SHEDDING BOUNDARIES: an EMP survival story (The Hidden Survivor Book 4) Read online

  Shedding Boundaries

  An EMP Survival Story

  Connor Mccoy

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter One

  Chantal sat at the conference table, with Arthur and Xander across from her. Her beloved Koupe Tribinal was floundering over the life of one man. That the five people awaiting sentencing so easily could shake the foundation of her work was astonishing. Xander was shouting at Arthur, but he wasn’t listening to the words. How can one small group of people cause such dissension?

  Xander came in from the court in such a rage that he threw his precious mask down on the table without a thought. He slammed a fist into the table and yelled in his fury. This did not bother Chantal. Xander loved drama and violence. He lived and breathed anger. If he ever were to become quiet, then she would worry.

  But Arthur was another matter. His usual calm had transformed into a desperate animation that was making her uneasy. He argued with Xander regularly, it almost was as though his entire purpose on the court was to keep Xander in check. But this argument was fierce and personal. Arthur was questioning the validity of the court.

  “Damn it, Chantal!” Arthur was raging now, angrier than even Xander. “If we kill these people for saving a man’s life, we are worse than no law at all. Do you know what they spend their days doing? Healing people who can’t pay them. Working for fruit, fishing hooks, and old books, or nothing at all. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “The fact that they work for nothing does not absolve them of their crime, Arthur,” she said. “They still must be punished.”

  “But that’s just it,” he rose halfway out of his chair and brought his fist down on the table. “They didn’t commit this crime. One of them did, assuming one of them is actually Melvin Foles. We would kill five people who bring value to this city because one of them defied us? But he or she defied us while honoring a vow taken to help all people and do no harm.” He took a breath. “Do we even know for sure that Melvin Foles knew we had condemned the man he had healed? Have we asked that question?”

  “Yes, we asked that question,” Xander thundered. “And the answer is that everyone who knew of this man knew he was condemned to die. He told everyone he came in contact with. So, if Melvin Foles didn’t know before, he knew upon meeting this man that he would die at the hands of an enforcer. Melvin Foles helped him, despite our orders.”

  “There is still the matter of their Hippocratic oath,” Arthur argued. “They vow to do no harm. Leaving him to heal on his own would have been harmful. Don’t you see? We need people of honor and commitment in this city. People who are willing to live and die by an ideal of goodness and selflessness. In killing these people, we are killing the very people we need to save.”

  “We have more people than we need in this city, of all types,” Xander said. “Five people, even five productive people of honor, will make no difference in the grand scheme of things. Except to lighten the load on the city’s resources. Necessary resources that none of us can live without.”

  “Point taken, Xander,” Chantal said. There were so many factors to weigh. She felt tired from the stress of it all. Since when did it take hours to decide if a man or even a group of people should die or not? It used to be the decision of a moment. The flip of a coin.

  This thought gave Chantal pause. She could flip a coin. The winner won the argument and the loser lost. She thought about this for a moment. She wouldn’t have to tell either of them that is what she had done. All they would know was that she had made a decision and the argument would be over. It was tempting.

  But no. The life of a man should not be decided by the flip of a coin. Even if she was exhausted. She turned to Xander, “What harm is there in assessing the potential usefulness of these people?” she asked. To Arthur, she said, “And who do you propose to determine the usefulness of these people?”

  Xander said, “The harm is to our reputation. If the people see that we allow this man to live, these people to flaunt the law laid down by the Koupe Tribinal, then they no longer will believe in our absolute power.”

  “We established our power once, could we not do that again?” she asked.

  “It would be better not to lose it in the first place,” he grumbled.

  Arthur said, “I would spend a week studying these people. I would decide if their actions merit mercy.”

  “You would decide?” Xander asked. “What gives you the right to decide?”

  “If that bothers you, Xander, then I would bring my finding to Chantal, and she would decide.”

  “We will have a vote,” Chantal said, “now or later. One person does not rule.”

  “Vote then,” Xander said. “I vote for death.”

  “I vote for the chance at life,” Arthur said.

  Chantal was quiet for a full minute. Finally, she said, “I vote to allow Arthur to test his theory. You will watch them for seven days, Arthur, and then come to me. But before we go back out to the court, I need something from each of you. Something that symbolizes your loyalty to the Tribinal. Think about it. Go find the thing, and then bring it to me. I will be in my chambers.”

  She rose and left the room, returning up the stairs to her own chamber, where she could rest and reflect. She had no need of the objects she had asked for, she had requested them so she would have time to herself. The smell of blood in the court had nauseated her. It rose above the scent of fresh cedar, clogging her nostrils and gagging her. When had barbarism become acceptable?

