The Alpha Chronicles (13 page)

Bishop stopped mid-stride, facing her with a smirk. “Now I know I’m in trouble. You’ve been talking politics with the Colonel?”

Terri laughed, tugging his arm to continue their stroll. “You know I’m doing this just to understand, don’t you?
I need to make sense of why Wayne and Senator Moreland acted the way they did. I need to have an understanding of what prompted all that happened.”

Bishop’s voice was serious when he responded. “The man who kidnapped you did what he did out of a lust for power. I don’t think
it’s any more complex than that.”

“But what motivates that thinking, and how do we a
void it? How do we keep from repeating the same mistakes again and again?”

Bishop made a pistol out of his good hand and fired a pretend round in the air. “Revolution is the only cure I know of.”

“Revolution isn’t a cure; it’s a reset,” Terri retorted. “If you follow the Colonel’s logic, revolution only makes the societal pie a bit smaller, and thus the hunger for power is downsized to match the size of the pie.”

Half playing, half-serious, Bishop snorted, “Still – the job gets done.”

“And a lot of people die. And a lot of destruction takes place.”

“I’m not a radical, Terri. You know that. Even when things were at their worse, you didn’t see me spouting off about armed revolt. Still, my experience has been that once men taste that ultimate power, you’ll not stop them, short of forcefully taking it away.”

The couple continued walking, Terri musing over Bishop’s point of view. Finally, she offered, “The Colonel believes you can only control the problem by limiting the size of any single man’s influence. He said that’s why state’s rights were such an important part of the founding father’s thinking.

Bishop paused, his gaze intense. “Well, I’m certainly not as educated as the Colonel. I don’t have the benefit of formal teachings or scholarly influences, but I can tell you one thing that is fact. Power…
corruptive power… requires an enemy. For it to feed freely and proliferate unchecked, there must be some overt threat. Power bathes gloriously in the limelight of fear.”

“Why? Because the fear distracts the people – diverts their attention from the power snatchers?”

“No. Because people do crazy, stupid shit when they’re scared or threatened. They give over control of themselves to some politician or king in order to win or survive.”

“So how do you stop what
the Colonel calls ‘the beast?’”

“You can’t stop it, you can only control it…
minimize it.”

“Okay, then how do you
control
the beast?”

“Control
fear, and you limit the power others have over you.”

Alpha, Texas

January 18,
2016

Piles of paper ballots covered the large folding tables scattered throughout the main courtroom. Volunteers hustled here and there, some with clipboards, others carrying laptop computers glowing with spreadsheet software on their displays.

Originally, the jury box had been reserved for the candidates, the elevated seating chosen for its superior vantage to observe and validate the counting process. Diana had been insistent that anyone running for office be present
to witness the ballot count. She didn’t want any notion of cheating or favoritism – any conspiracy undermining the effort to organize Alpha’s first post-collapse election. Yet, as the count progressed, the comfortable jury seating remained mostly unoccupied. The polished oak rails bordering the 13 leather chairs were apparently too restrictive for the restless legs of anxious citizens who had thrown their hats into the ring.

Diana, despite running unopposed, hustled around in a whirlwind of nervous activity. While the voting had proceeded without issue, coordinating the final tally of over 2,000 paper ballots was a significant
undertaking. By mid-evening, every available flat surface was littered with coffee cups, computer cords, dull pencils, and tally sheets.

The voters of Alpha had been invited to witness the proceedings as well. Every row of benches in the cavernous room
filled to capacity, and most of the walls were lined with a standing room only crowd. A polite, but constant murmur arose from the onlookers, a nervous bout of laughter punctuating the air every now and then.

It was 8:37 p.m.
when the final spreadsheet was printed out. Five minutes later, Diana set down her marker and picked up a stack of poster-sized cardboard signs, neat rows and columns of names and numbers handwritten on their surface.

Without making eye contact with anyone, the deacon marched down the center aisle of the courtroom, closely followed by Nick, who held a large
roll of duct tape in his hand. The throng of gathered citizens made an opening for Diana to pass, eager eyes trying to steal a peek at the results tucked under her arm.

The main lobby of the courthouse was also full of people milling about, in anxious anticipation of the election results.     

Nick’s height came in handy, his arms stretching high to adhere the poster where the crowd could read the results. As the gathering converged to get a closer look at the tally, the former Green Beret had no problem clearing the way for Diana so she could continue mounting her other signs.

When they hung the second poster, Diana leaned in close to Nick and whispered, “I hope we don’t have any sore losers. It would be a shame for this election to cause a divide and set this recovery back.”

“I think you’re worried about nothing. Most of the folks who ran for office did so with hesitation. I mean, who has the time to grow food, take care of a family, and help run the town? I would bet most of them will be relieved not to have to worry about it.”

