Working Title: Tallahatchie

Excerpts:

Prologue

The New Madrid Earthquakes of 1811/12

Over the life of our planet, the crust of the Earth has undergone dramatic changes that have created,
destroyed, and recreated continents, islands, oceans, and seas, and the mountains and valleys upon the
dry land and under the water. Where the plates of the Earth’s crust interact, volcanic and seismic
activity results. Where the plates pull apart, oceans eventually form. Five hundred million years ago,
tectonic forces attempted and failed to pull apart the crust of the Earth in the middle of what is now the
North American continent. Scientists today call this failed continental rift the New Madrid Fault.

In December of 1811, the only white settlement of any size along the Mississippi River between St Louis
and Natchez was the small town of New Madrid in what was then the United States’ most recent
territorial acquisition—the Louisiana Territory. Founded in ########## by######and New Madrid was
so named to curry favor with the Spanish King whose country held claim over the territory at the time.
With time and the inevitable mispronunciation inherent in local colloquialisms, pronunciation of the
town’s name began to stress the first instead of second syllable in Madrid. Serving the boatmen who
navigated the Mississippi River carrying goods down to Natchez and New Orleans from the Ohio and
Kentucky frontier of the young United States, New Madrid had a permanent population of less than five
hundred. The steam-powered paddle-wheel boats that would become the symbol of the ante-bellum
age on the Mississippi had yet to make their appearance. The men who boated trade goods down the
Ohio River and thence down the Mississippi, did so on unpowered barges, flat boats, and keel boats, and
would unload their cargoes in New Orleans or Natchez. The network of Indian trails that became known
as the Natchez Trace carried these boatmen back north, most often on foot, to its northern terminus in
the vicinity of present day Nashville.

The town of New Madrid actually sits near the northern end of what is referred to as the New Madrid
Seismic Zone, which extends in a rough arc from a point in southeast Missouri north of the boot heel,
through northwest Tennessee and then southwestward into northeast Arkansas. The New Madrid
Seismic Zone is the most seismically active area on the North American continent east of the Rocky
Mountains. In the early morning hours of December 16, 1811, one of the six major faults in the zone
ruptured at the southern end near present day Helena, Arkansas. Measuring approximately 8.0 on the
Richter Scale, this massive temblor was followed by scores of major, and hundreds of minor, aftershocks
over the next several months. The initial quake was followed by two more massive quakes on January
23, 1812 and February 7, 1812, in successively more northern sections of the fault zone, each of nearly
identical intensity as the first, and each accompanied by swarms of aftershocks many of which were 6.5
or greater in magnitude. Nearly a score of this sequence of earthquakes were strong enough to be felt
on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. The largest were of such intensity that the shaking
caused minor structural damage to buildings as far away as Columbia, South Carolina and swayed
buildings enough to ring church bells in Boston.
The few people in the region who witnessed the major quakes and their effects firsthand, and survived,
related scenes of geographic violence that strain belief. One of the quakes ruptured under the
Mississippi River, causing a waterfall of nearly ten feet that persisted for several days before the river’s
current wore away the disruption in the channel. Another quake caused such subsidence of the land
over such a large area in what is now Northwest Tennessee that a massive shallow lake, now known as
Reelfoot Lake, was formed. Throughout the region fissures in the earth belched sandy expulsions mixed
with coal-like deposits several feet in the air, and eyewitnesses described sulfurous-smelling, cloudy air
that dimmed the sun’s light for days.

Prior to the first quake, the sparsely populated Grand Prairie region of northeast Arkansas had been a
beckoning wilderness of verdant old growth forests and fertile soils. After the quakes, the first people
into the area found that they had to travel by canoe over most of the region. The land in many places
had subsided greater than fifty feet, inundating the forests and plains with water from the Mississippi
and Saint Francis rivers. What had once been potentially rich farmland was now swamp.

