Clay? James sent me up to have a word." The reply came, as Dolsen predicted, from the bedroom at the end of the hall. "Come on in."

Simon was a little taken aback when he entered the room. The easy, conversational tone seemed out of place from a man kneeling at a table set in front of a window nestling a rifle to his cheek. With his attention drawn to the rifle, Simon noticed that the local 'shootist' had propped the muzzle up on a stack of books, holding it right at his eye level. Improvised mount, for stability? Before he noticed more, Clay took a quick glance towards the door and spoke again. He looked about fifty, give or take a few years.

"Hmm. You're one of the people from town?"

"Uh, yes; call me Simon, please. What does he want that I can offer him? Since we've got reinforcements coming in, James thought it might be a good time to have a… he called it a 'council of war.' Said he was going to get someone to relieve you."

"Sounds like a plan. Did he say when Howard would get here?" Howard? Must be the replacement.

"No. I assume you'd like to keep your eye on the ball until he gets here?"

Clay was still sighting down his rifle. He clicked his tongue, took a breath, and said "Yeah, I think I would. If I don't cover the little bastards from this angle, who will?"

Simon paused, not sure how to reply; a few beats later Clay continued. "Don't take this the wrong way, please, but would you mind standing over in the corner?" He nodded his head towards one of the corners of the room on the exterior wall. "Be easier to talk with you."

"Right." He walked over to the corner. Stopping there he looked at the room, this time figuring the angles. Come to think of it, this also puts me much farther out of sight of someone looking in through that window… Eep.

"I, ah, don't want to distract you…"

"It's all right, son, long as you quiet down if I need you to." Clay had a reassuring voice; was it something he was trying to project, or was he just that way naturally?

"Thanks. Anyway, now that I've brought the latest news from downstairs, there was something I'd been meaning to ask you about." Simon fished the notebook from his jeans; he'd kept the pen in his front pocket all along. "We've been trying to get an inventory of all the guns on the island…"

One of Clay's eyebrows rose. "…so you can round them all up?"

Oh shit. 'Cold dead fingers' type ahoy! "Well, sir, I won't lie to you, that's mostly what they've been doing over in town. Things have been kind of twitchy, and… well, if you've been getting the same kind of people over here we have over there, most of them wouldn't know which end the bullet comes out of anyway. But I don't actually know if they're going to try that here." Clay was letting him finish, that was something. "It's… well if you ask me, it's mostly the same thing we're trying to do with the medicine, the tools, things like that. We don't need to have them all, but we at least need to know where they are and make sure they're in responsible hands."

Simon felt himself becoming more vehement. "It's just… look what happened here. It's, ah, more stable back in town, put it that way, but there's really nothing stopping the people on the periphery from going rogue like this bunch." He waved his hand towards the wall. "I don't make the decisions, but I think it makes sense to at least know where the guns are. Otherwise we're going to walk into a lot of nasty surprises before things calm down."

Clay said nothing for a moment. "Huh. So, you're just here to take inventory, then? How will you know if… oh, right, the registration papers."

"Right, sir. Just so we know what's been found and what's still missing. And what the, ah, splinter group ran off with, if your people are sure of that."

The older man chuckled. "Oh, we know, we know. Since Howard doesn't seem to be hurrying up here, how about I reel off the list for you?"

"Hmm? That would be very helpful, thank you."

"Just the three rifles, and nothing heavy; the others are like this piece…"

"Let me guess: .22 Long Rifle."

"Yeah. You shoot?"

"Oh, no, no. I'd thought about taking it up before… well, before. It was an educated guess; we've seen more .22 rimfire than anything else. Especially…"

"Especially the ammo."

"Yes, sir. Anyway, you were saying?"

"Right." Clay reeled off a long list of gun calibers. The three rifles were all chambered for .22 LR, but from three different manufacturers. Then there were the shotguns, and a truly bewildering array of pistols. Simon's pen flew over the paper trying to keep up. How does he keep all this stuff straight from memory? He was starting in on the ammunition they'd found when he stopped in mid-sentence and hissed "Quiet."

Clay was suddenly intent on his sights. The rifleman took a slow, deep breath, rested his finger on the trigger…

The crack! of the rifle firing came as a surprise. Clay worked the bolt, then paused, still watching… watching… after about a minute, he sighed and gave up. "Goddamn fucking People's Republic of Massachusetts piece of shit can-plinker… I swear this ammo groups at minute-of-pie-plate. If I had my .30-'06 I'd have had him."

Simon blinked. "Pie plate?"

Clay was about to answer, but stopped and said "Hang on. Follow me, I'm going to change position."

"Ah… thank you."

As the local marksman got up and strode for the door, he murmured over his shoulder "Oh, don't worry, they've mostly given up trying to shoot back. And they haven't put anything through the wall… yet." After entering the hall, he hissed and rubbed at his knee, then continued.

Following him, Simon said "So… that's the limit of accuracy with that thing? The size of a pie plate?

"If that. Like I said, piece of shit."

A flicker of a poem he must have read three times last night, trying to hypnotize his brain to sleep, danced through his head. "Now, now, sir, don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; she has feelings, same as you..."

That could have been a mistake; Simon lucked out. Clay caught the reference and snorted.

"Something to that, maybe. Anyway, I'm pretty sure it's not the rifle; I'm just about shot in on it by now. It's the ammo. The range is a hundred fifty yards. With this piece, that would be hard enough with good rounds. With the bricks of crap we've got... like I said. Minute of pie plate."

Hmm… pie plate... sounds like something like a twelve inch random error. No wonder he missed. That's got to be annoying if he's a good shot. "So, sir, you were saying something about a .30-'06?"

Clay sucked in a breath and said "Oh, back home. Prize of my collection. With that I would have nailed the murderous little animal."

"Um, if you don't mind my asking, sir, you sound…"

"Like it's personal? Well, we've got a good boy two houses down with an arm that may never work again- can you get him looked at?"

"Already on it. It was one of the first things we talked about. They're bringing up a doctor from town along with the reinforcement group."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot." Clay shifted the rifle slightly. "So it's that, and, well, that and I have my suspicions about what they're up to. Speaking of reinforcements, when's Howard going to get here?" Clay obviously wanted to leave it at that. Plays his cards very tight to his chest… except about the guns. Wouldn't figure on that, not knowing what I'm here for. Funny.

"I'm sure he'll be here soon."

"Ha! I'm not."

Clay slipped through the open doorway of another bedroom. There was a similar arrangement by the window here, and he knelt down again, then adjusted the placement of the rifle on the stack of books slightly before he spoke again. "The great thing about this house is that it faces their kitchen window."

"Kitchen window?"

"Did James tell you about the stuff they ran off with? Anyway, they put most of the cans and stuff in a pantry. The pantry door is right through the window from here."

It took Simon a moment to realize the implication. Wow. So every time they want something to eat, they have to wait for dark or run past Mr. NRA Poster Boy here. Ouch. "That must be seeming like a bad choice to them now."

"Doesn't do any good after dark. But it's the best we can do without more men- try to starve the bastards out. Maybe your bunch can put an end to it faster." There were footfalls on the stairs. "Howard! What kept you?"

A moon-faced man in his late twenties with thick glasses came in. He looked… painfully embarrassed. "I was trying to catch some sleep, and I couldn't remember where I put my glasses."

"For ten minutes? Whatever, you were up all night, don't worry about it. One Angry Young Animal Brigade boy took a shot at the kitchen; I missed. They may try another run soon, so keep your eyes open. I'll be downstairs."

Clay released the rifle and led Simon back to the house's living room.

[Kartr_Kana]

Give me that M4 and I'll stack 'em like cord wood in front of the pantry. Hundred and Fifty yards is spitting distance for 5.56 especially if you can get a good rest or go prone.

[Alferd Packer]

Day 362, 2:45 AM, Nantucket

Flashlights. Orbs of light danced along the walls, and it took Packer a minute to realize what they were. Crouched on his haunches, bow at the ready, out of direct line of sight of the downstairs foyer, he listened. He was used to this, actually: remaining immobile in an uncomfortable position, unable to see anything important, remaining utterly silent. When he first started hunting with Duniik, he'd wondered how anyone could crouch for hours on end, like he could. Now, through, his quads were well-adapted to it.

So, he listened. He listened to the floorboards creaking, and that told him that three men had entered the house and were now fanning out through the ground floor--though cautiously. The foyer grew dark again as they went from room to room, then--

A distant click. Then more footfalls. They'd let in the guys who'd been in the backyard. Packer's heartbeat surged; his blood beat in his temples. Three on two wasn't insurmountable, especially when you held the high ground. Six on two...Packer had played enough games of Risk to know what the odds were there.

An orb of light suddenly appeared on the wall beside the stairs. Packer still only counted three distinct footfalls still. Where were the others? Were they securing the perimeter, in case Packer leaped out a window?

Slowly and silently, Packer lifted the tip of the arrow to his mouth. Delicately, he worked up some drool and slobbered as much as he could on the arrowhead. Not quite as good as poison, but he was sure the bacteria in his spit and now on the arrowhead would just love their new home inside the body of the shithead who gave Packer a clear target. Whatever happened, the target of this shot would now enjoy a virtually guaranteed septic wound. Let the fucker try to explain that one down at the hospital.

I may die here tonight, Packer thought grimly. But Nara will be safe. And this way? I'll have killed someone back for sure.

Packer had positioned himself directly in front of the stairs, but about three feet back. In his crouch, he couldn't be seen. Bill was standing to the right of the stairs as Packer saw him, ready to lean over and pelt someone with a ball bearing or some other small, metallic projectile.

The orb of light on the wall flicked away for a second, then was joined by another. Footfalls drawing closer. The orb of light growing smaller. Packer tensed, nocking the arrow. Almost..

The orb traveled up the wall now, following the banister. Its shape grew more and more oblong, and Packer's mind flipped. Things like language, personality, and ethics were put into storage, so that the predator could utilize the full power of his mind. So he could put the arrow exactly where it needed to be. Look at the light. What does its shape tell you?

It tells me that I need to shoot...THERE!