  Yes, a man had been beheaded in the room a few short days ago, but why had the blood not been removed? Not by her order. That left Xander or perhaps one of the lesser judges. Arthur would not order a pool of blood be left to rot in their most sacred of chambers.

  The more she thought about it, the more she decided that it must have been Xander. He loved psychological bullshit. Scare their prisoners into gibbering idiots before their trials even started. No wonder the enforcers had taken to wearing tribal scarves across their faces.

  She hoped it would take both men a long time to find the items she’d asked for. She cracked a window to let fresh air waft in and remove the smell of blood from her nostrils. That smell followed her everywhere. She rummaged in a drawer and found a sachet of lavender and set that on her table. Her head was heavy, and she rested it on the table next to the sachet.

  The lavender smell reminded her of her mother. When Chantal was little, her mother made sachets to sell in stores. The house smelled of flowers and herbs, but Chantal’s favorite always had been the lavender. She would help in the drying room, sweeping up the stray petals that inevitably would fall to the floor. Then she’d wrap the discarded petals in little pieces of cloth or paper towels and carry them to her room.

  The warm summer sun would help release the scent of the flowers, and her room would smell like paradise. Until one summer when a man came and evicted them from their house, throwing their possessions into the street and scattering the sachets to the winds.

  Her mother cried with anger and frustration. They’d paid the rent. They’d been go
od tenants, but that hadn’t mattered. A businessman had offered good money for the house, and it was no longer their home. They’d gathered their belongings and gone to stay a while with Chantal’s grandmother.

  But there wasn’t room at grandmother’s for drying racks and fabric for making sachets. Her mother had to go out into town to work, leaving Chantal to spend her days with her grandmother and her uncles. The beautiful smells disappeared from her life, except for the few discarded sachets she’d been able to recover and hide in her pillow. Reminders of the mother she saw less and less.

  She’d learned later her mother had taken second and third jobs, trying to make enough money so they could move into their own home again. It never happened. She just could not make enough money to support herself and her daughter. And after a while, she’d stopped smiling as well. It broke Chantal’s heart to think of it.

  It was that experience of powerlessness that drove Chantal to law. When America’s legal system broke down, Chantal created her own. A brutal regime the bullies and outlaws would understand, and the powerless would appreciate. But it was wearing her out. She always was having to balance brutality and compassion and keep them from killing each other.

  Xander and Arthur, with her they made the three most potent arbitrators on the Tribinal, but the men continually were vying for more power. Arthur as Compassion believed he had the moral high ground, and Xander as Brutality had no doubt a force that would crush the opposition every time. They irritated her, but she needed them. Without them standing behind her she would be vulnerable, a single woman at the head of the Tribinal? Alone she would have been a target for anyone who saw themselves at the top of the pyramid.

  She needed Arthur and Xander, but she resented her need for them. She longed for a day when she could hear someone’s account of themselves and then point her finger, “Death,” “Dismemberment,” “Life,” with none of the endless debates and arguments. It was all too slow and showed none of the power of instant decision.

  The temptation was to drift into sleep, but she got up and paced the room instead. It would be seen as weakness if they came back and found her napping. She knew the balance was precarious, it could tip in their favor at the slightest misstep. She walked into the passageway and looked through the small window that overlooked the court. The five were sitting on the floor, talking, the guards having stepped to the back of the room.

  Ah, food. One of the women had brought in lunch. She watched to see if they would feed the prisoners, but they did not. Just brought them water to share. She would not have objected if they had been fed, but she always left that to the workers. The enforcers and the women. Sometimes they offered their charges food, sometimes they did not. She did not know what the criteria were.

  Maybe she should find out. She passed down the hall and took the staircase to the first floor where the kitchen was. She walked in to find a lively conversation taking place around the table. But she never discovered what they were talking about because the moment she stepped foot in the room silence descended and those women who were sitting pushed back from the table and stood up.

  The table was littered with the remains of their meal, along with preparations for the next. A pile of string beans sat half-snapped, chicken breasts waited to be pounded, a basket of apples was half-peeled. A young woman wore rubber gloves, soapy water dripping water onto the floor. She’d been washing dishes, and they all, a dozen or so women, stood as if stone, watching her.

  A woman with a head of white curls bustled forward, pushing the younger women out of the way. She was the cook, the master of the kitchen and the woman who managed the house. Chantal smiled at her, but no smile answered.

  “Is something wrong, Justice?” Worry creased her face.

  “No, Cook, there is nothing wrong. I came to ask a question.” Chantal tried another smile, but again none was forthcoming.

  “Is there some dish you would like, or a drink?” Cook gestured to one of the young girls. “Bring the Justice some water.”

  “No. I’m fine.” This was going to be more frustrating than she’d anticipated. She’d grown up with women like this. They had no reason to be intimidated. “I was wondering how you decide to feed the prisoners.