Nearly every manmade structure within a hundred miles of the three major epicenters was completely
destroyed. The liquefaction of the Mississippi River’s alluvial plain turned the seemingly solid earth
beneath buildings and inhabitant’s feet into quivering quicksand as seismic waves rolled outward from
the ruptured faults for several minutes following the first massive jolts. Travelers on what passed for
roads at the time reported hardened dirt roadbeds turned to waist deep mires. Great swaths of forests
lost enormous stands of centuries old timber, and trees that didn’t fall swayed so violently that huge
limbs were snapped from their trunks. Fallen trees blocked long stretches of the primitive road
network.

Along the Mississippi’s banks, great bluffs sloughed off into the river carrying thousands of trees that
formed huge rafts and jams downstream. Boatmen, who survived the tumult on the river, described
towering waves that arose nearly instantaneously from the placid surface as the temblors’ jolts shook
the earth. Whole islands in the river simply disappeared. Hundreds of river men were lost to the great
flow that washed over the subsiding sandbars upon which they had landed their boats and rafts.

In 1811 the population, both European and native, of the region between and including St. Louis and
Natchez totaled no more than a few tens of thousands. There were no manmade structures over two
stories high. Today the population of that region numbers in excess of ten million who live and work in
thousands of multistory buildings and whose daily lives are made comfortably possible by a seemingly
robust, but in reality fragile infrastructure that provides them electricity, water, sanitation, sustenance,
and security.
The New England Hurricane of 1938

Three years after the earthquake series that struck the middle Mississippi Valley, a Saffir-Simpson Scale
Category 3 hurricane struck New York City, washing over Long Island and dramatically rearranging the
barrier island features. Another even stronger Category 4 storm, the so-called Norfolk and Long Island
Hurricane struck the city in 1821, swamping Manhattan under a 13 foot tidal surge. Seventy-two years
later a mere Category 2 hurricane made landfall on Long Island and completely washed away a mile long
barrier island and brought waste deep water to the streets of Brooklyn. One and a half million
inhabitants were eyewitnesses.

Over the next five decades massive tides of immigrants swelled the city’s population, and by 1938 New
York City was home to nearly 7.5 million inhabitants. In September of that year a hurricane formed off
the west coast of Africa and rapidly grew to Category 5 strength. The monster storm roared straight
west across the Atlantic until it was north of the Bahamas and then turned north. On the afternoon of
September the 21st, only a couple of hours short of astronomical high tide, the storm sliced across the
middle of Long Island, having weakened to a strong Category 3. Still, the hurricane carried with it a
storm surge in excess of fourteen feet. Making landfall as it did to the east of Manhattan, the city only
experienced 75 mile per hour winds and minor flooding as winds backed up the East River. The Eastern
end of Long Island, on the storm’s stronger right side, took the brunt of the storm. Barrier islands and
inlets were rearranged; roads and structures washed away, and 100 people lost their lives. The storm
barreled north across Long Island Sound and bulls-eyed the city of Westerly, Rhode Island. The eastern
quadrant of the storm pushed full moon and Autumnal Equinox tides straight up Narragansett Bay and
poured thirteen feet of water into downtown Providence. Although on the weaker western side of the
hurricane, water piling up in Long Island Sound inundated Connecticut’s coastal cities and caused the
most damage from a natural disaster in its 350 year history. By the time the storm tracked over
Massachusetts and New Hampshire and then dissipated over Ontario, Canada, nearly 800 people were
dead. The storm destroyed or severely damaged 30,000 dwellings, destroyed 25,000 automobiles, and
severely disrupted rail and road transportation for weeks.

Today, the behemoth megalopolis that is New York and the major cities to its north and south, and
whose built-up areas merge and extend nearly without interruption from Washington, DC to Boston, is
home to three times the population that existed in 1938. The building boom that ensued after the
Second World War has increased the density and subsequent vulnerability of the infrastructure in the
region by a factor of 10.
Chapter

Tukabatchee, Fall 1811

Cepanekerris sat next to his uncle and watched with awe as the great Shawnee chief, Tecumseh,
entered the village center. They were several rows back in the crowd and Cepanekerris fretted and
strained to see. At fourteen years of age, Cepanekerris was still too young to attempt to force his way
forward to a better vantage point in the crowd, and yet old enough to know that this appearance of the
fabled Shawnee warrior before the Tukabatchee council of the five Muscogee tribes was probably one
of the most important events in his life. Here in the town square were many great people, some
Cepanekerris knew firsthand and many he knew only by reputation. The news of Tecumseh’s visit had
spread throughout the land and even though the Shawnee’s message was one of armed resistance to
them there were even some white settlers and traders in attendance.