His legs extended like pistons--deliberate and precise. His arms aimed and drew at the same time. As his head rose, the orb's source came into view. And then Packer saw the man holding it: dressed in black clothing, a ski mask over his face. The flashlight of someone else, however, illuminated two things: the glint of metal near his midsection, and the glimmer of life in his eyes. In an instant, Packer chose the less ambiguous target and loosed--right between the man's eyes.

The arrow flew true, but his aim was slightly off. Instead of simply falling over, the man started screaming. "Fuck! Fuck! I've been shot! Fuck, my fucking neck!" Bill stood and leaned forward suddenly. He pulled the sling back and shot a steel or lead slug onto the man's head. The orb on the wall of the stairway flashed across Packer briefly, then it was gone, leaving a green blob smeared across the darkness of Packer's vision.

There was a thump at the bottom of the stairs. Bill's slingshot, apparently, could really ring your bell. As for Packer's hit, maybe he got a lung--though the man had screamed, so perhaps his lungs were fine. A string of inarticulate groans was coming from downstairs.

Then, suddenly, an new orb of light appeared. Packer crouched back down just in time to have two very angry hornets buzz over his head and drive themselves into the wall directly behind him. His entire body turned electric--he'd never even come close to being shot at before in his life.

Not so fun when you're the rabbit, huh?

Bill was suddenly moving, his form barely visible. He leaned across the railing and let a pellet fly--there was a grunt, a thud, and suddenly the flashlight playing up the stairwell went dark. Packer chanced a look, saw a dark figure stretching his arm almost straight up, and before he could draw back to shoot again, the end of dark figure's arm flashed bright three times in rapid succession, the percussive report of gunfire filling the air. Amazingly, Packer heard Bill grunt, but he ignored it because his vision was narrowing again. He had less than half a second before the man moved...

Twang! Packer saw the arrow plow its way deep into the man's torso. Packer almost screamed in exultation, but a nearby thump stopped him.

Bill was on the ground. It looked like he could be moving, but...

Packer dropped the bow and skittered over to him. He couldn't see much, but his foot slipped in a liquid that wasn't used cooking oil. As the men downstairs were still groaning or yelling, Packer chanced the whisper, "You still among the living?"

"Yeah..." Bill sounded far away. Packer felt around and discovered a hole on the left side of Bill's body, near his ribcage. Guessing now, he discovered a much larger hole up near his armpit, but that was all. Only one of the three shots must've hit.

Packer grabbed the arm on Bill's uninjured side and hauled the massive man to his feet, approaching the limit of his strength to do so. Supporting him, he guided the pliant Bill down the hallway to his and Kaley's bedroom, blood pattering on the floor as they went.

There was a candle glowing, at least, in that room. Packer set Bill down on the floor and shut the door. He went over to a dresser and pulled out half a dozen shirts.

"Packer," Bill grunted. "Get out there. They'll come up the stairs, then the attic is next. You gotta stop them."

"I gotta stop this," Packer replied, folding a t-shirt up and covering the exit wound. There was a lot of blood, but Packer knew from experience that most animals had more blood in them then he'd otherwise thought.

Bill grabbed his arm. "How bad is it?"

"It could be worse," Packer said. "But I'd rather you hadn't gotten shot." He dammed up the entry wound. "Alright, stay still and apply pressure." Bill did so, wincing. "How bad does it feel?"

"It only hurts when I get tickled," Bill replied, and for some reason, Packer thought that was funny. He was about to make a witty retort, but then he stopped, listening.

Someone was coming up the steps. They both heard the rapid tromp-tromp-tromp, then a much larger thud, then cursing. Packer and Bill exchanged a grin. A muffled voice yelled, "He greased up the stairs! Get a fucking towel or something!"

Packer picked up a nearby reading chair and set it down by Bill's feet. He lifted the big man's legs and placed them on the seat. "Keep pressure on both holes. They'll clot soon. Breathe slowly. Don't get up. I'll handle this."

Bill looked pale in the candle light; he nodded. "Sorry I got shot."

"Sorry I got you shot," Packer replied. A lump tried to form in his throat and he swallowed it resolutely. He drew his hatchet and went over to the door. Silence outside. He opened it; thankfully, he managed to do this silently, too. A quick glance out told him that he hadn't made it upstairs yet. In fact, now that the door was open, he could hear them grunting and cursing in one of the rooms on the first floor--probably looking for a towel.

Packer had his bow back and was ready. This time, however, he took up a position directly opposite his original one, so he could shoot into the back of anyone who came up this steps. Not the bravest approach, but the safest he could hope to manage.

At any rate, he figured he'd get off one more shot before the firepower that the Bad Guys had forced him to retreat into one of the bedrooms. At that point, he would either switch to hatchet and spear, or--

He never finished the thought, because he smelled something. Rotten eggs? Sulfur? He watched, dumbly, as something with a lit fuse was hurled up the stairs.

Is that a bo--

The world went white, and the sound of a tidal wave roared through his head.

Day 362, 3:00 AM, Nantucket

Flaban. Whafuck?

Geddup.

Flashbang?! What the fuck?!

GET UP!

Packer's senses expanded in a rush. He could see again...sort of. He could hear again...kinda. Through glowing floaters of green and red dancing across his vision, he saw...flashlights!

"Fucked," Packer groaned. He realized he was sitting, his back against the wall.

"That's right, Mister Packer," a voice snarled. "You're fucked. Get up."

Cobwebs covered the parts of his brain responsible for coordinated movement. It was worse than being drunk. He inhaled sharply and immediately coughed; the air tasted like Hell. He was not, apparently, moving fast enough, because someone hauled him to his feet.

That seemed to wake him back up. He now saw that there were three men upstairs with him: two in front of him and one behind him. No, wait, the fourth was lying down...

"Bill!" Shit! Bill looked at him. He was grimacing in pain, and his breathing was anything but controlled.

Dimly, Packer was aware that he was being searched and disarmed. "Alright," one of the masked men said. "Downstairs, Mister Packer." When Packer didn't move, he added, "If you don't, I'll go up in the attic."

Packer moved, covered by the two men in front of him. The guy who had searched him grabbed Bill and started dragging him. Bill grunted in pain.

"Leave him alone!" Packer snarled. "You already fucking shot him, I think he's out of the picture."

He saw the blow coming, but there was nothing he could do. The butt of the pistol slammed into his left ear and he went down to his knees. Maybe he moaned, maybe he cried. The world was fuzzy beyond the pain radiating from the left side of his head. Through his good ear, he heard, "Fuck you, Mister Packer."

"Fuck you right back," he croaked. I mean, if he's already pissed at you...

Rough hands grabbed him, and he was shoved down the stairs. He managed to grab the banister, which, luckily held his weight, but he still slipped rather violently most of the way down, and landed in a pile of agony at the bottom. He wasn't alone, though. Someone else immediately grabbed him and dragged him into the previously dark front room, to the left of the foyer. Packer now saw was indeed a dining room and was lit with some candles. He was hauled to his feet, and someone grabbed the back of his neck and pinched.

"Look, you fucking asshole!" someone screamed into his bad ear. It felt wet; maybe it was split open. Packer looked. Lying on the dining room table was a dead man with an arrow sticking out of his sternum. Packer's shot must have cut something important internally, because he hardly saw any blood on the man's body. He was definitely deader than dogshit, though.

"He's my husband!" The man snapped. Suddenly, there was a gun barrel (or some kind of metallic barrel) jammed into Packer's temple. "You killed him, you Stone Age fuck! You fucking killed my husband, you bastard! You--"

"Enough!"

The vice grips on his neck clamped down for a second. Packer saw, in his mind's eye, the pressure on the gun's trigger tightening. Then, at once, gun and hand were gone. The man let out a cry of anguish started tearing the room apart, knocking over boxes and chairs. Weeping and screaming, he ripped down the curtains on the windows of the room.

The other three men watched this either impassively or uncomfortably, their ski masks betraying only the emotion in their eyes. Bill had been propped up on the wall of stairway in the foyer, and he watched this with more than just physical pain. Packer stood stock still. He had the feeling that, if he moved, he was dead. He did note that the man tearing apart the dining room had on not a black, but a blue shirt, and that it was torn up around the shoulder. Packer realized that this was the first man that he and Bill had shot; his husband had brazenly leaped to his defense, and got an arrow in the gut for his troubles. Packer hoped they'd gotten to say goodbye.

The widower suddenly sank to the floor, moaning and crying. "Jerry...oh, my Jerry."

One of the other three masked men spoke, his voice downright slimy. "You've hurt a lot of people tonight, Mister Packer. I don't think we can take you in. There'd be too many tricky questions. Like what happened to the Watchmen outside. Or to your friend. Or to..." he gestured to the dining table. "You know...I think it's time for you...for all of this...to go away."

Packer turned his head, but he didn't say anything. "Of course," the man went on in his greasy way, "you two will be the only ones going. We can't hurt your women."

Liar, Packer thought. They know too much. He just can't tell me and Bill flat out that he's going to kill them, too, or else we'll try something stupid. He looked into Bill's eyes, and he saw his own thoughts mirrored in them. We'll delay them, Packer resolved. Get them to take us away from the house somewhere, and give Nara and Kaley a chance to sneak away. Maybe drag it out until dawn; they'd never go after women in daylight, right?

Thunder suddenly roared outside. BANG!

Everyone in the room jerked. Bill suddenly looked hopeful. Wait a minute, Packer's brain said. That was a gunshot. A big one, too. If all of our bullshit didn't wake the neighbors, that sure as shit did.

Suddenly, there was another shot. BANG! And then, different gunshots, sounding more like a string of firecrackers. It sounded like there was a goddamn firefight going on out there.

The three men in the foyer looked at each other. Suddenly, a radio cracked to life, "We're pinned down out here! There's a goddamn sniper out there somewhere! We need help, now!"

The man who carried the radio unclipped it and spoke into it. "Copy. We're circling around to the east." He looked at the other two. "We'll go out the back. Steven? Steven!"

The weeping man looked up. "Watch them. We'll be on channel six."

Of all the people Packer wanted to be in charge of his fate, Steven was about the last on the list.

Day 362, 3:15 AM, Nantucket

Packer found himself forced to his knees next to Bill in the foyer, hands cuffed in front of him. Steven, the man whose husband Packer had killed, pointed a gun at his forehead. Packer could only see his eyes, of course, but these were bloodshot, socketed, and hollow. The arrow wound in his shoulder, crusty with blood, probably didn't help his disposition, either.

