Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds (2 page)

It wasn’t so much the hard work – he was used to that. Labor and toil were a man’s role in life.

Nor was it the horrible wages or conditions. He knew he was one of the lucky ones. Two or three pounds of shrimp could feed his family for a day.

No, what really began to eat at José’s previously empathetic and lighthearted nature was the squalor of his surroundings. Every day, his path home took him through blocks lined with the burned-out shells of homes and businesses, rusting hulks of abandoned cars, weeds, trash, and decay.

His children played in filth, his oldest son already terrorized from straying too close to a building that crumbled and nearly buried the boy alive. There was never enough water to bathe or do laundry. Air conditioning and heat were luxuries from a time he could barely recall. Rodents and insects were unwelcome tenants in their personal space.

His family of 11 lived in three rooms, dug holes in a weedy lot for a makeshift bathroom, and washed up for meals using rain catch from an old tub in the backyard. Despite the passing of so many months, the city still reeked of melted plastic, human sewage, and rotting flesh. His wife’s hair, once filling his senses with its sweet perfume, carried the odor of cinder and cooking fires. The rare bar of soap was a gift from God above.

Before the reconstruction drew his attention, none of it seemed to matter. Sure, his environment wasn’t improving, but everyone else was suffering the same dilemmas. The sense of hopelessness was easy to digest because the entire world was cast into a similar struggle. Life was difficult for everyone, no matter how rich or poor before the apocalypse.

The appearance of the trucks had altered José’s line of thinking.

Evidently, the recovery had progressed far enough that extravagance and comfort were available for some, and that ate at what little sense of humanity he managed to preserve. 

Why did his family have to suffer and toil just to obtain the basics of survival when others were spoiled and overindulged? Why weren’t resources allocated to clean up the rot and debris? Or at least thin out the burgeoning rat population? Why wasn’t help arriving on his street?

Sitting on the hatch as the captain plied the channel, José realized that since the collapse, the only improvement in his life had been the occupation of a home that didn’t belong to him. Everything else, from the substandard food to the deplorable surroundings was the same, miserable existence.

His eyes drifted back to the gleaming glass and steel tower, memories of the sparkling pools and trash-free, manicured grounds filling his mind.
Now that would be a better life
, he thought.
Everyone’s attitude would improve. We would feel like we were making progress in this world instead of spinning our wheels in the same muck and mire.

Mr. Cunningham surveyed the glistening marble floors and the spotless, towering wall of glass that defined the lobby. The dark blue waters of the bay were just beyond, framed perfectly by the deep belt of green foliage that bordered the property.

Turning to the contract manager with a nod, he said, “Excellent job, sir. She looks as good as the day we had the grand opening. Your men and you are to be commended.”

“Thank you,” the smiling supervisor responded.

Cunningham reached for the briefcase at his feet, handing the locked container over to the man who would pay the construction crews. “The final installment.”

“Of course, sir,” the man nodded. “I look forward to working with you again.”

After watching the contractor walk away, Cunningham turned to one of his staff and quipped, “Ocean Towers is once again the prime address in all of Texas. Our first clients should be arriving in the morning. Please make sure everything is in order.”

“Yes, sir,” sounded the curt response as the two staffers hustled away, each apparently with several items on their lists of assigned duties.

After inspecting the placement of the expensive couches and chairs that composed the lobby’s common seating area, Cunningham turned and headed for his office. He, like the staff, had a series of items to be cleared from his itinerary before the residents were received.

A fleeting glimpse of two children prompted the facility manager’s head to snap toward the pool area, a look of disdain crossing his face. Hurrying to a nearby house phone, he called security with a quick punch of three buttons.

“This is Cunningham,” he barked once the call was answered. “We have trespassers by the outdoor pool. Please see to it that they are immediately removed from the premises.”

Not waiting for a response, he replaced the phone in its cradle and then strode with purpose to the location where he’d spied the tiny gatecrashers.

Two uniformed security men appeared a moment later, hustling around the clear, blue pool while heading toward one of the emergency stairwells.

Cunningham followed their gaze and spotted the heavy steel exit door closing behind two wet, scurrying youth.

“Why are they going inside?” he whispered, now both intrigued and annoyed.

With surprising speed, the Ocean Towers honcho jogged after his security detail, reaching the steps just as his employees sprinted onto the first landing. A moment later, he was taking the stairs two at a time, hot on the guards’ heels.

The children’s wet feet provided an excellent trail, finally exiting the concrete steps on the third floor. It was a little more difficult to follow their path along the plush carpeting. For the next clue, Cunningham and his two men only had to use their ears.

Unit 3C was clearly occupied, that fact confirmed by a woman’s voice shouting for the children to pick up their wet towels off the floor. “What the hell?” mumbled one of the security men.

Cunningham clenched his fist and rapped loudly on the door. “Facilities management,” he announced with authority.

The door cracked slightly, a Hispanic man peeking out through the opening. “May I help you?” José responded.

“Sir, this is a private facility,” Cunningham said politely. “You must leave immediately.”

