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

In the face of Jensen’s livid speech, Mat’s plan to send rats out chasing FEMA camps sounded tepid and weak, even to him. The three jars, in all their terrible glory, promised the resurrection of a dead god: the god of science. They looked like an old lady’s canning jars on the outside, but the slurries they contained heralded miracles of modern technology—mass solutions for mass problems.

Mat shook his head to break the spell. They were weapons of mass destruction, and they only looked good on paper. Mat had never seen WMDs used, but he knew there was a damned good reason mankind had universally deemed them evil. But Mat didn’t have a presentation with visual aids and polished talking points. If he disagreed right now, he’d sound like a gun fighter arguing that guns were the answer. His FEMA plan had already been approved. He had no other grand strategy to offer in counter-point to Jensen’s poison potions.

Sheriff Morgan cleared his throat. “What are you proposing, Jim?”

Jensen waved his hands around like a showman. “We all know there’s no future for anyone living in the refugee camps. We can’t care for them, and food isn’t going to suddenly appear in government trucks. The danger to us isn’t that they’ll die. The danger to us is that they’ll die too slowly—by disease, theft, murder, and God forbid… even cannibalism. The refugees will bring all of these to our doorstep as the winter deepens. After that, they’ll still die, only we’ll be dead too.”

Jensen was winning. Mat now saw how words were weapons, sharper than steel and ferocious as a Viking army. Jensen commanded a platoon of dazzling options, a brigade of ideas and an army of verbs stretching to the smoke-riven horizon.

Jensen picked up the jar of mud and looked upon it fondly. “The botulinum toxin is not difficult to grow. It spreads via food, and it’ll take the fight out of the rats within a week, maybe days.”

Greg Schultz raised his hand, “Mr. Jensen, are you proposing we give the refugees poisoned food?”

“I am,” Jensen said confidently, without even a hint of embarrassment. “Some of you already know a bit about clostridium botulinum. Perhaps you’ve learned how to protect against it when canning fruit. I’m sure Mrs. Morgan’s famous blackberry jam is safe as can be. But the spores of botulism are all around us, in the air and in the soil. I’ve concentrated a small amount in my lab and I could grow more. Much more.”

Greg Schultz spoke again “I don’t know if I’m comfortable poisoning people. There are children out there.”

Chris Jackson stood and Jensen eased himself into a chair, almost as if this were a planned hand-off. The grieving father addressed the wall on the far side of the room. His eyes hovered like spotlights over the committee.

“Two of the rats had handguns. At first we thought they’d just take our food. We’d have to rely on the town to eat, which would still be okay. Marta begged me not to fight them. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, so I told the rats where to find the canned food.” His eyes glistened and his mouth worked soundlessly, like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“Then they grabbed our Nan, we… we could hear her crying, calling for her daddy.”

Jackson dropped back into his seat, but missed. The folding chairs were set close together, so he fell half-way into the lap of Marjorie Simms. She propped him up as he sobbed, and steered him into his own chair.

“I should’ve made them shoot me. I should’ve fought to the death. Anything would be better than this,” Chris Jackson wailed. Marjorie Simms and Greg Schultz helped Jackson into the next room. The crying tapered, then muted as the door closed behind them.

Mat now fully understood the sheriff’s misgivings about Jackson on the committee. When big feelings were involved, anything could happen. After Jackson’s horrific outburst, the committee would gladly put botulism in baby food.

After the group composed itself, Scientist Guy—now “Mad Scientist Guy” in Mat’s mind, continued. “The rats will starve. The only question is: how many of us will they murder first?

Mat didn't need to drench himself in a father’s grief to understand the value of devastating weaponry. He’d spent his career under the canopy of hellfire missiles and AC-130 gunships. Winning was always better than losing, whatever it took. Nevertheless, Mat could see that many, if not most of the people in the room needed some justification to use chem-bio weapons; they couldn’t move forward without an easing of their consciences. Mat had little respect for politicians, but he appreciated the Mad Scientist’s skill. He’d struck the perfect note to sway the civilians on the committee.

But lethal force wasn’t like Chick-fil-A: the more the better. Escalation was a two-way street. When one side introduced nasty shit, the other side would see their evil and raise them an atrocity. The rats hadn’t tried half the nefarious shit Mat would’ve tried if he’d been one of them instead of an employee of the town.

So far, the rats hadn’t gone to war—certainly not the kind of war they’d bring if they were attacked with anthrax. These days, Mat’s men could still patrol the countryside with no more than an awkward wave to the refugees. The town wasn’t under siege. Not yet.

“I like bad ass weapons as much as the next guy,” Mat spoke up. “May I point out, that having weapons of mass destruction and using weapons of mass destruction are two different questions? We can approve this guy,” Mat pointed at Jensen, “to produce chem-bio weapons, but we need to think long and fucking hard before we use them.” Marjorie Simms gasped a little at the swear. “My apologies, ma’am. If we jump to weapons of mass destruction, I would expect the survivors to fire bomb the town or some proportionately-forceful response. Trust me: even using anthrax or mustard gas, there will be