Bill looked bad. While the bleeding had stopped, he was still pale as a ghost, and Packer suspected he was teetering on the edge of some kind of shock. The gunfire had stopped, for the moment, and Packer said to Steven, "Let him lie down. He's going to faint. We need to keep his legs elevated."

Steven's eyes flicked over to Bill. "Fuck you both," he growled. "You're dead men, anyways. I hope the two cunts you stuffed up in your attic never smile again."

Packer knew when it was safe to get mad, and it was definitely not safe now. And he was pretty sure he'd use the same verbiage if someone had killed Nara, so he gave old Steven a pass. He looked at Bill; it seemed like he didn't register the insult. Maybe he wasn't registering anything.

"Then grant a dead man this last request," Packer said. "Let him lie down. Put his legs in my lap." You're dead. Bill's dead. Why are you bothering? Why are you hanging on to impossible hope?

Because it's the decent thing to do.

Steven thought about it for a minute. "Okay."

Bill instantly began to list like a sinking ship. It took him considerable effort, but he eventually wound up on his back with his meaty legs in Packer's lap.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Packer said suddenly. You should probably not speak, moron, he chided himself.

He saw the fist coming, but could only tuck his chin and turn his head into the blow. Crack! Stars and pain exploded from his forehead. The punch seemed to knock him backwards out of his body, and the world was suddenly half a mile away, and Packer was floating off in...where? It felt like the ocean. Or maybe a bath. In a few apparent seconds, though, he was back in his body...exactly where it hurt most to be.

Packer continued talking, while his mind screamed at him to just shut the fuck up, hoping that Steven wouldn't get the bright idea to start kicking him. "I only did what you would've done. If a bunch of armed men broke into your house, looking to kill your husband. It didn't have to be like this."

He chanced a look up at Steven, expecting his vision to go black suddenly as the bullet tore through his head and annihilated the few cubic inches that made up everything he was. But that didn't happen. In fact, it looked like there was a tremor in Steven's hand. Like his resolve might be wavering.

Then, the gunfire started anew.

The present salvo, however, lasted only a few seconds, then silence fell once again. Steven unclipped his radio and hit the tone button twice. He got nothing back, not even static. Packer watched this with interest. Did that mean that everything was OK? Packer didn't think so.

Steven looked down at him. His eyes hardened into dull marbles. Dead eyes, like a doll's. Steven grabbed Packer under his armpit. "Get up."

Bill's legs flopped off him as he was hauled up. Steven shoved him back into the dining room, where his husband's corpse lay. "Look at him. I want the last thing you see to be his face, you murdering piece of shit."

Behind them, Packer could hear Bill flopping around, probably struggling to sit or stand up. Not that it mattered. But it was a nice gesture. You're a good guy, Bill. I'm sorry I got you killed.

Steven pulled the ski mask off the corpse. Packer looked; the guy was definitely dead. He was a freckly redhead, his green eyes open and and unseeing, blood at the corners of his mouth.

"Say goodbye, fuckface." Packer heard the clicking sound of a gun being cocked somewhere to his left. But he didn't look. He closed his eyes, expecting to see his life rush past them in his final seconds, like everyone said you did.

But instead, he saw Nara. The first time they met, captured by the Wolf Hunters. Her caring for him while he was sick. The first time he made her laugh. Realizing that he was genuinely happy when she was with him. That time they'd spent the night out at his favorite pond, eating, talking, fucking, then sleeping until a sky so clear that the Milky Way cast a visible shadow. Finding out she was pregnant. Finding out they were having a girl.

And the final thought he expected to have was: Your old life doesn't matter. Nara is your life, and you're glad you had her for the time you did. And, at once, he found himself at peace. He was ready.

Then, the window that Steven was standing in front of broke.

Time passed. Nothing happened. Packer looked at Steven. Blood poured down his shirt from a wound on his throat. He gurgled, then slumped to the ground, dying with a bewildered look on his face.

Packer stood still. His brain had gone fuzzy; things were confusing, all of a sudden. I'm not gonna die? he found himself thinking repeatedly.

"Packer," Bill groaned. He was lying on his back, seemingly unable sit up. "Bring me his gun."

Packer came over obediently, handling the revolver like it was a drowned rat. "Good," Bill grunted, "Now help me to sit up. I'll watch the door. You go get the girls. I think it's over."

Over? I'm not dying? Packer's mind then flashed NARA across his vision; he saw her face, her name, and he somehow even managed to smell her all at once. He straightened up. "Yeah, sorry Bill. I think I'm a little shell-shocked."

"I could tell by your eyes," Bill said. "Thousand yard stare."

"I need to find the keys for these cuffs," Packer said, turning back towards the two bodies in the dining room. He didn't move, though, turning back to Bill. "You think it's safe to go back over there?"

"It's safe, Mister Packer."

Packer whirled, and Bill lifted his head off the ground, with effort. The Old Man stood in the doorway, holding a weird-looking rifle in one hand and a powerful lantern in the either. Amorphous figures milled about outside, and Packer heard the note of car engines growing louder.

The Old Man continued. "The threat to you and your wife has been neutralized. If you'll be so kind as to grant me and my men permission to enter your house, we'll get this sorted out promptly."

Packer didn't reply. Bill, from the floor, said, "Please, sir, come in." He cracked open the cylinder of the revolver he was holding and shook all the rounds out.

The Old Man held his lantern up. "Jorgensen? Oh, Christ..." He turned around, muttering to one of the Watchmen outside something about a second ambulance. He then stepped in the house. Packer backed away from him, bumping into the far wall of the foyer. Terrified; there was no other word for it. This man had looked him in the eye and told him to go die alone. He suddenly wanted very badly to piss his pants.

"Mister Packer, it's OK," the Old Man managed to say in a soothing tone. Packer thought he heard Bill laugh. "I've spoken with Kevin Dumfries. He's filled me in on your...change of disposition. I want to work with you, Mister Packer. I understand you've brought your wife back with you, too. I'd like to meet her, if that's at all possible."

"Packer," Bill said, "go get the girls."

Packer said nothing for long seconds; he seemed to have forgotten how to talk. So, he just nodded silently.

"Good," the Old Man said briskly. He turned back to the men waiting outside. "Constable? Would you find some keys to remove Mister Packer's restraints, and then help Mister Packer retrieve his wife and Jorgensen's lady?"

Then Sixgun stepped into the house. Packer stared at him in dumb amazement. Sixgun's expression was more subdued, but there was something going on there. Packer couldn't tell; maybe he was amazed, too. The foyer was silent, and this time, the silence did turn awkward.

Finally, as the sounds of an ambulance siren began to wail in the distance, Packer said, "Upstairs. Watch your step. I greased them with cooking oil. They're still slick."

[Shermpotter]

Well, the M4 would have been nice, but making do with what's available is necessary, too. Good updates, and looking forward to more.

[kh1]

Simon,


The sand is almost pure gypsum, that is why it is so white. There is 275 square miles of gypsum sands. The only mining equipment needed is shovels and bags.

But there is another alternative: drywall. Gypsum board is 18% sulfur by weight. Each 4x8 board weighs 70 lbs. That = 12 lbs of sulfur per sheet. The average number of sheets of drywall ina house is 120-145. Doing the math you get 3/4 ton sulfur per house.

But to be brutally honest, you don't actually need sulfur for gunpowder, all you need is potassium nitrate and charcoal

The potassium nitrate can be obtained by making a human dung/cesspool heap and allowing the urea to form nitrates, then use potash from wood ash to add the potassium. (This would also cut down on water use -- only for drinking cooking and washing)

Or you could probably find it at the Nantucket Golf course (fertilizer).

sulfur free gunpowder would suffice until sufficient sulfur could be obtained.

The charcoal is easily obtained by wood.

As far as the temperatures necessary -- if you are melting sand into glass ( I think there was a reference) thats hot enough to free the sulfur from gypsum.

I for one would propose consulting history books from the library to find a relatively nearby surface seam/outcropping of coal. Using modified wood gasifiers to gasify the coal would provide a source of syngas, methane, sulfur, and alot of trace elements, that a good chemist could refine using the tools available in the HS science lab.

Alot of other reactions and reductions can be performed (chemically) if one cannibalized the catalytic coverters of automobiles for the platinum family metals, and used them for better catalysis.

[Simon_Jester]

Thursday, July 15th, 1249 B.C., 8:30 a.m., Planning and Logistics Office

By the time Simon made it to the office, Gordon had already come and gone, off to try and fill at least one of Federline's shoes on the irrigation work. Simon grabbed the first piece of paper on the spike on his desk.

"Hal, Owen sent a response letter?"

"Yeah. Wasn't really expecting it, but there it is. Don't think it's half bad, myself."

Simon quickly skimmed over the letter, written in neat pencil, and settled down at the typewriter to reply.

**********

To: K. H. Owen
From: Simon Jester, Chair of Planning and Logistics
Re: Gunpowder Manufacturing

Dear Mr. Owen:
I would like to apologize for the tone of my remarks of the 13th. I appear to have underestimated your familiarity with the subject material.

I maintain that it would be impractical to send an expedition to New Mexico to recover gypsum sand, even given that "the only mining equipment needed is shovels and bags," for the reasons outlined in my previous letter. Even given the extreme purity of the gypsum sand, recovering useful quantities of sulfur from the sands in their present location would be extremely difficult, and would be possible only at great expense and equally great risk to life and limb. Those gypsum deposits- and indeed the entire interior of the American West- are functionally out of our reach for at least the next few decades.

However, your other proposals are far, far more feasible. Indeed, I do not recall hearing it proposed that we render down household drywall for its sulfur before. This seems eminently practical, and I plan to investigate the subject further immediately. I appreciate your effort to provide a more detailed description of the process by which we can extract sulfur from gypsum, as well. If you would care to suggest a full rundown of the process, I will check it against our other resident chemists in short order.