“Why?” José responded. “We live here now.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” the building manager replied. “These units are privately owned. This specific apartment is the property of Mr. Harrington. Please, leave the unit straightaway before I am forced to call the authorities.”

“Mr. Harrington gave me this apartment,” José countered with a straight face. “I saved his life during the riots, and he said I could have this place as a reward.”

Cunningham was stunned, now wondering if the man on the other side of the threshold might actually be telling the truth. “Did he provide you with any sort of documentation? A deed? Bill of Sale? Even a letter?”

“No,” José responded with a shrug, continuing the deceit with an innocent face. “There really wasn’t time. He thanked me and said if I ever needed a place to live, I could go to Ocean Towers, Unit 3C. So now I’m here.”

After exchanging a frustrated look with the two security men, the building’s manager tried again. “But, sir, surely you must understand this is most unusual and very difficult for me to accept. This condominium cost Mr. Harrington over two million dollars…. That’s not something most men give away to complete strangers… heroics or not.”

“He said I could have it,” José answered, now growing angry. “We live here now. Please leave us alone, and stop scaring my children.”

With that, José closed and locked the door.

Cunningham stood aghast, staring at the entrance while his mouth moved without sound.

“Do you want us to throw them out?” one of the guards questioned.

“No… no, that won’t be necessary. I don’t want our organization to have a heavy-handed reputation in the community. Please drive to the police station and ask the authorities to remove them.”

Shrugging, the security man responded, “If you say so,” and then pivoted to execute his new assignment.

“I have a very bad feeling about this,” Cunningham mumbled, moving quickly to follow the guards.

Deputy Morgan had never been thrilled with his career in law enforcement before the world had gone to hell. Now, with no other option to feed his family, he thoroughly despised the occupation.

Not only had the rules changed, but the population as a whole was far more dangerous. Seldom, if ever, did the deputy have backup, handling the worst situations as a solo responder. His vocation now reminded the 34-year-old man of the old Westerns he watched as a kid.

Those flicks often featured a plot starring a lone marshal, perpetually outgunned, and receiving little support from the local citizens. Those old timers never knew who was going to ride into town and cause trouble. They didn’t have computerized background checks, instant access to criminal history, or a SWAT team to handle gangs of bank robbers, rustlers, and other vermin. They lived by instinct, common sense, and the speed of their gun hands. Somehow, however, the white hats always carried the day, at least by the time the credits rolled.

As he matured, Morgan developed an understanding of the difference between Hollywood productions and reality. While still entertaining, those old horse operas weren’t historically accurate or a fair representation of Western law enforcement. Little did he know that one day his beloved childhood fiction would so closely parallel his adult reality.

“At least those cowboys had rules to live by,” he mumbled. “Most of the time, I only have my own sense of right and wrong. The problem is, things are rarely black and white.”

Deputy Morgan had to admit that the situation described to him by the Ocean Towers security man was unusual, if not unique. Most of his days were spent keeping the local populace from killing, raping, and stealing from each other. This would be different.

The lawman had heard the gossip about Ocean Towers, rumors circulating that the former showpiece was being repaired and refurbished. It had been just one of a dozen signs of hope that had occurred in the area since the Alliance had taken control. Now, the harbinger of recovery was turning into a bad state of affairs.

From a trusted source, the deputy had learned that 50% of the state’s population had perished during the downfall. Several months ago, a man in uniform appeared at his door, asking Morgan to rejoin the newly formed law enforcement department being organized around Corpus. No one had mentioned that the force would be less than a tenth of its original size. Half of the people being policed by 10% of the officers was a formula that equaled a lot of dead badges.

Unlike before, there was little organization, few rules, and no hierarchy of command to fall back on. District attorneys no longer existed. Instead of a sergeant, captain, and county sheriff for support and guidance, Morgan often found himself making complex decisions without any sounding board of advice or a superior’s experience.

In his decade of law enforcement before the apocalypse, Morgan had only ever drawn his weapon once in anger. Now, his holster’s leather was well-worn.

Yet there were few other career opportunities available, and a man had to eat.

His occupation, however, did offer some rewards.

The deputy fully understood that they were all going to have to do their part if society was ever to recover. Those who carried a badge and gun were no exception, and in Morgan’s opinion, were actually playing a more critical role than most. His job was to keep the public from tearing itself apart until the Alliance programs bore fruit and improved the average Joe Nobody’s life.

The fact that someone was allocating money into private property like Ocean Towers was nothing short of uplifting. While Morgan didn’t know who the investors were, their optimism was refreshing. On the other hand, the deputy’s days were filled with visions of suffering, desperation, and encounters with a citizenry facing a substandard lifestyle. If resources were available, couldn’t they be better utilized for the greater good of the whole community?

Pulling into the parking lot of the luxury address, Morgan was impressed. While he hadn’t visited the mid-rise since the collapse, it was obvious that someone had poured a great amount of effort in cleaning the place up. It was the first pavement he’d seen in years that was free of litter, rubble, and overgrowth.