Dressed for war in loin cloths, buffalo tails, and eagle feathers, Tecumseh and his warriors
entered the town square in great ceremonial fashion. They marched purposely around the square,
pausing to present tobacco to each of the four winds, and then proceeded to the council house, in front
of which the great Muscogee chief Big Warrior and his subordinate warriors sat. Tecumseh drew
himself up to his full height, threw his head back and Cepanekerris started uncontrollably as a blood-
chilling war cry leapt from the Shawnee chief’s throat and was echoed by his followers. Some in the
crowd of Muscogees even joined in. Cepanekerris stole a glance at his uncle, but Muktacompee’s jaw
remained clamped and his eyes squinted slightly as if he were looking toward a sunrise. It was a look
Cepanekerris had never seen on his teacher’s face.

To Big Warrior, Tecumseh presented an extravagantly beaded wampum belt with a great
bowing flourish and then with a wave of the hand summoned a warrior forward with his pipe.
Tecumseh bent and lighted the pipe from the council fire at Big Warrior’s feet, drew the tobacco smoke
into his lungs and blew it ceremoniously upward. To Cepanekerris it seemed that the grey cloud of
smoke stalled in mid-air above the two chiefs’ heads and spread out in the still air like a layer of fog over
the river. Tecumseh proffered the pipe to Big Warrior who puffed slowly and appreciatively before
passing it down the line of his warriors.

Cepanekerris watched in fascination as this great ceremony played out silently and gravely in
the town center. He had seen other meetings conducted here, but nothing like this. It was so quiet he
felt he could hear the fish swimming in the river and yet the presence of Tecumseh and his warriors
seemed to resonate in his being like a thousand drums. He shivered uncontrollably and drew a look of
rebuke from his uncle.

“Be still, Cepan,” Muktacompee admonished him in a barely audible whisper.

 Before Tecumseh spoke, the Shawnee bowed his head slightly toward Big Chief and then turned
slowly around fixing many in the crowd around the square with a brief, penetrating look. As he turned
in Cepanekerris’ direction the boy held his breath and imagined for a beat of his racing heart that the
great warrior’s eyes had met his own before sweeping on. The boy felt a sudden urge to tell his uncle,
but remained silent when he turned to see Muktacompee’s face still frozen in the unfamiliar mask.

At last Tecumseh spoke. The initial words were soft and unintelligible to Cepanekerris. When a
warrior standing to Tecumseh’s left spoke when the Shawnee paused, the boy realized that the great
chief had spoken in his own tongue and would rely on an interpreter to translate his words into the
Muscogee tongue. The interpreter matched Tecumseh’s tone and inflection, rising in volume as the
Shawnee chief raised his voice and dropping to a near whisper as Tecumseh did to draw the crowd in. It
was a performance the likes of which Cepanekerris had never seen, nor, he was sure, would soon see
again.

Tecumseh began his speech with thanks to Big Chief and acknowledgments of the many great
representatives of the Muscogee tribes and clans in attendance. Portions of the crowd murmured as
their names were announced by the great Shawnee warrior. An occasional war whoop answered
Tecumseh’s recognition of a particular clan and the feats of an ancestor gone to commune with the
Great Spirit.

“I left my council house on the shore of the great lake many days ago and have traveled far
down to the lands of the Chickasaw, Choctaw, and Cherokee to bring a message from the Great Spirit.
And now, at last, I have come to the brave and proud Muscogee to speak from my heart.” As the crowd
warmed to his speech, Tecumseh suddenly sneered contemptuously and announced proudly, “In
defiance of the white men of Ohio and Kentucky, I have travelled through their settlements—land which
was once the favorite hunting grounds of our people. No war-whoop was sounded, but there is blood
upon our knives. The pale-faces felt the blow but knew not from whence it came.”