It may please you to discover that your suggestion that we obtain saltpeter from cesspools is already being carried out, thanks to the resourcefulness of one Brendan _________, currently overseas with the Eagle Expedition as head of the Colonial Marines Engineering Corps. This gentleman uncovered a copy of an 1862 text which covered the process of manufacturing potassium nitrate from human waste in detail. He played a leading role in the creation of our current waste treatment system, and we all owe him a considerable debt of gratitude.

Also, it is my pleasure to inform you that your application for a position on the Planning and Logistics Board is officially reopened for consideration, pending a suitable vacancy for an individual of your talents.

Sincerely,
Simon Jester, Chief of Planning and Logistics.

[Scottish Ninja]

We really don't need to go as far as White Sands or even ripping drywall out of houses just yet for gypsum: it's available by the convenient 40-lb bag in a hardware store near you. No guarantees on how long that supply will last, but it ought to be there.

[Scottish Ninja]

Scratch that, actually: a little checking around tells me that the kind of hardware stores that Nantucket has won't have much more than 5-lb bags gypsum; for the big 40-lb bags you'll need to go to a big store and even then not all of the big stores will have it year-round. Still, scooping up what supply of that there is sounds like a good place to start.

[Shermpotter]

I was given to thinking, though, that there was a considerable bit of ornamental horticulture on Nantucket, so perhaps an on-island landscaping company would have some???

EDIT: A quick check at Nantucket.net shows two garden centers and ten landscapers on island...

[kh1]

To:
Simon Jester, Chairman Planning and Logistics;
Nantucket Colony

Simon,

Thank you for you thoughtful response.

I propose that regarding conversion of drywall to sulfur, a methane reduction process as well as the Claus process be used. Temperatures of approximately 800 degrees C are required; however that should be feasible.

Heating the already (mostly) dry or almost anhydrous gypsum in the wallboard will liberate a flue gas stream of SO2. SO2 reacts with Methane to form H2O, S (various allotropes) and CO2 in the following way: 2SO2 + CH4 => 2H2O + 2S + CO2 -- various other byproducts are produced, two of which (H2S and COS) may be reacted again with SO2 using the Claus process to recover more elemental sulfur. The addition of alumina as a catalyst can enhance reaction times and yields.

A professional chemist/chemical engineer will likely be knowledgeable enough to validate the efficacy of my proposal as well as implement and execute it.

Now here is a small list of other proposals to promote the general welfare of our community.

1. Cranberries must be actively cultivated. Aside from persimmons, they are the only native fruit AFAIK that is palatable enough and in enough local abundance that will prevent us from all becoming "scurvy dogs".

2. Garlic must be cultivated, from bulbs in the grocery stores. Garlic if properly prepared, provides antibacterial, antifungal and antiviral action against a host of organisms.

3. Identify the trained martial artists and institute a training program, for every citizen of Nantucket. In the same way a locked door keeps people honest, knowing you may likely get a good ass-kicking from any random person (if you start a physical problem) tends to keep violence to a minimum. It also promotes health, flexibility, strength -- and supports the common defense.

More proposals will follow as I formulate them. I do know that even extremely feasible proposals may not be implemented (for one reason or another) by the Council, and I will find no fault or insult should such an event occur.

I thank you for your invitation, but at this time I would like to remain an "affiliated member-at-large". I remain at your service.

Regards,
K. H. One (no worries about the last name)

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

Editor's note: This takes place on day 362, post-arrival . . .

O.K. Corral
Barking dogs on a dark, starlit night. That's what greeted us as we arrived in the Couples' District. The dogs made me cringe. Honestly, they always have, but tonight, that cringe had a sharp edge to it. Anyone who was awake was going to know we were here. That was stomach-butterflies to go with the burn in my legs and the metallic taste in my mouth.

Dark shapes rose up from the street; houses, starkly denuded trees, and long-dead street lights. I stared out into the darkness. The home Packer was staying at wouldn't be visible from here, but I guess hoping I'd catch sight of whoever we were going after, just the same.

We moved off the street into a vacant yard, taking shelter behind a wall of shrubbery abandoned to nature. The Old Man motioned us closer, and we crowded around him.

"This is how it'll work," he said. "Sean, Jeff," he said, motioning to the boatmen, "you'll cover me. "John, Pete. You know this area. Work your way around to the back of the house." He finally looked at me. "Constable, I'll be taking that rifle now." I looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "I was in on the planning of the district," he said. "I know where the good lines of fire are. You and Dennis will be coming in from the front."

I thought it over for a moment. "Alright, sir," I finally replied, setting the gun-case down. "From the front, eh? Won't be something I haven't done before."

"That's the spirit, Constable," the Old Man replied. "This is important. Get into a good position, but none of you attack until I fire my first shot. You were all present for the demonstration on Martha's Vineyard, so you will know the sound."

"Sir," John said. "Rules of engagement?"

"We must be very careful here," he replied, gesturing at the dark shapes of the houses around us. "Give them the chance to surrender peacefully. If they decline; use your heads, but take care of yourselves."

"Yes sir," we replied.

The Old Man looked us over one more time, before nodding.

"Let's do this," he said, kneeling to pick up the gun-case. We all nodded in return, scattering. My partner, and I, made our way down the street. It was slow going, working our way down the street, almost by starlight alone. Distant dogs were still were barking back and forth, but I was starting to get the feeling I was making my way into an area of dog silence. I knew there were dogs in this neighborhood. The fact they weren't making noise . . . that just wasn't right. It made me wonder just what sort of people I was going up against.

No! None of that kind of thinking. Get through tonight. Plenty of time to think later, when nobody's shooting at me.

Suddenly I froze, crouching. I heard my partner crouching behind me, but all my attention was focused forward. There, down the street, were a couple of figures standing under a tree. One of 'em had turned on a flashlight, and was looking down at some piece of paper. Both had the lean sinewy look common to the sullen-teen types on the island these days. My breath caught in my throat as I saw something glinting in their waistbands in the light. I squinted . . . they looked like the typical Ruger .22 target pistol.

I looked back at my partner, and he silently gestured to the right with a shake of his finger. A clear lot beckoned, ringed with shrubbery. I nodded. We'd cross the street, take cover there, and sneak up on them from that side. But not till that kid turned off that light.

A few moments later, my wish was granted. The flashlight flicked off, and we moved as quickly and as quietly as we could; while they were still getting their night eyes back. We flattened ourselves behind the unkempt greenery and counted off half a minute. Then, my partner slipped out from behind me, making his way down to the next house. As he pulled into cover, it was my turn to move. I picked my way down the sidewalk, half-crouched, sixgun in my hand.

I spared a glance at my partner as I passed him, taking up my position on the corner of the street opposite of those kids. Beyond them, I could make out a house whose windows shone with dim, flickering light. Through the gaps in the shrubbery, I could make out shadows moving inside. I nodded to myself, that had to be the house Packer was staying at.

The realization didn't make me feel good. Our enemies had posted guards, and looked like they'd already taken the house. I wondered what we'd find at the end, if we got through them all. Were we in time? We had to be . . . we just had to be. If we weren't, would there be lights lit? Or goons standing watch outside?

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I tightened my grip on my old Colt just the same, settling the front sight on the dark silhouette of one of those goons. Never aim a gun at anything you don't intend to destroy . . . that was one of the first things I learned, all those years ago.

Do I intend to destroy? Do I intend to kill again?

I won't kill if I can help it. Give 'em a chance to give up, that's what the Old Man said. Be careful, don't want a stray bullet passing through an innocent. Will our enemies feel the same regard?

I licked my lips. They'll get one chance . . .

Pop!

I froze, my heart instantly in my throat. That was the cue. That was the sound of a very large air rifle being discharged. I heard it. I knew Dennis heard it. As flashlights flicked on, I knew our opponents had heard it too.

"Let's do this," my partner said. I nodded, quickly rising. This was the most hazardous part, giving them that one chance. They were looking the wrong way. That wasn't going to last.

"This is the Watch! Put 'em up!" I said, drawing the hammer of that old Colt back with a sweep of my thumb. The lights swung towards me, and . . . shit! The flashlight beams bobbled and dropped as the two kids scrambled back. They were suddenly lit up, in stark white light, as Dennis turned on the tactical light on his pistol. They froze, but only for a moment . . .

Crack! Crack!

Thank the gods, I was already moving, throwing myself off to the side. One moment, they'd frozen, the next I was reacting on instinct as one of 'em went for his gun. Sparks exploded from the pavement as he fired.

Bam!

That was Dennis returning fire, his pistol speaking sharply as I dropped my front sight on those kids. In that fraction of a second, I recalled that the Constabulary had experimented with mixing up black powder, and that my Colt was loaded up with our homebrewed rounds . . .

KA-BOOM!

Both kids disappeared behind an enormous fireball, as I touched off nearly forty grains of black powder. I dimly saw a shape crumple, but I was still moving, running across that street. I sensed light playing across me, across the pavement.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

I wheeled, seeing other lights waving about in a panicked frenzy. There were flashes of steel as men went for their guns. No time to think! Pick one! Park my front sight on him, draw that hammer back and . . .

KA-BOOM!

I threw myself into the bushes, my shoulder slamming painfully into unseen fencing. Just ahead of me, I could see a body lying in spreading pool of blood. Just beyond me, the lights had scattered.

Crack! Crack-crack-crack!

Someone had gotten to his gun, firing back at the night. Yellow-white spots danced across the road and along the sidewalks. They were hunting for us. I glanced back across the street. No dead body there, so my partner was under cover too.

Pop!

A flashlight went flying, spinning in an arc of light to crash to the pavement. In the flashing light, I saw its previous owner pitching forward. The other lights suddenly changed direction. One of them flashing our way, the other swinging around and . . .

Pop!

The swinging motion was suddenly redirected downward, and the other flashlight went out. I could hear its owner diving for the ground, as his buddy crashed lifelessly.

Crack! Crack!

Off to my left! That had to be the second kid Dennis and I had shot at. Just how many of these fuckers were there?

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Another shooter, closer to Packer's house.

Bam-Bam!

I saw the faint flash of fire from somewhere behind me, as Dennis opened up on him.

Pop!

Red Ryder spoke again, and I heard thrashing in the yard litter to my left, and then nothing.

Pop!

