White Wasteland by Jeff Kirkham (best color ebook reader .txt) 📕

Jeff knew his own face was beet red. He’d fumed the whole ride and he could feel the heat coming off his bald head in waves.

“Explain,” Jeff ordered. He wanted to get out of the OHV, but Tye leaned against his door. Tye wasn’t armed and there was nothing threatening in his manner.

Tye scratched his beard. “Some of us figured this was a good time to pull out of here and spread out a bit. My farm didn’t get too torn up in the aftermath of the crash and pretty soon we should be planting vegetable starts, anyway. We always planned on moving back out after civil disorder had passed, and this seemed like a good time.”

“Bullshit,” Jeff spat. “You got the feel-good answer out of the way. Now, how about you tell me the truth?”

Tye sucked air through his teeth. “We’re just not into the whole warlord thing.”

“What does that mean?”

Tye shook his head. “We’re not Mormons, most of us. We couldn’t give a shit less which prophet runs their church and we’re sure as hell not going to take a bullet for their little power struggle. You’ve been out of the country for how many years? Well, we’ve been here living under the thumb of that damned church and we were glad to be done with it. Now, you want us to join an army under the Mormon priesthood?”

“So you’re following Jason Ross on to the next Homestead?”

Tye chuckled. “Nah. Screw that dude. You were right about him. He’s lost it. What we’re doing doesn’t have anything to do Ross or the committee. It’s just that we aren’t willing to be drafted into the Mormon Church.”

“How many are you taking with you?” Jeff should've been asking about the food they were taking, but hopefully the other Homesteaders hadn’t allowed them to take more than their fair share. This was damage control—pure and simple—and he needed to be realistic.

“They’re around fifty of us heading to my farm. We can still trade with you when we get things up-and-running. We left you three quarters of the breed stock and all the seed and seed potatoes. We didn’t touch the guns. We mostly just have whatever we brought here with us.”

Jeff doubted that was true—the part about only taking what they’d originally brought. All the food had been lumped into the same storage and they’d been eating it down this whole time. If they took what they brought, that meant that they’d eaten for free the last three months.

Again, he reminded himself not to fixate on shutting the proverbial barn door after the cow had already left. He had bigger problems than food storage. War was coming, and there was no way to force these people to fight if they didn’t want to fight.

“What can I say to talk you into staying. We desperately need the help right now,” Jeff begged.

Tye shook his head. “Honestly, we want no part of your war. We don’t understand why we’re getting dragged into this. Besides, we have vegetable starts to get going if we’re going to survive on our own. We don’t have time to be building bombs for Mormons to kill other Mormons. That’s just not good math in the post-apocalypse. We need to get busy surviving or next winter will eat us alive.”

There was a lot he could say, but Jeff knew that none of it would get past Tye’s aversion to the Mormon Church. Six months ago, Jeff wouldn’t have felt much different. Being a “Jack Mormon” left a bad taste in one’s mouth, and the Mormon Church had barely concealed their control of the state, back when most of the state congress was Mormon. He understood every word Tye was saying. How could he explain destiny and fortune to a man who just wanted to feed his family?

So, Jeff held out his hand to shake Tye’s. “I hope it works out well for you guys.”

Tye shook his hand. “Vaya con dios, Jeff. I hope you find what you’re looking for in this war.”

Jeff nodded. “Me too. I’ll let you know when I’m clear on exactly what that is.”

Doc Erik was waiting for him when Jeff charged into the office suite.

Jeff hadn’t seen Jason Ross in days—not since he’d come home from the southern border. The office suite had become Homestead HQ, and Doc Erik had taken up residence as the Organizer In Chief.

He stood up from behind the desk the moment Jeff blew into the room and read from a list.

“Looks like we lost thirty-one adults, and eighteen kids to the group that lit out for Tye’s farm. We’re also down thirteen women who are quarantined in the Schaffer orphanage. With the casualties we sustained in the last two fights, I put our numbers at two hundred and five residents and a hundred and fifty-seven refugees in the Tunnel Springs refugee camp. They’re not Homestead, but they’re employed by us.”

“How many combat vets did we lose?” Jeff sat down in front of the desk. Doc Erik resumed his seat across from him.

“None. We didn’t lose any dedicated shooters—just a few perimeter guards. Only two nurses and no doctors have left. But that’s not the problem. We lost a big chunk of the people who feed us, care for the animals, make stuff we need, distill whiskey, plant the gardens and keep the lights on. In short, I don’t know if we have a future here without those guys. And there’s no possible way I can get you the bang-bang you want for the Mormon War.”

“It’s not a Mormon War,” Jeff corrected. “Our valley is being invaded by a neighboring valley. The fact they’re Mormons isn’t relevant.”

Doc raised an eyebrow as if to say, Whatever, dude.

“Be that as it may,” Doc Erik pushed on, “unless we want the goats to run away into the forest and the potatoes to dry up in their buckets, I can’t spare anyone for