  “Would you like me to feed them? We can arrange that.” She put a hand up, ready to command her troops.

  “No. You misunderstand me. I wish to know how you make the decision to feed them or not to feed them.” Could she be any clearer?

  “Have we mistaken our place?” Cook asked.

  “No, but you will make me very cross if you continue to avoid the question. What are the criteria? How do you decide if a particular prisoner should be fed or not?” Chantal asked again.

  “If I think they will live, I feed them. If I think they will not, I do not. It’s simple expedience. We are the ones to clean up after those souls who perish here. An empty stomach makes less of a mess. You have five accused in the court today. I’m of the opinion that one of them will die, but I don’t know which one. So I starve them all to save myself a bit of work. Not nice, but then I don’t have all the time in the world.”

  “Interesting,” Chantal said. “And are you ever wrong?”

  “I often don’t feed people who then live, but I do not often feed people who then die. Today, I would feed the women, but that would be cruel and unfair to the men. So everyone goes hungry.” Cook wiped her hands nervously on her skirt.

  “And why do you think the women will live?” Chantal cocked an eyebrow.

  “Because it is unlikely that either is named Melvin Foles, regardless of what they claim.”

  A twitter went around the room, and Cook shushed them.

  “And the man whose blood is congealing on the floor,” Chantal asked, “did you feed him?”

  “No, Justice, I did not.” Cook was examining the floor at her feet.

  “And who asked you not to clean the blood from the court floor?” Chantal pursed her lips. She was not happy about that blood.

  “Your fellow justice, the one they call Xander” Cook shot a glance at Chantal. “Have I done wrong?”

  “You obeyed a justice,” Chantal said, “how could you be wrong? However, I would ask that should anyone ask you not to perform your usual duties, please come to me. Blood is stinking up my court, and I do not like it.”

  “Yes, Justice,” Cook said.

  “And next time I appear in the kitchen, your women are to continue with their work. I have no desire to put you behind schedule. Do you understand?” She let her eyes roam around the room.

  The women murmured agreement, nodding. A couple of the youngsters bobbed as if to curtsy.

  “Go on,” Chantal waved them back to their stations. Work commenced, complete with the sounds of knives chopping and dishes rattling, but no one was talking. She sighed. “Thank you, Cook,” she said.

  “You’re very welcome, Justice.” Cook bobbed once and turned back to her work.

  As she made her way back to her chambers, Chantal wondered when curtsying had come back into style. And who had decided that a Justice should be deserving of a bob? The regression of society was a strange thing. Take away the modern conveniences, and the masses turned back into chattel. Looking for someone to take responsibility for their lives. Why was that? Life was not that different, why should they give up their autonomy for false security?

  Back in her chamber, she pulled out a volume of European History. It might be a good idea to reacquaint herself with the facts.

  Chapter Two

  Arthur Davis walked through the streets of Detroit thinking about Chantal’s request. Bring me something that represents your loyalty to the Court. He suspected that it was just a ruse, that she wanted time away from the arguing and stress that he and Xander’s fights brought to the Court.

  They were essential fights, of course, but stressful nonetheless.

  He wondered what Xander would bring. His firstborn perhaps, or the head of a perceived enemy of the Court. The man was a ba
rbarian. He had no soul. Of course, that raised the question of what he, himself, would bring. What could he find in this impoverished shell of a city that would represent the hope he felt for the future?

  The place that came to mind was the river. It was the source of much that was good in the city: food, water, and transportation to name a very few. He headed that way, keeping his eyes open for something that might resonate.

  The usual family groups dotted the street, sitting on the curb or in old lawn chairs. The children were dirty, as were many of the adults, looking like giant dirt clods or muddy old coveralls that had been discarded. Every so often some brave soul would be wearing something bright or cheerful. Standing out from the others like an Arabian in a field full of carthorses.

  The thought of horses reminded him of home in Kentucky, but also brought images of slaughtered thoroughbreds being used for food. He shuddered. He knew people were eating dogs and cats, along with pigeons and squirrels, but he couldn't help thinking that eating horses was akin to eating a dolphin or a human. It just shouldn't be done.

  He passed a park where a group of children chased each other. The actual playground was gone, the swings and slide having been cannibalized for parts. Who knew what they were being used for, but it seemed a shame to steal away the children's fun. That was indicative of the problems in the city now, no thought for how your actions would affect others. No thought for the long-term consequences.

  Arthur felt his spirits rise as he felt the breeze coming off the river cooling his face. The sun was warm on his back, and the park here was filled with something he had not seen for a long time – people relaxing. Children played while the adults lounged on blankets or sat in beach chairs with drinks in their hands.