I heard muffled voices, and the screech of a radio. Not good. Not fucking good at all. They were calling for backup . . . the fact that they had backup to call for mixed in an edge of nausea to go with my adrenaline-fueled terror.

"Don't shoot," Dennis whispered harshly, just as I heard him taking cover behind me. I nodded jerkily, looking out into the darkness, willing my night-vision back.

Pop!

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuc"

Pop!

I shivered, even as I heard gunfire from down the street. I had a sudden vision of people on the mainland going down the same way . . . to a sharpshooter with an air rifle . . . with no flash of flame or puff of smoke to betray his position.

Footsteps.

I froze. I heard two people running up the street. I saw spots of light dancing madly up the pavement.

"Keep moving," I heard someone shout. "That damned sniper's going to get us if we don't."

"What about Packer?"

"Steven will take care of him. Now run!"

Pop! Pop!

I heard a lead ball ricochet off the pavement. Those men were coming this way.

Bang! Bang-bang!

My gut twists . . . oh boy, that's no .22. I glance back at Dennis and he nods. The two men are almost here.

I hold up a hand. One . . .

The footfalls grow closer.

Another finger up. Two . . .

I can hear the men panting, gasping for breath as they run for their very lives. Closer . . . closer . . . and . . . Three!

Dennis and I lunge out from our cover.

"Freeze, you sons of bitches, this is the Watch," I say, as loud as I can.

"Drop 'em. Get on the ground, now," Dennis' shout adds to the chorus. Both men stop, dead in their tracks. One of 'em is dropping to his knee . . . fucker's going to shoot . . .

Pop!

KA-BOOM!

Gracelessly, he crashes to both knees, flopping flat on his face; blood splattering onto the road. His flashlight and revolver go skidding away. With a jerk, I've re-cocked the hammer, and the muzzle of my sixgun is now aimed square at the last man's face. Dennis' tac-light is on again. To add insult to injury, he switches on the laser.

"Drop the goddamn gun," I snarl. "Drop it right now."

The clattering of both revolver and flashlight echo down the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that windows in the other houses are lit. We're going to have unwelcome company soon.

"Calm down, sport," the man said, slowly raising his hands. "I don't mean anyone any harm."

I'm sure you don't.

"Back up very slowly," Dennis replies. "Keep your hands up."

"Alright, alright," the man replies. For someone surrounded by hostile guns, he seems calm. Far too calm for my comfort. "We've all had enough excitement for one night."

"On the ground," Dennis said, his voice steely. "Get on the ground, and get your hands on your head."

The man's radio chirped twice. I glanced down . . .

Flying!

Shit! Shit, shit-shit-shit! We tumble to the ground, and my Colt goes flying from my hand. By some miracle, it doesn't go off when it hits the pavement, but I have other things on my mind. I struggle to get to his hands, to get him restrained; and he fights to roll me over and get on top of me. In a flash, I glimpse another holster by his gun-holster, and I understand the implications.

I thrust my head up, feel his nose smash into my scalp. He grunts, and I see a flash of stars as he clocks me on the side of the head, causing me to drop back. I feel him moving, and I thrust my arms up, and out, causing his body to flop on mine. We roll, struggling, but he's stronger. Suddenly, he's on top, reaching for his knife. In that instant, his attention is divided and he's a little too slow to avoid my left hook. My left arm isn't my strong arm, but the blow stalls him just long enough for a very solid right to land.

He sags, but he isn't out of the fight yet. I feel him moving, rearing up. His fists smash into my forearms. This is one fight I'm not going to win.

Crack! Crack-crack!

The man collapses on top of me, senseless. With a grunt, I roll him off, just as Dennis is tossing away the flashlight he'd just used as a club. I lie there for a moment, staring up at the starry sky and the naked branches; sucking in deep lung-fulls of frosty morning air.

"That was fucking stupid, cowboy," Dennis said, offering his hand. I take it, and he hauls me to my feet. As I dust myself off and collect my hat, he's already pulling the would-be pugilist's arms behind his back, reaching for his cuffs.

"Yeah, you're right," I reply, rubbing my forearms. "It was. Thanks for the save."

Pop!

I wheel around, looking for the newest threat. I stop when I catch sight of the house where Packer was at. One of the windows is clearly a spiderweb of shattered glass. Through it, I see a silhouette standing there, seemingly frozen. And then, that figure fell from view. Just then, I saw several shapes emerge into the street. Even from here, and even in the dark, I recognized the Old Man at once. Another pair of figures was already running up from the other side of the road.

"Hold him," I said to Dennis, my eyes sweeping the pavement. I spot my old Colt and I backpedal to collect it. I then take off at a dead run, toward the lanterns and flashlights as the Watchmen set up a perimeter. From somewhere behind me, I can hear a sound I haven't heard in a very long time . . . car motors . . . the Watch at the old Coast Guard station was finally arriving.

"Hey, where are you going," Jeff said, stepping in front of me. "The Old Man's got the situation under control."

I manage to skid to a halt without bowling the other man over. In the doorway to the house, I can see the Old Man, holding both a lantern, and the air-gun. I suddenly saw him turn back and bark out an order to Sean, who staggers off while reaching for his radio. The Old Man's eyes lock onto mine for several moments, and then he nods once, turning back.

He steps inside the house, and I see a figure backing away. I look closer, and the recognition hits like a thunderbolt. That's Packer! That's Packer, and he's still alive!

"Mister Packer, it's OK," I hear the Old Man say. From somewhere just inside I hear weak laughter. Laughter that's immediately familiar to me. As I struggle to place it, the Old Man turns around again, looking right at me.

"Constable? Would you find some keys to remove Mister Packer's restraints, and then help Mister Packer retrieve his wife and Jorgensen's lady?"

Jorgensen? And again, I'm struck. Bill? This is Bill Jorgensen's house? Numbly, I nod, stepping inside. I see Bill, just then, propped up against the wall. His side was blood-soaked, and his complexion was that of a man on death's doorstep. Quickly, I take in the room. Two dead men, dressed in black. A bruised, battered, and beaten Alferd Packer in cuffs, gaping at me. Sirens wailing behind me as the Watch boxed in the place like in one of those old cop shows.

It hits me. Something very unpleasant is afoot, and it felt like I'd been whisked back in time . . . to the darkest of our first days here. To the blackest hours of the Long Winter. I wanted to shiver. I wanted to be back in my cabin on the Vineyard. Yet, I had a job to do, and I'd see it through.

"Upstairs. Watch your step. I greased them with cooking oil. They're still slick," Packer said, causing me to look up with a start.

"Huh," I said. Immediately, I felt stupid. "Oh, your restraints."

"No," Packer replied. "My wife's up there. So's Bill's. They're hiding in the attic."

Wife . . . right. I rubbed my temple. "It's been a long night," I said.

Packer looked at me.

"Tell me about it," he finally managed.

"Later," I replied, starting for the stairs. "Let's go get the ladies."

[Crayz9000]

I just realized that I might actually have something to offer. Right now, from what I can gather, the authorities on the island are using HF two way radios from the former emergency services, which are generally limited in range and utilize irreplacable transistors.

Now, we probably won't have to go as far back as spark gap transmitters, nor should we because of the big EMI problem those noise generators are.

The good news is that it sounds like someone on Nantucket is experimenting with glass already. That's good because it can lead to simple light bulbs, and, more importantly, simple tubes such as basic diodes and triodes. Once we have the ability to make triodes, constructing shortwave transceivers is a much easier task. And with shortwave transceivers, communication between Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard, the mainland, or even the Eagle becomes easily possible because of shortwave's long transmission characteristics.

Even without tubes we can still get long range radio using crystal sets, which require no power besides the transmitting station.

And as far as where we can get the theory necessary for all this, I'n sure that there was more than one ham radio operator on the island with a few ARRL books on the subject.

[Alferd Packer]

Day 362, 3:30 AM, Nantucket

"Fuckballs!" Packer's foot slid, and he almost went ass over teakettle down the stairs. But he was holding both banisters firmly and, supporting his weight with his arms, made it up the final two steps. Sixgun alighted a few seconds later, glancing back at the stairs ruefully.

Sixgun pulled out a flashlight and played it around the upstairs landing. The beam lingered over the bow and the quiver of arrows, Packer's hatchet, and the trail of blood leading off to one of the bedrooms.

"It's Bill's," Packer said. Sixgun nodded.

They stood in silence for a moment, regarding each other. Packer realized that Sixgun looked pretty worked-over himself. "I'd hate to see how the other guy looks," Packer said with a grimace.

Sixgun considered that, then replied, "Not good. He's the last of 'em alive, I think." They lapsed into a momentary silence. "You ought to get that looked at," Sixgun said.

"Huh?"

"Your ear," he replied. "Looks like that of a cat I used to own."

Packer started to reach up. It didn't even hurt, though he thought it felt sticky. "Don't," Sixgun said. Packer lowered his hand. "We'll get Ken to look at it."

"Sure." Packer looked down for a moment, then said, "I don't know the specifics of who did what out there, so I'll thank you for...whatever it was you did. You saved my family, and I won't forget that."

Sixgun nodded again. "Thank the Old Man and his sharpshootin' skills. I'm just glad we made it in time."

"I guess I'll have to do just that," Packer said with a smirk. Below them, Packer heard the grumbling engines of the ambulance, as well as several other cars, then the sound of a stretcher clattering up the stoop. Packer walked over to the trapdoor. "By the way, what's the deal with the badge? And you're a constable now?"

"Over on the Vineyard," Sixgun replied, nodding once. "Ain't been on the Watch since your friend Dumfries got sent out; but, uh, when the Old Man went back; so did I."

"So he was out on Mar--" Packer stopped himself, waving his hand. "You know what, fuck it. I'll get caught up on all this later." He went to grab the pullstring for the trapdoor.

"Hold up," Sixgun said. "Let me check the other rooms, first." He drew his piece, stalking down the hall.

Christ, I hadn't even thought of that. Bill would've noticed if there was someone still upstairs, right? Packer reached down and picked up his hatchet, twirling it nervously. He watched the dim outline of Sixgun move quickly and efficiently from room to room. Eventually, he rejoined Packer, nodding sharply once.

So, Packer pulled down the trapdoor and the unfolded the ladder. Sixgun stood a bit apart, eying the void in the ceiling.