Pete’s Place was the hub of activity for Alpha’s smaller neighbor to the east. The election in Meraton had been a far simpler affair, given there were only a few hundred residents in the entire town. A mere three unopposed candidates were on the ballot, two for the council and one for the mayor, Pete.

No one even bothered to post the predetermined results.

Still, a spirit of community and participation filled the air, some of the joy directly attributed to the free moonshine being distributed from the bar – after the polls had closed, of course.

Pete was in a fine mood despite having endured three days of relentless teasing. After
being begged by just about everyone in town to put his name on the ballot, the bartender had been on the receiving end of constant, good-natured ribbing.

The restricted scale and obvious outcome didn’t diminish the importance of the event. There wasn’t a single person in Meraton who didn’t appreciate Pete’s initiative to hold an election. The fact that he didn’t consider his post a foregone conclusion wasn’t lost on the fledgling community.

Always the conscientious civil servant, Pete started making coffee when celebratory pistol shots rang out, the post-election revelers on Main Street firing into the air. The mayor-elect shook his head as he closed the tap, commenting to a nearby patron that wasting ammo in this day and age simply wasn’t proper civic policy.

Unlike Meraton, Alpha’s celebration of democracy was far more formalized and much quieter. Winners and losers alike were greeted and congratulated by the crowd that swelled in the street outside of the courthouse. Promises of “I’ll do my best,” and “I will need your support,” filled the air.

Diana made the obligatory rounds, shaking hands, exchanging hugs, and kissing cheeks. Like Meraton, not a single soul missed the point that she had organized and been the driving force behind the resurrection of the election process.

The simple act of casting a vote…
of having a choice… of participating in the future was an uplifting experience by all involved. As Diana worked the crowd, she noticed folks’ chins were raised, eyes were brighter, and smiles flashed just a little bit wider.

After finishing the tour, the deacon turned to Nick and Kevin. “I’m done. I’m tired to the bone and just want to sleep for a week. Will you escort me back to my castle, kind sirs?”

Nick bowed at the waist, “Yes, my liege.”

Swatting his shoulder, Diana protested, “Now stop that!”

Kevin, joining the joke, bowed as well. “Your wish is my command, Your Majesty.”

“I’m going to order both of you thrown in the dungeon if you don’t knock it off.
Of course, I’d have to build one first,” she snickered.

Grinning widely, Nick swept his arm in front of the town’s
mayor-elect. “As you wish, my lady.”

Beltran Ranch, West Texas

January 22,
2016

The plank-board fence surrounding the corral was serving double duty this evening. In addition to its obvious function of livestock control, it was also supporting one Mr. Carlos Beltran. One of the elder rancher’s dusty, worn boots rested on the lowest cross member while his arm sought comfort in its familiar and time-worn position, draped casually along the top rail.

The rancher’s gaze was focused on nothing special, his eyes fixed on a point in space somewhere between the black foothills of the Glass Mountains to the west and the sun that was about to drop behind them. The dirty, weather-faded Stetson protecting his head rested in a way that announced it wasn’t a decoration. The rings of sweat salt, frayed edges, and tired looking brim declared it was an essential piece of equipment, as important as a rope or gloves.

Mr. Beltran stood motionless, an island of stoic calm surrounded by a riot of swirling flesh, baying animals, and shouting men. The corral was filling rapidly with longhorn cattle, hundreds of the huge beasts being funneled into the fence’s confines by harassing cowboys and their nimble footed steeds.

As the last of the herd was driven in, a single horseman galloped toward the ranch’s owner. The rider pulled up short, dismounted gracefully, and approached his boss. A few steps away, the large-framed, wiry cowboy moved his hat to his midsection as a sign of respect. “Count’s all done, Mr. Beltran. We’re nine head short.”

Carlos didn’t immediately acknowledge the report, his gaze drawn to the ocean of bovine flesh circling in the corral. “They’re thin, Mack. Awful thin. Before long we won’t have anything but bones, hide, and hooves.”

“Yes, suh. They’re moving slow too, Mr. Beltran - there’s no fight in ’em.”

The older man regarded his spread, head moving slowly from right to left as if he were taking it all in for the first time. In reality, he was thinking about his ancestors and the tribulations that always managed to plague this land. It seemed that every generation of his family faced a test, some challenge delivered by man or nature, sometimes both. Now his ranch was facing yet another trial for survival.

A Beltran had ramrodded this 180,000-acre outfit since before the American Revolution. Originally migrating north from Mexico, no one in the family knew for sure why they had relocated. While some ventured it was the lure of unclaimed range, others believed it was to escape oppression at home. A few inside jokes speculated that criminal escapades had resulted in a hasty trip northward. The true reason was long lost in the memories of seven generations that had lived and died on the property - the truth buried in the family graveyard that resided just over half a mile from where Carlos stood. It didn’t matter. The clan was here
… and here to stay.