Tecumseh fairly shrieked and his body trembled as he proclaimed, “Accursed be the race that
has seized on our country and made women of our warriors!”

Cepanekerris felt his eyes widen and his heart pound in his chest as Tecumseh swung his
piercing eyes across the crowd and hissed in condemnation, “Our fathers, from their graves, reproach us
as slaves and cowards!”

The Shawnee paused and placed a hand to his ear, “I hear them now in the wailing winds. We
shame them, they cry. They cannot bear to look upon their children.”

Cepanekerris felt the blood flush in his face. He had never heard anyone speak like this!
Tecumseh waved his hand over the crowd and then clenched and shook his fist, “The Muscogee were
once a mighty people. The whites in Georgia trembled at your war-whoop; and the maidens of my tribe,
in the land of the distant lakes, sung the prowess of your warriors, and sighed for their embraces.”
 At this, a few in the crowd raised tomahawks, hatchets, and knives. But out of respect for Big
Warrior, no war whoops sounded. Cepanekerris felt a yell climbing from his chest, but took his cue from
Muktacompee and remained as still and quiet as his uncle.

The sneer crossed his face again, and Tecumseh shook his head in disdain, “But, now your blood
is white,” the Shawnee spat the word out as if it were a bitter herb. “Your tomahawks have no edges,
your bows and arrows were buried with your fathers. Your war-whoops are little more than babies’
cries. Your blood is white. You wear the white man’s clothes, you speak his tongue, you live in his
houses.”

Tecumseh paused and held his arms stiffly out from his sides, fists clenched. He lifted his chin
and stood still as a statue as if to say “Look! Here is a real warrior.”

“Oh, Muscogees!” Tecumseh opened his arms wide and pleaded, “Brethren of my mother. Yes,
we are brothers. You know my father once lived among you and took a wife from among your beautiful
and proud women. Oh, brothers! Brush from your eyelids the sleep of slavery. Once more, strike for
vengeance! Once more, strike for your land. The spirits of the mighty dead groan and complain. Their
tears drop like rain from the skies.”

Tecumseh raised a clenched fist and shouted, “Let the white race perish! They seize your land,
they corrupt your women, they trample on your dead!”

The great Shawnee chief was howling now, and Cepanekerris could feel the crowd stirring to
Tecumseh’s rant, “Back! Whence they came, upon a trail of blood! They must be driven back! Back!
Back! All the way back into the great water whose accursed waves brought them to our shores. Burn
their dwellings! Destroy their stock! Slay their wives and children! This land is ours! The pale-face
must never enjoy it! War, now! War forever! War upon the living! War upon the dead! Dig their very
corpses from the graves! Our land must give no rest to a white man’s bones!”

As Tecumseh railed the last, hundreds in the crowd silently raised and shook their tomahawks.
He carried no weapon, but Cepanekerris made to lift his fist. Muktacompee caught his arm and shook
his head in warning. There was a something in his teacher’s eyes he had not seen before. It wasn’t
quite fear, but that was the closest thing the boy could decipher. It chilled Cepanekerris’ blood.

Tecumseh paused and scanned the tomahawk-waving crowd approvingly. He continued, now
speaking calmly and measuring his words carefully. “I am here to tell you that all of the tribes of the
North are dancing the war dance. If you join them, our alliance against the devils in the east will sweep
them out of our land like the dust is swept from the floors of our lodges. If you fail to link arms with us,
you will cease to exist. You may believe that your accommodations with the white men have saved your
land. You may believe that your acceptance and adopting of their ways will allow you to live in peace.
You may believe the white man’s assurances that they will keep their promises and respect your land’s
boundaries. I tell you, not one word on a white man’s lips can be trusted.”
 Tecumseh turned and stretched out his arm, “Look with me toward the northeast. Where today
are the Pequot? Where are the Narragansett, the Mohican, the Pocanet, and other powerful tribes of
our people? They have vanished before the avarice and oppression of the white man, as snow before
the summer sun. The Americans call you the ‘Five Civilized Tribes.’ Do you know why? Because they
believe they have made you become like them. They believe you will someday cease to be Muscogee.
They believe you will someday no longer resist their trespass upon your land. They believe that
someday, soon, you will go the way of the Pequot and the Narragansett and the Mohican.”