"You don't want to go first?" Packer asked.

"I've encountered natives out on the Vineyard," Sixgun replied flatly.

He didn't elaborate, leaving Packer to wonder. Finally, Packer offered, "They do grow 'em a bit tougher out on the mainland, now don't they?"

He looked up into the darkness above them. He couldn't even see the candle glowing; maybe it had gone out. Maybe they'd extinguished it as part of their hiding. Packer called out, "Guys, it's OK! It's me."

He heard momentary shuffling, then nothing. He exchanged a glance with Sixgun, then shouted to Nara in her native speech. "Nara, it's safe. I promise. You can come to me now."

Nothing for a minute, then Nara's voice came through, distant but clear. "Is anyone with you? Are you they forcing you to say something?"

Playing it safe? Ugh. "Someone is with me, but he is a friend. He saved us. His friends all saved us."

Sixgun was watching him. Probably wondering what the hell I've been up to the last six months. Nara then said, "Where is Bill?"

Packer was glad they weren't talking English. "He is below. He is hurt. They will take him to the hospital."

Nara took some time in replying. "Make the person say that he will not hurt us."

Packer turned to Sixgun. "She's forcing me to prove that it's really safe. She wants you to promise not to hurt them."

Sixgun frowned a bit, but he called up into the darkness. "I promise I will not hurt you, Nara!"

Packer tried not to betray the look of surprise on his face. He knows her name? Hmm, I wonder how. Did he pick it up from what I just said? He heard shuffling and creaking boards growing louder. Then, he spotted the glow of the candle. Finally, Nara's face appeared. "It is really safe?"

He smiled, relief flooding his body. "It is really safe," he confirmed.

She smiled back at him, and he watched her set the candle down and start descending the ladder. Sixgun kept his distance, but was nonetheless watching--probably wanting a catch a glimpse of a native. Nara got down to the second rung from the floor and Packer pulled her into his arms, doing his best not to cry. He had to, after all, remain macho in front of Sixgun...for some reason. And maybe he didn't want Nara to realize just how close it had been. She hugged him back with bone-cracking strength.

He set her down when he thought he'd remain dry-eyed. "Are you OK?" he asked in English.

"I am fine," she replied, looking up at him. "How badly are you hurt?"

"Not bad," he said. She looked to her right and saw Sixgun, who decided to step forward. "This is my friend," Packer said. "There are more like him downstairs." He gestured to Sixgun. "Meet my wife, Nara."

Sixgun tipped his hat. "Pleased to meet you, Nara."

Packer then said, "And Nara, this is..." he looked at Sixgun. "You know, I don't even think I ever learned your name."

Sixgun cracked a smile. "Oh, it's--"

"Packer?" He looked up. Kaley was at the trapdoor, looking like she'd been crying for the last hour or so. Oh, Christ!

"Kaley, it's OK," he said as calmly as he could. He disentangled himself from Nara, holding his arms up to her. "Come on down, I got you."

She did so, gingerly, bringing the candle with her. Nara took the candle and Packer held Kaley. When she got down onto the floor, she looked around her house in bewilderment. Packer judged she could stand on her own, so he let go. With Sixgun's help, he folded up the ladder and closed the trapdoor.

A peep out of Kaley caught their attention. "Is that...blood?" She looked at Packer, eyes widening, her mouth forming a perfect O of shock and terror. "Where's Bill?!"

Uh oh, he thought, seeing the rising panic start to dominate her face and posture. She's got to relax. You need to speak carefully. Choose your words wisely.

"Kaley, relax," he said. Her eyes went wider than Packer thought possible. Good job, AP. You should enter yourself in the Goddamn Special Olympics.

"Where the fuck is Bill?" she screeched.

"Bill got shot," Packer found himself blurting out. Kaley staggered as if he'd punched her. "Once." Packer drew his finger along his left side. "It missed his organs. I got the bleeding stopped. He's still awake and talking. They're taking him to the hospital."

"They already did," Sixgun added. "I saw the ambulance leave when I was checking out the rooms."

"What?!" Kaley's voice, unlike most people's, could apparently go to eleven. "I have to go with him!" She turned and made for the stairs. "I need to--"

Sixgun slid into her path, making to block her. He reached out to grasp her arm, saying, "The stairs are still sli--"

"Don't you touch me!" she shrieked. The activity down below, which had been a constant, low-level hum of conversation, footsteps, thumps of objects being moved, stopped abruptly. Sixgun managed to stop her, but she wasn't content to be manhandled. She plowed an elbow in his sternum. Packer winced; it looked like she caught him right in the sweet spot that overrode just about every hallmark of strength and toughness a man could manage.

"Let me go, you fucking pig!" Kaley was in rare form; Packer thought his good ear was going to split open, too. "You did this to him! You Watchmen let this happen to him!"

To his credit, Sixgun still had a good grip on her. "Ma'am, calm down, please..." he said. That earned him foot stamping(which probably didn't hurt so bad, given Sixgun's boots), and a heel to the shin(which probably hurt like hell). Watchman, Constable, whatever you were called, Packer realized that it truly was a shitty job.

"I will not calm down," Kaley shrieked. "I've got to get to Bill!"

"Kaley!" Nara called out. She stepped up to Sixgun and gave him a look. Despite probably a full foot difference in their heights, Sixgun wordlessly let Kaley go. Kaley tried feebly to take a step, but Nara put an arm around her shoulders, and she fairly collapsed against Nara, sobbing.

"Oh, Bill...oh, my sweet Farm Boy..." Packer's brain noted, with eerie discomfort, that he'd witnessed a hauntingly similar display not twenty minutes ago. He shuddered.

Sixgun worked his way around the women to look down the stairs. Packer joined him.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, as they both looked down the stairs at the Watchmen swarming around the foyer. "I first thought maybe the Council had ordered you guys to make me sleep with the fishes, but that didn't make any sense; and the guys that were here didn't act like any of you. Then there was some sort of gunfight, and then I see your 'Old Man' telling me it's safe. So is this like a civil war? The Old Guard versus the New?"

"I wish I knew," Sixgun replied. "To tell you the truth, this is my first time back on Nantucket since I followed your friend Dumfries out to the Vineyard."

Packer glanced over at his wife, who was making nonsensical cooing and shushing noises as she hugged Kaley, who wept without restraint. He could actually feel his heart breaking. "Fucking hell, why did I even come back?" he whimpered.

Sixgun didn't reply. After some time, Nara guided Kaley over. Packer looked at Sixgun. "Downstairs?"

Sixgun crouched to get a look at the dining room. "Yeah."

Packer nodded, turning to the women. Being miserable didn't help anyone, so... "Now, the stairs are still slick, so you both need to be careful," Packer said. "Kaley, the Constable here will help you down. Try not to beat him up this time." She half-sobbed, half-laughed. "Nara, come with me."

Slowly, and without incident, they managed to get down the stairs. Once there, Packer noted two things: the bodies had been cleared out of the dining room, and the Watchmen passing through the foyer suddenly started walking a little slower, to get a look a Nara. Because of this, she clung to him, and he kept his arm around her.

Kaley came down a few seconds later with Sixgun's help. She looked into the dining room and saw the massive pool of blood on the floor. "Oh...oh, God..." Wide-eyed, she shoved past the Watchmen and ran off to the kitchen, where everyone heard her puking.

Nara let go of Packer. "I'll go see if she needs help," she said him in creole. "I wonder if she is sick?"

"It's the blood," Packer replied. We don't see much blood, normally. And the girls on Nantucket sure as shit don't.

Nara looked over at the pool of blood across the room, shrugged, then followed the sounds of vomiting. The Watchmen in the foyer and the connecting hallway to the kitchen gave her a wide berth, which Packer noted with grim satisfaction. He then realized what was up; surely, if the Shark had seen the incident report between the Watchmen and himself, these Watchman had at least heard about it. It didn't take a mind-reader to figure out what they were all thinking:

I'm glad I wasn't the guy that tried to take Packer away from his wife.

Packer turned to speak to Sixgun, but he was interrupted by another Watchman. "The Old Man wants to see you both," he said. "In the living room."

Packer felt himself tensing up; it was a worse feeling that being sent to the principal's office at school, but not as bad as when he had been arrested. After all, the Old Man brought the cavalry in to save him, right? Packer should be grateful. Sixgun said as much.

So, after Sixgun nodded, Packer turned to the Watchmen. "Say, the girls are in the kitchen. You think could see that they get a little space? I know you guys know how to behave yourselves around women, but I also know that you're curious about the natives. They've been through a lot tonight, so..."

"I understand perfectly, Mister Packer," the Watchman said.

"Thanks, John," Sixgun replied.

"Oh, and please spread the word that my wife does speak English, and if someone makes a...an oblique remark, let's say, it'll get back to me. So make sure they save the jokes until they're out of earshot." Packer folded his arms, and he caught Sixgun giving him a look out of the corner of his eye.

"Uh, we'd never say anyth--"

"Of course not," Packer interrupted. "All the same..."

"I'll let them know." The Watchman went off to the kitchen, an uncertain expression on his face.

Packer turned to Sixgun. "Shall we?"

[Dave]

Glad to see this is still going. I've certainly enjoyed the story so far.

[Kartr_Kana]

I was afraid this had died, glad to see it hasn't!

[Simon_Jester]

We had a long hiatus, but it never really died, not as such. Speaking for myself, I'm badly writer's blocked on the second portion of my Day Five piece; I may try something else set in the Day 360 timeframe to crack the block.

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

And I, have taken up backyard poultry farming.

