White Wasteland, Jeff Kirkham [ebook reader with highlight function TXT] 📗

The stalk lifted up and leafed out. It brightened his soul, filled him with ballast, buoyed him, and rooted him to a better, wiser version of himself.

In the mute light of winter, some new ghost inflated his heart with peace and shining green life. Somewhere, in some universe, the norseman smiled. Jeff found himself speaking, rebuking the silence in the conference room.

“No, Jason. That’s not what’s going to happen. In fact, you’re done here.” Jeff looked up at Jason Ross, then locked eyes with each person in the room. “This committee is disbanded and I am in charge of the Homestead until further notice.”

The air turned to ice water.

“You can’t just say those magic words and make it so,” Jason raved. “Do you think you can just take everything I own? How the fuck do you propose to do that??”

Jeff drew his Glock and laid it on the table with his hand around the grip.

“Any way I must.”

Jeff stared at Jason Ross with iron eyes. Jeff remained seated. Jason hovered over the table, his handgun holstered on his hip. The two men glared at one another, waiting on the machinery of passion to run. The energy of its springs clicked and ground toward a final, perilous stop.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jeff spoke, not really knowing what he would say next. “Jacquelyn, Jenna and anyone who had anything to do with this will be restricted to the orphan home for the next month, until we’re sure the flu is contained. We’ll take them food and supplies as needed.”

Jeff was certain he could beat Ross if it came to a quick-draw. Ross still hadn’t drawn and Jeff had practiced shooting from a seated position hundreds of times. Ross would telegraph a move to his gun by shifting his weight, and that’d give Jeff the time he needed to lift his gun off the table, aim and shoot. While he spoke, a program in the back of Jeff’s mind had been running through the mechanics of the looming gunfight.

My butt slides down the chair to maximize cover of the heavy table.

My right hand lifts the gun.

My left hand reaches forward to support it.

My right finger presses the trigger.

Three shots, center mass.

I swivel to engage other targets, if Old Man Ross or Donald Ross reach for their sidearms.

Jeff glanced at Burke and then Donald, gauging them. Both appeared more relieved than angry. Jeff flicked his gaze back to Jason.

“You are no longer leader of the Homestead. If you’re going to fight me on this, I’ll either send you out the gates or shoot you.” Jeff projected total resolve. While he didn’t know quite what he was doing—flying by the seat of his pants and taking orders from a feeling and a dream—nobody else in the room could be allowed to know that.

Menacingly, Jason Ross leaned toward Jeff over the table. It looked to everyone like an aggressive stance, with Jason towering over Jeff. But the added fraction of a second it would cost Ross to roll his weight back on his heels to free his hands made it ideal for Jeff. That millisecond would give him an eternity of options.

Jason’s eyes dodged left and right, gathering information. His rage hadn’t totally obliterated his intellect, apparently. He wanted to know where everyone else would shake out in a fight—he looked for allies.

Jeff saw it click in Jason’s eyes the moment he realized he couldn’t win; the instant he realized that towering over Jeff had made it impossible for him to get to his gun. Nobody had made a move to come to Ross’ rescue. Everyone was probably still flummoxed from Jason condemning his own wife to death. How could anyone leap to his side after that?

“This isn’t over, Kirkham,” Jason seethed. He slowly rolled his weight back onto his heels and picked up his hands from the table. The left hand reached for the back of his head, as if to scratch an itch. Jeff glued his eyes to the right hand. It wavered in front of the right hip, as though making up its own mind.

At last, the hand rested on the hip bone, three inches from his gun. Jason kept talking. “You can’t just tell us how it’s going to be. You need us to feed your family and tend to your wounds. The Homestead is way past military rule. This isn’t over,” Ross repeated himself.

Then he walked around the table, opposite Jeff, and threaded his way out of the office. He didn’t even glance at his wife.

The man was far from defeated, Jeff reminded himself, but this first skirmish was won.

Jeff let his grip on the Glock relax. He spoke to the remaining men and women. “I’ll decide later what to do with the children at the orphanage and whether we can or should take on more. Please go back to your rooms or your jobs.” Jeff stood and most of the room followed suit.

The former committee drifted toward the door, too lost in shock to talk among themselves.

12

Shortwave Radio 7150kHz 4:00pm

“JT Taylor here, Alcoholic of the Apocalypse. I don’t feel like being funny today. They cut me off because they needed my booze for antiseptic.

The flu is back in a ‘second wave’ which is kinda like finding out you won the lottery only to discover that they’re paying you in pesos. ‘You won a hundred million pesos, amigo! That’s nine dollars!’

Sorry. I’m in a bad mood.

Zach Attack, our trusty ham radio sidekick, has the new-and-improved flu and he’s laid up hard. So, if you believe in the big field medic in the sky, give a shout out for Zach. He could use it.

I’m hearing nothing right now from Europe. Either the cloud cover is jacking with our signal propagation or the land of croissants and wine is now the land of falafel and tea.

On the bright side of the news, they’ve re-opened Disneyland in California and tickets are cheap… The Magic Kingdom’s actually Crip Central, with gangs camping