Tecumseh paused to let that point sink in with his audience, and then finished in a matter-of-
fact tone. ‘The British intend to make war upon the Americans. I am in contact with the mighty king
across the ocean. They will support our war against the Americans. With their help we will defeat the
whites in the east and retake our lands.”

Cepanekerris saw movement to Tecumseh’s left and turn to see Big Warrior stand. “Oh great
Tecumseh,” the chief intoned solemnly, “We have heard your message. We must consider it carefully.
The Muscogee thank you and wish you a safe journey.”

Big Warrior turned as if to enter his council house and Tecumseh sneered contemptuously,
"Your blood is white! You have taken my talk and the wampum, and have smoked my pipe, but you do
not mean to fight. I know the reason. You do not believe the Great Spirit has sent me. But, you shall
know. I leave Tukabatchee directly and shall go straight to my council house. When I arrive there, I will
stamp on the ground with my foot, and shake down all the houses in Tukabatchee.”

Tecumseh whirled and faced the crowd, “You will see a great light in the night sky and the earth
will shake far and wide. By this you will know that the Great Spirit has sent Tecumseh. By these signs
you will know that it is time to take up your tomahawk, join your brothers, and strike the white man.”
The great Shawnee warrior threw back his head, screamed a mighty war-whoop, and strode regally out
of the square.

Later, as they checked fish traps in the river, Cepanekerris waited patiently for his teacher to
offer his insight into Tecumseh’s speech and the rebuff of Big Warrior to the Shawnee’s call for war. But,
Muktacompee remained uncharacteristically quiet. The tightness in his uncle’s jaw had not relaxed in
the hours since, and even now Muktacompee seemed to be carrying on an inner dialogue, his eyes
squinting and his lips moving soundlessly. Cepanekerris kept his silence, though he had many questions
to ask.

At long last, Muktacompee turned to his nephew and motioned for him to sit on a fallen tree at
the water’s edge. “Cepan,” he began, “there is much more for you to learn. But, I fear that we have
only a little more time. War is coming...” Muktacompee paused, the words hung in his throat and his
gaze swung up the Tallapoosa as if expecting to see war canoes to round the bend.

“But, Uncle,’ Cepanekerris blurted, “Big Warrior said we weren’t going to fight.”
 “We’ll have no choice, Cepan.”

“Will we join Tecumseh, then?”

“No, Cepan. Big Warrior is too wise for that. Tecumseh is a great warrior but his vision is
clouded by his ambitions. Big Warrior understands what Tecumseh refuses to see. No matter if all of
the tribes rally to the Shawnee’s call for war, the whites are more powerful and too many.”

“But, Tecumseh said that the great king across the sea would be on our side against the
Seventeen Fires. Together we can beat them, can’t we Uncle?”

“From where do you think the first whites came, Cepan? If we kill all of the whites in our land,
the great king across the sea will only send more of his own to replace them. No, Cepan, Big Warrior will
not join Tecumseh. He knows that war against the whites is useless.”

“Then the war won’t come here. We can stay out of it, can’t we?”

“That, my nephew, is not possible. To the whites all of us are the same. When Tecumseh starts
his war and the whites retaliate, they will strike at us all. But, that is not the worst thing to come.”

“What could be worse, Uncle?”

“Cepan, did you not see the tomahawks in the air as Tecumseh spoke? There are many who do
not agree with Big Warrior. They are swept up under the Shawnee’s spell. I am afraid that before any
war with the whites begins, there will be war amongst our people first.”