Whatever had driven his forefathers to settle in West Texas must have been an extreme motivator. The arid, high desert range was a harsh, unforgiving land. Even the
southern Comanche Nation that dominated central Texas at the time didn’t settle the area. While Carlos’ grandfather had shared riveting, fireside tales of painted warriors and desperate gun battles, in truth the larger Indian settlements were miles to the north where the terrain was far more hospitable. Still, there was no doubt about the occasional raiding party trying to push the settlers out, sometimes coming frightfully close to succeeding.

Water was scarce here, and the sandy soil supported little vegetation. The summers were blistering hot, and the winters bone numbing cold. Perhaps the reason why the land had been unclaimed had something to do with it
s being practically worthless. On days like today, Carlos wondered if it were cursed.

“Mr. Beltran, do you want me to fetch the doc?”

Carlos knew the foreman meant the ranch’s resident veterinarian. The animal doctor had lived in one of the spread’s secondary haciendas for over 30 years, a necessary investment for an outfit the size of the Beltran operation.

“Naw, Mack. I don’t think that’s necessary. Any fool can see they’re just not getting enough to eat. I don’t think the doc has any grain stashed away. Besides, isn’t Jobo’s wife in labor?”

“Yes, suh, she was last I heard. I hope this one is easier than the last.”

Relieved at the change of subject, the old man smiled. “What’s this…
his fifth?”

The foreman shook his head with a sly grin. “You would’ve thought Jobo and the missus would have figured out what was causing that by now. I just hope this little one pops out all proper like. Jobo wasn’t worth a shit for a week after that last birth went haywire.”

The old rancher nodded, recalling the bottle of his best whisky Doc had consumed after having performed an emergency C-section on a human female. Mr. Beltran smiled, remembering the man’s shaking hands and shortness of breath after the procedure. While it was all part of life on a remote ranch, a fifth of strong medicine had been required to settle the reluctant physician that day. He might be a vet, but over the years, he’d been forced to work on his share of two-legged animals as well.

“Mack, there’s no choice but to cull this herd. Without outside grain deliveries, our land just won’t support this number of head. What I’m worried about is losing all of them before spring. They’re weak now, and one strong virus could spread like wildfire, maybe kill every last animal.”

Mack nodded his understanding, but offered no comment. His confidence in the boss was supreme, especially when it came to livestock. No one in West Texas knew more about cattle. It was common wisdom that a wise man neither ignored, nor argued with Mr. Carlos Beltran when it came to beef on the hoof.

“Did you find the nine missing carcasses?”

“No, suh. We only found one, and the turkey vultures are now fatter than our steers.”

The foreman’s response drew a sharp look from the boss. “Only one?”

“Yes, suh. I can’t claim we searched every last square foot on the north range, but I don’t think we missed any dead animals. The vultures circling overhead make them easy to find. For sure we didn’t overlook eight live ones.”

The old cattleman’s spine stiffened at the statement. For the first time in the conversation, Mack felt the withering, direct focus of Mr. Beltran’s gaze. “Any sign of the rustlers?”

“Yes, suh. Two of the boys surprised them, but the poachers made off before our men laid eyes on them. It has to be the same crew that hit us last week. They’re using trucks and know what they’re doing. They also used explosives to drop the south wall of the Rio canyon. We were almost underneath the demolition. I had one man hurt, but not bad.”

“They took six animals last week, eight more now. That’s not just some wandering desperados. It would take 100 people to eat that much beef, even the skin and bone kind like these.”

“Do you want me to assign some men to watch the herd when we drive them back to the range?”

The question was a valid one. Someone was stealing Beltran property, and a lot of it. Normally such an act would be akin to declaring war and result in armed cowboys searching for the culprits. Law enforcement was thin in this part of the country, and most of the large ranches depended on their own men for protection. When the rare trouble did arise in West Texas, the sheriff was summoned - but no one counted on a deputy arriving quickly.

Not long ago, even a hint of rustling would have been cause to hunt down the perpetrators. Now that the world had gone to hell, Carlos hesitated.

“Mack, in a way those poachers are doing us a favor. We can’t eat all the beef ourselves.”

The ranch hand nodded. “Still don’t sit right with me, Mr. Beltran. If this pace keeps up, we won’t have to worry about culling the herd; there won’t be anything left.”

The older man looked at the disappearing sun and motioned for his employee to follow. “Walk back to the big house with me, Mack. I want you to show me on the map exactly where you found the dead animal and what ground you covered.”

