Honor Road Jason Ross (any book recommendations .TXT) 📖

Sheriff Morgan.”That concludes this part of the meeting. Thank you very much, members of the food committee. We will take a short break. Security Committee Members please stay close by. Mr. Jensen, please stay as well.”

The sheriff handled the appearance of nerve gas as a procedural speed bump, not as an evacuation event. The guy really was great under pressure, Mat noted. Mat had almost drawn his Glock when the guy slammed down the jar, which in retrospect would’ve been the wrong response to mustard gas.

The members of the committees mulled around for a moment, everyone keeping an eye on the jar full of dirty, yellow dust. Back in the old days, threat of a chemical agent would’ve cleared the building in two minutes flat. These days, it barely raised eyebrows.

Mat thought through what might happen next. Sheriff Morgan had the security committee locked down pretty tight, with four of the seven members on his same page. Morgan had stopped Jensen’s drama train in order to get the question of poison gas under control and away from the emotionally-wobbly food committee. The smaller the group to vote on a charged topic, like WMDs, the better. Mat and Sheriff Morgan were two of the seven votes, and the trucking guy was a Viet Nam vet who probably wouldn’t vote for anything stupid.

Mat had mixed feelings about the nasty-looking jar. This wasn’t Iraq and they weren’t engaged in symmetrical warfare. The math of the apocalypse was rather rudimentary, when seen through the lens of a jar filled with poison gas: there were several times more people than there was food to feed them. The back-of-napkin solution was to reduce the number of people to match the supply.

Mat didn’t pretend to be that rational. He wasn’t a numbers guy, nor could he claim to understand chemical weapons systems. He’d never thought of them as anything other than bad. But that jar on the plastic table could very well be the key to him getting out of this town and away from this job. Maybe, if he combined his skills and that jar, this hashed-up mess could take a turn toward victory.

After ten minutes of back slapping and goodbyes, the food committee members were gone and the security committee settled into their plastic seats.

Sheriff Morgan stood and said, “As you know, Jim Jensen would like to share something he’s been working on. But first let’s have a conversation about discretion, and what it means to be part of the security committee. For starters, we keep our damned mouths shut.” He drilled Jensen with a reproachful stare. The six men and one woman of the committee looked around, scenting the butt-whooping on the wind. “We don’t talk about plans, strategies or weapons outside of this committee. Jim, you crossed a line putting a weapon in front of the food committee. If you do that again, you’re off this committee.”

Jensen nodded, but Mat got the sense that he didn’t really care, and that the mustard gas dog-and-pony show had been entirely intentional.

The sheriff went on to impress upon all present the importance of not discussing meetings with friends and family, and he requested a raise of hands from all members indicating their promise to keep the committee’s confidences.

As soon as the sheriff paused in his exhortations, Jim Jensen stood up and went straight into his schtick. “We all appreciate what Mat has done to secure McKenzie, but we have to acknowledge a difficult truth: what we’ve asked of him isn’t really possible, not so long as we’re surrounded by thousands of starving refugees. It’s only a matter of time before we’re overrun, our food taken and our loved ones murdered.” Jensen flicked a look at Chris Jackson. Jackson was definitely NOT one of the committee members the sheriff had on-lock.

Jackson’s house, on the outskirts of town, had been raided by refugees. They’d taken everything edible and raped his daughter. Young Nancy Jackson hung herself the next day. After that, Chris Jackson asked to move from the food committee to the security committee and, despite the sheriff’s reluctance, the committee had voted to do it. Jackson hadn’t said much since joining.

After a perfectly-timed pause, Jensen continued. “Even an Army Ranger can’t prevent attacks like the Jackson house and Reedy Grove, so long as desperate people surround us. The numbers are simply too great—by an order of magnitude or more.”

Mat didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like a lot.

“While Mat’s plan to draw refugees away might temporarily remove ten or fifteen percent of the threat, that still leaves ten thousand or more refugees poised to invade our town. Fighting them hand-to-hand and one-bullet-at-a-time isn’t possible given the sheer numbers. Even with the HESCO barrier finished—which is at least three months out—we’ll still be threatened from every point of the compass.” He swept his hand around the inside of city hall, casting the specter of rats surrounding them, even here and now.

“We must employ science to protect our town. That or die.”

Jensen banged two more glass jars on the table. Bang. Bang.

The one jar, with dark, yellow dust, Jensen had already identified as mustard gas. Another jar was full of mud—brown and viscous. The third looked like it contained a cloud; white and fluffy. Jensen had everyone’s undivided attention.

“I propose we encourage the organic processes of Mother Nature to reduce the refugee numbers. Even without our involvement, bacteria will fester in the camps. Whenever thousands of people gather without meticulous sanitation, nature counter-attacks with a one-two punch of bacteria and disease. Cholera. Dysentery. Botulism...” He tapped the lid of the jar that looked like mud. “Even anthrax from the hides of the animals they’re hunting in the fields.” He flicked the jar filled with white. “Nature is our greatest ally. Nature resists man when we gather in the thousands, without civil sanitation systems. Nature marshals its microscopic armies against humankind. We can help that process along—give those bacteria a nudge in the right direction. But we must