No, seriously. I've got six ducks now. I'm raising them for eggs. On top of my day job as an engineer. It's a miracle I ain't dead yet. Oh, the stories I could tell . . . and on that note, here's a quick slice-of-life.

~~~

Editor's Note: The following takes place on day 303, post-arrival . . .

Roots
With a mighty heave, I manage to get the compost pile turned over. I stab it with my pitchfork several times for good measure, and then I begin shoveling more on top of it. A melange of detritus goes onto the pile. Old newspaper, chipped wood, fibrous plant stalks . . . refuse of our gardening and planting duties. All of it soaking wet, and all of it covered in shit.

Did I mention that this smells really bad? Have I mentioned that if you muck around with damp, shit-filled, composting material long enough, you're liable to pick up some sort of infection? Yeah.

A sinus infection had laid me low for a couple of weeks. Half that time was because I'd passed it off as hay fever. The other half . . . well, the island's doc had taken a look up my nose and said it was the reddest he'd seen all week. He then called me a goddamned idiot for picking up an infection nearly a year since we'd come back from the future. There were no antibiotics to waste on a mere sinus infection, but he did give me a . . . what the hell was it called . . . a neti pot. Told me to flush my plumbing out with salt water, twice a day, and to breathe the steam from boiled mint and pine needles at night. Flush out the bad shit and hopefully give my body a chance to get on top of it. And he urged me to blow my nose more.

Well, suffice it to say, I'm still here. And I'm still working. I don't feel great, but I do feel better. That was life in the Martha's Vineyard Constabulary. Bust your balls during the day, do copper work come nightfall. And it needed to be done. Even out here. Maybe especially out here. On Nantucket, life's hard. On the Vineyard, though, life's even harder. No vacant, pre-furnished houses to live in here. No pre-furnished kitchens or food storage places, or any of the luxuries that the Malevolent Powers had seen fit to give us.

On the Vineyard, everything you had, you made yourself. My first week on the Vineyard, I had to help with an old-fashioned cabin-building party. The Constabulary was expanding, since the Vineyard's population was only going to grow. Yours truly, and the others who were coming on-board needed places to live and work. Under the watchful eye of crusty, cantankerous veterans . . . many younger than myself . . . we hacked and notched logs. We packed mud and straw into the spaces to make a crude mortar on the outside, and boiled tree sap down to pitch to seal the inside. We tamped down mud and dirt to make our floors.

I'll tell you, though, when we were done, I felt accomplished. Possibly more accomplished than I had during all my time on the Watch, back on Nantucket. Here, it felt like we were building something. Not shooting people, cracking skulls, or trying to impose order on growing chaos.

It was even possible to bring new life into the world here.

I finished shoveling the soiled bedding onto the compost heap. Spent a few sweat-soaked minutes turning the goddamned pile again, mixing it up to distribute the goods throughout. These piles would work through the winter, creating the good humus that'd be the foundation for next years' gardens.

I dropped the pitchfork and shovel into the wheelbarrow, and picked my way back down the path. There were compost heaps scattered all over our small settlement, and fenced off gardens. The plants within had a few late-season vegetables upon them, left to ripen for a few more days before the first frosts would be along to turn these plots of green into pens filled with shriveled, dead husks. Then, they'd go onto the compost heaps in turn, and the cycle would continue.

As I closed in on the cabins, a new sound pricked my ears. There was clucking and scratching. There was quacking and chattering. There was even honking and quibbling. As I rounded the corner, there were fenced in pens, wrapped in all the chicken wire we could scavenge. Inside some of those pens, chickens scratched at the ground, picking through the dirt for whatever might've been left from the morning's feeding. In the pen closest to my cabin, were ducks. The mottled brown plumage made them out to be girls.

There were backyard farms on Nantucket, to go with the actual farms. People kept chickens, ducks, geese on them. Even the odd goat or pig. It had been a mighty challenge to keep nearly 4000 increasingly desperate and hungry men from killing the whole lot of them over the Long Winter. It had been an even mightier challenge to convince people to actually take care of them, and share our dwindling food with them. Yet, the biologists had lead the charge. The biologists, the survivalists. We couldn't just expect fish to come leaping into our boats, and deer to wander in front of our crossbows. On the mainland, we'd be competing with people who knew better than we did on how to survive in the wilderness. We'd have to train people to safely navigate out into the sound to fish for cod.

Hence the livestock. It had become yet another duty of the Watch . . . to guard farm animals. To keep cold and hungry kids from stealing them in the middle of the night. The ones who stole poultry were easy to spot, as more than a few of 'em didn't quite grasp the need to cook them thoroughly. They were the ones who learned their lesson with a bout of Salmonella poisoning . . . provided it didn't kill them first.

We lost many, but many more survived. And come the spring, they started to do what wild animals did best. There were eggs. Many went into the pots of people grateful for another source of protein. Others were allowed to incubate. It was a challenge for those first few months, as we scrambled to read up on animal husbandry.

It was one problem after another. We struggled to keep Nantucket's roaming population of stray dogs and cats from stealing our chicks and ducklings. There were enough pets for ten thousand people here. Which made for a considerable surplus of predators. A couple of the biologists even advocated rounding up and killing all the cats. Didn't want any of 'em making it out to the mainland to begin destroying bird populations a couple thousand years early. More than a few of us weren't going to have anything to do with that, though.

Did you know that it takes just eight weeks and ten pounds of grain to raise a chicken or a duck from a little ball of yellow fluff that you can hold in your hand to a five pound bird ready for the grill? It was a welcome break from fish, rabbits, and increasingly questionable canned shit from back in the future.

Still, it was better to have them lay eggs. I brushed my hand against the rough-hewn wall of the duckhouse. It was elevated off the ground, and unlike my own cabin, it had wood flooring. No eggs, though. The daylight was already too short for that, but come spring, I knew I'd have to add morning egg collection to the list of things I had to do at sun-up . . . before I could put on my copper badge and strap on my sixgun.

This was life out on Martha's Vineyard. It was a taste of the future of everyone on Nantucket. I thought so, anyway. There were those who believed that we could keep some semblance of industrial technology. That our children and our grandchildren, (provided we could find more women,) wouldn't have to sleep on dirt floors in log cabins like some pioneer fresh off the Oregon Trail.

Others weren't so optimistic. I picked up a long stick with a bit of red yarn tied to the end, and then climbed into the pen.

"Okay girls, it's time to go inside!" I wave the stick around, chasing the ducks around the pen. Ducks are animals who define the term "peer pressure." They do everything as a group. Eat, drink, and sleep. Made them easy to herd. With a few deft moves of my herding-stick, I had them scrambling up the ramp into their house. As soon as the last one was inside, I hauled up the door, latching it in place and checking those latches twice. There were foxes out there, waiting for someone to get careless. Wasn't going to be me who'd be feeding the foxes. I helped round up all the semi-wild Mallards on Nantucket's water courses, after all. They and their domestic brethren gave them a much bigger gene pool than what backyard chickens we could round up.

As I climbed out of the pen, and put my herding stick back up, my thoughts wandered back to our future. Nobody on Martha's Vineyard had the optimism of some on the Council. I saw it on the faces of the hard men who'd been sent out here. The wilderness had broken the last few grips that 21st Century civilization held over 'em.

I guess it was hard to imagine steam engines and locomotives when you were busy chopping at trees with a hand-axe to make your home. It was hard to envision airplanes when you were shoveling out latrines and turning over compost. It was had to envision having the leisure time to read books and play games when your whole day, from sun-up to sun-down, was spent eking out your own survival.

I, too, was learning. You took pleasure in whatever you could out here. Be it getting a rabbit in your snare, or watching little balls of yellow fluff you've hand-raised grow up to be a flock of quacking manure and egg-making machines.

Yet, even here, even now, technology's call wasn't completely lost to us. I wind my way down another dirt path, following the black smoke billowing out a low stone chimney. I let myself into the Vineyard's nascent blacksmith's forge cum machine shop.

"Yo, Cowboy," one of the men says, looking up from the piece of spring-steel he was grinding into a scythe blade.

"How's it going, Steve," I ask, taking off my hat.

"Same shit, different day," he replies.

"Tell me about it," I say with a sage nod.

"How's your nose?"

"Breathable," I reply.

"Good," Steve says. "Listen. Just got some pipes in with the latest shipment. The boat pilot barely batted an eye as he handed it over."

I smile. "That's good," I say. "Listen, about what we were talking about a couple days ago. I've been thinking about it some more, and . . . "

"Hey," Steve interrupts. "Me and the guys have been talking it over too, and we think it's actually doable. We've been passing messages back to someone on the Island who knows a bit about pressure vessels, and he's given us some pretty good ideas."

I nod, my heart skipping a beat. My mind hadn't stayed idle for long after I got to the Vineyard. I was a shootist, but I had no aptitude with a bow. There had to be a better way, I thought. My old Colt would outlast me, for sure, but gunpowder wasn't going to be easy to get. Especially once we burned through our stocks of the base materials, and had to venture out to find more.

And then it hit me. I had a talk with the men here. They were naturally suspicious of some tenderfoot from Nantucket who'd been a former Watchman to boot. In the end, though, the chance to one-up Nantucket had been too much to pass up. Especially now that we had Kevin Dumfries here, and had undertaken the delicate task of convincing him to put his connections to work.

"Good ideas," I finally say.

"Yeah," Steve replies. "I think, if you can supply us with some lockwork, we can come up with the bits needed to turn some compressed air into a lot of bang."

I grin. "Goddamn, that's good news," I say. The grin fades a moment later. I do know a thing or two about the lockwork of a gun. But that was from fitting and assembling parts. This would be something novel. Then again, it'd be like everything else on the Vineyard. Produced by the sweat of one's own brow. That was something to a man coming from a civilization where everything one needed was on the shelves of the local Wal-Mart. He was getting back to his roots, you might say.

"Got some paper," I ask. "I'm going to need your drafting table too. I've got an hour before I've got to go down to the Constabulary. I can, at least, get you a list of things I'll be needing."

[Shermpotter]

Very good, two little vignettes after the long wait! Loving this all over again!

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

And now, just like that, we're back to the main plot!

~~~

Editor's note: The following takes place on day 362, post-arrival . . .

Beast
I settled back, as best I could, and listened. To a great many things. In the room with me were Packer and the Old Man. The Old Man was laying it out for Packer, filling in some of the holes the other man undoubtedly had. The Old Man offered some pine tea, but Packer asked for a beer instead.

I frowned . . . beer . . . wouldn't that be nice? Nantucket had no shortage of moonshine. We even had a steadily dwindling supply of real booze and wine from back in the future. Beer? Not so much. Most of the fermentable grain we had went to moonshine. It kept longer, and, when distilled enough, alcohol was good for more than just easing the suffering of a band of lonely time-travelers.

