Honor Road by Jason Ross (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

of merry enforcers. As more and more people were shown the road, in a small community like La Grande, every local officer would eventually come up against a hard pill to swallow; somebody the officer knew and loved—a family relation, a high school pal, or the childhood babysitter now married to a coke addict. Eventually, a local cop would be forced to exile someone he cared about from the county.

Marching men, women and children to the county line was no picnic. Sage had taken his turn at it like everyone else. Those people knew they were being walked to their death. South of the county line was a one-way ticket to Rapeville for the women and Murdertown for the men. The biker gangs controlled everything south, around Boise.

North, over the Blue Mountains, the masses of starving Seattle-ites and Portlanders hid in ambush, hungry for fresh meat, but only if the exiles could first survive the snow-piled summit. They called it “exile” but it was a barely-cloaked execution.

The deputies debated duct-taping their exiles mouths, including kids. Listening to the begging, the arguing, the sob-soaked entreaties to give them just-one-more-chance; it was almost more than a man could bear. Sage couldn’t imagine what it was like for an officer who had grown up as part of the community. Any officer who could—those with their own farms—had already left the force.

Sage shrugged his La Grande Police coat up around his shoulders. At least if he could help with the work, he wouldn’t be so damn cold. He hated watching men work. Through a relentless campaign of shaming, his dad had instilled in him a phobia about standing around while there was work to be done.

“Hey, Goldbricker,” his dad would shout in front of Sage’s friends. “A man looks for work. Only a lazy piece of shit stands around with his hands in his pockets.”

Sage shifted back and forth on his feet while the Klingons worked on the greenhouses. One of them walked by carrying a twelve-foot bundle of PVC over his shoulder, but the balance was off. Half the PVC slid out the back and clattered to the ground. Sage pulled his rifle sling over his head, settled the 30-30 on his back and trotted over to help. The Klingon gave him a quizzical look. They rebundled the PVC and carried it together, over their shoulders, into the greenhouse. Sage dropped the load and walked back to his post by the water bowser.

“Hey. Stack!” The senior officer put his hand on Sage’s shoulder. “Don’t do that again. There’s plenty of Klingon-power to get this done. We have more hands than we have work. You’re skilled labor.” He tapped Sage’s rifle barrel. “Don’t get in the habit of carrying pipe. It’s a waste, and it fucks with your mission readiness. You copy?”

Sage nodded. “Sorry. My dad didn’t raise me to stand around, ya know?”

The officer chuckled. “Me too. But this ain’t the world our dads raised us for. Not no more.”

9 Mat Best

Mat & William’s House

McKenzie, Tennessee

It’d been two weeks since the ambush on the road to Henry. Since then, the convoy had been hit six times. Subsequent ambushes hadn’t been as coordinated, with the loudmouth ringleader cooling his dangly parts in the McKenzie jail. They hadn’t lost any hogs, but two volunteers had been shot—both grazing wounds or frag. Luckily, neither of them died.

Mat was deep in thought about the stretch of busted up highway as he approached his house on the sidewalk, stepped onto his front porch and reached for the screen door. A girl’s voice snapped him back to the present. Mat entered to find William on the edge of the couch with a pretty brunette.

The girl’s words trailed off as the screen door squeaked. “Horizon Zero Dawn is not so much a first-person shooter. It's more…”

William had been so engrossed in the conversation he hadn't noticed Mat's approach.

“Hi, Mat!” William chirruped. “This is Candice.”

“Hello, Candice.” Mat waved. “Bro, you didn't notice me walking across the yard. What did I teach you about situational awareness?”

Mat was fully aware that it was a weird thing to bitch about, but these weren’t normal times. No matter how Leave It To Beaver things seemed in town, there were thousands of despairing scarecrows massed outside the town limits, poised to ransack every cupboard.

William’s face flushed with embarrassment. Nevertheless, Mat doubled down.

“You're not eating a burger and fries at Hardees here. We're surrounded by thousands who would kill you for a stick of gum."

William’s face painted itself a deeper red. He stood up as he snapped at Mat, “I know that. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal."

“Hello,” the girl interrupted. She offered a handshake. Her other hand touched the small of William’s back.

If Mat knew anything, he knew women. Females of the species had been de-escalating conflict between males for 10,000 years. Her touch calmed William like a magic spell. He leaned slightly toward the girl, and his posture relaxed. The girl had sent an unconscious message that the dominant male’s correction hadn’t diminished her interest in him. With the lightest touch, she smoothed over the wrinkle in their social grouping.

Candice filled the physical space between Mat and William with words. “My step dad is Jim Jensen. He organized the new classes at the high school. He’s a big fan of yours, sir. He says with you we stand a good chance of holding back the refugees.”

Instead of reading too much into the compliment, Mat mined for intelligence on Jim Jensen.

“What’s he teaching these days? Are they spending half of class talking about Ancient Mesopotamian gender roles and inclusive diversity among urban Aztecs?”

She laughed at the awkward joke like an adult woman might. William just looked confused. Mat guessed she was a very mature thirteen year old.

“Jim knows that times have changed,” Candice answered. “He's smart. He knows that no one cares about Shakespeare and political correctness right now. Classes are just a few hours a week—practical stuff