The two men made their way through the core of the Beltran Ranch, ambling past an assortment of outbuildings, homes, sheds, and other small structures. Over 60 people lived on the property, their residences scattered around the original homestead. Manufactured homes, house trailers, stick-built bungalows, and adobe bunkhouses provided shelter for the workforce. More than a dozen barns, workshops, stables, and offices rounded out what was essentially a small, privately owned village.

Many of the residents had been born on the property, some being third generation employees of the Beltran family. Like any small community, people married, reared children, and formed a close-knit society. Any man was welcome to leave the employment of Mr. Beltran, but few did. There was one
exception – those serving in the armed forces of the United States. Almost every able-bodied male and most of the females served. It was a proud tradition, as well as a chance to grasp a different view of the world.

The pair continued their progress through the central lane until they approached the big house. While Mr. Beltran and his family maintained private quarters inside the structure, the building served an additional purpose. The ranch’s main offices for accounting, sales, procurement, and family services were all located within. Buyers from the Fort Worth stockyards would conduct their business there as well. Millions of dollars of fuel, food, equipment, and machinery were purchased within its walls. Merchants and breeders alike sampled the West Texas hospitality extended amid her upscale, eclectic farmhouse setting.

Kicking the dust from their work boots, Mr. Beltran and Mack entered the premises via the main entrance in front. Only the ranch’s owner and his immediate family used the private side door. A reception area welcomed the two men, adorned with the same phone system, guest chairs, and office equipment that would greet visitors to almost any corporation in the world.

The pair headed immediately for a conference room just a few doors down. The hallway was lined with portraits of the ranch’s previous masters. The early generations of Beltran men were depicted on oil painted canvasses, while their descendants posed for photographs. Mack pushed open the double doors that led to what everyone called “the boardroom,” a chamber dominated by a large table of polished red maple, surrounded by high back leather chairs. A speakerphone, video projector, and crystal serving set resided on the glossy surface.

All four walls resonated with purpose - to educate the visitor of the scope, heritage, and mission of the Beltran Ranch. One wall was virtually eclipsed by an oversized, comprehensive map of the property. The opposite side of the room was filled with a pictorial history of the ranch, including antique tintypes and cabinet card photos, as well as faded black and whites from the mid-20
th
century, and a few larger, more recent pictures that captured the past in full color. Another surface was covered in military memorabilia belonging to those who served both the United States and the Confederacy.

While Mr. Beltran poured himself a glass of tea, Mack couldn’t refuse himself a curious glance at his own image on the wall of honor. It wasn’t much - a poor snapshot taken years ago - his graduation from Army Ranger School at Fort Benning. He could still remember every vivid detail of that day so long ago. He had been so proud and yet so tired. The two deployments to Iraq that followed had dulled his ego, but not his weariness.

His grainy portrait hung directly below another that he had studied several times. A young Corporal Carlos Beltran stood shirtless with flak jacket and M16 rifle, the vegetation of a remote Vietnamese jungle providing the backdrop. 

“It was 103 that day,” the boss’ voice sounded over his shoulder. “I think the humidity was over 90%. You couldn’t tie your bootlaces without busting a sweat. That picture was taken about a month before we lost Jonesy.”

“That war sucked,” was Mack’s only comment.

“They all suck! And I was so full of bullshit pride and worthless patriotism, going to defend the honor of the United States of America.” Mr. Beltran paused, the memories flooding his mind. “You know as well as I do,
all that BS means nothing. It wasn’t long before all I cared about was the men serving next to me. It wasn’t flag, or God, or country. It was the 18-year-old kid trekking through the rainforest with me. The grunt eating dirt and drinking in lungs full of cordite smoke. He’s what mattered… and nothing else.”

Mack turned and faced his mentor, nodding. “Yes, suh, I do understand.”

“It’s just like the ranch,” the boss continued. “All that matters is the people here. If we don’t take care of each other, no one will. Nobody will give a shit. There won’t be any rescue or miracle; we’re responsible for our own survival.”

Mack nodded his agreement and watched as Mr. Beltran turned and stared back at the big map. The foreman wasted no time and moved to point at a spot on the northeast boundary of the property. “Here,” he announced. “We found the herd grazing in this region. The one carcass was in the same general area.”

The old rancher rubbed his chin, studying the depicted area. Mack moved out of the way, as Mr. Beltran raised his arm. There’s only one way in and out of that section. I think we’ve solved our mystery. Someone from Fort Stockdale is using my herd for a grocery store.”

Mack followed Mr. Beltran’s finger and raised his eyebrows. “That would make sense, suh. We’ve not heard much from up that way for months. Anyone left in the town has to be getting desperate. What do you want to do?”