I shook it off, running a hand through my hair, checking the tiny ear-bud in my ear. A wire snaked unobtrusively down the side of my neck, into my coat, and connected to my radio. There, was where the action was at.

"Does it hurt?"

Another frown. Packer had spoken. I took a moment to parse the words, and then dumbly replied: "Does what hurt?"

"Whatever's up your ass," Packer replied with a grin. "Come on, man, take a seat! You're making me nervous. You trying to drive me oobatz or something?"

Personally, I'd rather stand. Sitting down would stretch parts of my body that didn't really want to be stretched right now.

The Old Man cracked a more reserved smile of his own, then turned to look over his shoulder. "Constable, I think we're well-set for protection. Please."

Well, so much for what I wanted. That was an invitation spelled O-R-D-E-R. I sat carefully, feeling tight muscles protesting the new arrangement. I took the far end of the couch, suddenly realizing the wire was now on the far side of my neck to Packer. I eased back into the couch, quickly checking that the butt of my gun was facing forward . . . within easy reach.

"People are coming out of their homes, over."

"Roger that. How are you for manpower, over?"

"I think we've got it. I've got my boys setting up a perimeter. So far people look more curious and scared than angry. Over."

I felt myself incrementally relax. The mob wasn't here . . . not yet, anyway. The shock was still too great, but I knew it would wear off. Word was going to get to the wrong people, sooner or later. With that, my relaxation vanished again.

"Keep 'em that way," the voice seemed to echo my tension. "I'm going to see who I can scare up to replace you guys out on the streets. Over."

That was risky. I wasn't sure how many of the men at the old Coast Guard station could be trusted. I figured the Old Man and the top brass might've tried their best, given the Coast Guard station was Nantucket's front-line for facing us from Martha's Vineyard and the possible return of the Eagle . . . but you couldn't get everyone. Luck was a finite resource, and at the rate we were burning through it; I was expecting Peak Luck to come along any minute now . . . if we haven't already passed that point.

There was another burst of static, followed by a new voice.

"Patients just arrived at the hospital. One white male, aged" . . . static . . . "with a gunshot wound to the chest. Being prepped for emergency surgery. Will advise on updates, over."

"So that's Jorgensen? Over."

"10-4. Doctor's not optimistic about his chances. Over."

"The Old Man's not going to like that. And the suspects? Over."

"Three patients. One suffering a gunshot wound to the chest and a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He's in surgery. Another suffered a gunshot wound to the chest. He's critical, but stable . . . "

"Wait a fucking minute! You're telling me that some BG got into surgery before Jorgensen did?"

I blinked, sitting up a little straighter. I risked a glance over at Packer and the Old Man. If they noticed my change in expression, it didn't show. Neither of them were going to be happy when they got the news on Bill. But I was waiting on news of the last patient.

" . . . not the doctor. I don't make the decisions here. Over."

"Roger that," Was the reply after several seconds of dead-air. Distinctly unhappy, but calmer. "Last suspect? Over."

"Last patient is a white male with severe blunt trauma to the head. Unconscious and unresponsive to stimuli. He arrived at the hospital presenting a blown right pupil. They're waiting on the CT scan. Over."

Shit . . .

Fucker seemed important when we took him down. Blown pupil? Unresponsive to stimuli? With all the ugly ways that people could die on Nantucket, we Watchmen were tuned in to the signs of a brain injury. There were some medical procedures that had been left back in the future . . . basically, they were deciding whether or not it was worth the trouble of even trying to save our boy.

I took a deep breath. Our best chances of cracking this were all in the hospital. All of them were dying. To save them would condemn someone else to die, because treating them would further deplete our supply of modern medicine.

"Constable? A word?"

I jerked my head up, and my eyes met the Old Man's. I frowned, momentarily unaware of how much time had passed.

"Yes sir," I replied. I glanced at Packer. Already he was headed for the kitchen. I waited for him to walk through the door.

"You seemed distracted, Constable," the Old Man said, before I could speak.

"Yes sir," I replied. "Sorry, sir, I was keeping an ear on the radio traffic. Thought we might be in a tight spot."

"Prudent of you," the Old Man replied. "But my words were as much for your benefit, as a representative of Martha's Vineyard, as they were for Packer."

"I caught the gist of it, sir," I replied. "Jorgensen's being prepped for surgery. The doctor isn't optimistic about his chances, though."

"Bill Jorgensen's a strong man, Constable. He'll pull through. I believe that."

I nodded slowly.

"Don't tell Kaley," the Old Man added. "She has enough on her mind, right now, without worrying about what speculation the doctors have on her husband's condition."

"Aye, sir," I replied. "And we have three Volunteers at the hospital. None of them are in good shape. One of them got into surgery before Bill did, and another's waiting on surgery." I trailed off. Silence hung in the air between us.

"And what of the third one? And what of the Volunteer you and your partner captured?"

"He's the third one. He never woke up from that bashing over the head Dennis gave him . . . they're 'waiting on CT results' for him."

The Old Man nodded slowly, catching the quote-marks.

"I see," he finally said. "That may not matter, in the long run."

"Sir?"

"I will lay this out for Packer in a few minutes, but the Council has been allowed to make a mess of things for far too long. It's time for a change."

"You're going to remove the Council," I said, not quite believing what I was hearing.

"Yes, Constable. By now I expect my runner has woken Stark and appraised him of what I expect for him to do. You remember those midnight-oil Council sessions you used to stand guard over? I expect there's one going on right now. The Council will find themselves under house arrest by the time we get there. We'll have many Volunteers in custody. We'll take them to the hospital, and let them see their comrades. Show them that this isn't a goddamned game."

I furrowed my eyebrows at the outburst. I sat silently, thoughtfully.

"And if that doesn't break 'em?"

The Old Man smiled. It was an icy gesture, devoid of humor. It was an expression a predator might make. "We'll just have to play a bluff, then. We have enough circumstantial evidence to bring it all crashing down. But we will have to make them blink . . . incriminate themselves by their actions. Packer is the card that I will play to make them do just that."

I whistled. "Sounds like a dangerous game, sir. The kind that usually ends with a hole in someone's head, 'cause the guy across the table pulled a derringer from his boot."

"Very," the Old Man replied. "Ask yourself, Constable. What's more dangerous? The status quo, where Nantucket breeds and exports more, and more malcontent? Malcontent that will reach critical mass and wipe out everything in an orgy of revolutionary violence. Or cutting to the heart of the matter, beating the sharks at their own game, and sweeping them from the field before they can do more damage?"

"When you put it that way, sir," I replied, after several long moments of silence. "I think I'll take your card game over La Revolución."

The Old Man nodded. For a moment, we sat on that couch. The Old Man then pushed himself up.

"It's time we got going, Constable. Do you remember how to drive?"

I snorted once. "I've heard it's like riding a bicycle. Yeah, I think I can manage."

"Good," the Old Man replied. "I need to discuss my plans with Packer, and the Watchmen need to stay here and keep Packer's friends, or the Volunteers, from starting trouble. Do you remember where the Council chambers are?"

"Vaguely."

"Good enough. It won't help us to get there too soon anyway. If the Council has time to sit and wonder what we're planning, it will create an atmosphere where they're more likely to slip up and give us what we need."

"Alright, sir," I replied. "If I do remember . . . I'll try to take the scenic route."

[Kartr_Kana]

Dude cliffhanger so not cool!! Anyways this is getting intense I can't wait to see what you guys have cooked up for the next installment!

[StrikaAmaru]

With a mighty heave, I manage to get the compost pile turned over. I stab it with my pitchfork several times for good measure, and then I begin shoveling more on top of it. A melange of detritus goes onto the pile. Old newspaper, chipped wood, fibrous plant stalks . . . refuse of our gardening and planting duties. All of it soaking wet, and all of it covered in shit.

Did I mention that this smells really bad? Have I mentioned that if you muck around with damp, shit-filled, composting material long enough, you're liable to pick up some sort of infection? Yeah.

A sinus infection had laid me low for a couple of weeks. Half that time was because I'd passed it off as hay fever. The other half . . . well, the island's doc had taken a look up my nose and said it was the reddest he'd seen all week. He then called me a goddamned idiot for picking up an infection nearly a year since we'd come back from the future. There were no antibiotics to waste on a mere sinus infection, but he did give me a . . . what the hell was it called . . . a neti pot. Told me to flush my plumbing out with salt water, twice a day, and to breathe the steam from boiled mint and pine needles at night. Flush out the bad shit and hopefully give my body a chance to get on top of it. And he urged me to blow my nose more.

Hmmm, and I used to think I knew a thing or two about medieval farming, having done half my growing up in a barely-civilized village in the middle of nowhere.

But we never went through so much trouble with our dung; we'd just pile the manure, put weeds and ashes when we had them, and we'd leave them alone for at least a winter, if not a couple of years. Then we'd load it in carriages and spread it on a field. Apply plough. High-grade cernosiome kinda made itself.

Also, congrats about the ducks; they're adorable and useful, aren't they (though I wish they would shut up).

[Simon_Jester]

Hmmm, and I used to think I knew a thing or two about medieval farming, having done half my growing up in a barely-civilized village in the middle of nowhere.

But we never went through so much trouble with our dung; we'd just pile the manure, put weeds and ashes when we had them, and we'd leave them alone for at least a winter, if not a couple of years. Then we'd load it in carriages and spread it on a field. Apply plough. High-grade cernosiome kinda made itself.

That's what you get for learning too large a fraction of "how to farm" from overeducated hobbyists, and not enough from people with real life peasant experience. At some point people are going to start saying "Fuck it" and doing things in simpler ways that, in practice, work well enough. But there will be a lot of cases in the first year or two where people end up wasting time because their Idea Of How To Compost or whatever is too labor-intensive.

Remember that post by kh1 about mining gypsum from New Mexico, the one I wrote that letter in response to? That's an example. Sailing a thousand miles up the Rio Grande to find sulfur is way more labor-intensive and expensive than just ripping the wallboard out of houses. But kh1 suggested going to New Mexico first. Imagine that on a smaller scale, with the first thing people suggest being less efficient than the second thing they'd think of... but everyone is in such a hurry during the first year that they often go with the first solution rather than stop to think it through.

By the way, where was the village?