Cepanekerris and Muktacompee sat quietly and contemplated the future. Cepanekerris’ head
swam as he tried to make sense of the implications of his teacher’s words. But, try as he might, he could
not fathom a way out of the trap that seemed ready to snap shut on the people. “Now,” he thought to
himself, “I understand why Muktacompee has been struggling so in himself.”

Suddenly, an answer came to Cepanekerris. “Uncle! Didn’t Tecumseh say that there would be a
sign to let us know that the Great Spirit had sent him? Didn’t he say that there would be a strange light
in the night sky and a great shaking of the ground?”

“Yes, Cepan, he did say those things,” his uncle said with a derisive snort. “He also said that
when he got back to his council house that he would stomp on the ground and cause all the houses in
our town to fall down. Do you think that is possible?”

Out of respect for his teacher, Cepanekerris did not answer out loud. But a thought turned
over and over in his head—something Muktacompee himself had taught him, “For the Great Spirit, all
things are possible.”
Chapter

Captain Sean Winters was a man whose life and death experience was triple that of anyone else
in his generation. He went straight to the local Marine recruiting office on the day after a long, angry
night of watching continuous replays of smoking towers collapsing out of the Manhattan skyline. Sean
was just beginning graduate work at Boston College, but heard clearly the same stirring inner call to
arms most of the men in his family had heard from as far back in the telling of his family history as the
Battle of Culloden. Winters would have enlisted and left for boot camp that very day, but when the
gunnery sergeant in the recruiting office saw that Sean was a college graduate, he picked up the phone
and called the officer in charge of filling seats at officer candidate school. Within the next year, Sean had
completed OCS and earned a commission as a Marine second lieutenant, attended the Basic School and
Infantry Officer Course and joined a Marine Regiment as a rifle platoon commander in time for the race
to Baghdad and the overthrow of Saddam. The brutal house to house fight in Fallujah a year later, the
Surge two years after that, and the subsequent mountain campaign in the Afghan/Pakistan border
region had aged and hardened him like no American warrior had been since the Second World War.

Captain Winters sat at the small fold-down desk in the cramped quarters of his stateroom
aboard the USS Iwo Jima and studied the faces of the other young men in the room. He had called a
meeting of his platoon commanders and they and his executive officer, his artillery forward observer,
and the Marine fighter pilot assigned as his forward air controller sat bunched tightly on his bunk and on
the floor opposite him. Save his FAC, Captain Kyle Bowers, none of the other men in the room had any
combat experience, and Bowers’ was as an F/A-18 jock, not the kind experienced by the infantry
Marines for whom he had provided close air support against the Taliban. The fact didn’t trouble Sean—
this was a humanitarian mission, in an American city. Taped to the wall was a map of the Western end
of Long Island showing the boroughs of New York overlaid with lines and symbols delineating unit
sectors of responsibility. Next to that map was another larger diagram of La Guardia Airport.

“Gentlemen, I won’t waste any time rehashing the general situation and Joint Task Force Hope’s
mission. You’ve heard enough of all of that from the colonel and his staff for the last three days. I want
you to focus on our mission and the welfare of our men. The battalion’s mission is to secure and help
clean up La Guardia airport in order to allow follow-on forces to use it for relief and medevac flights.
This is not Ramadi. Although we are going in ready for action, we are not going in here in a combat
posture. We’ll take our weapons, but no Kevlar. Regulation soft covers—no boony hats. Keep your
weapons at sling arms. You know the ROE—make sure you continue to drill it into your Marines’ brain
housing groups. This is an American city and we are here to help. The use of force will only be used in
coordination with local authorities and only in life or death situations. That said, I want this company to
look like the Spartans at Thermopylae. A squared away, highly professional appearance will do more to
keep the population calm than anything we can say--and, will make any miscreants take a second
thought before messing with us.”
 “Okay, at 0500 tomorrow morning the first wave, consisting of 1 st and 2nd Platoons and company
command element will launch. Touchdown at LZ Raven, here at the airport tower complex is 0515. The
remainder of the company will follow 45 minutes later. XO, you’ll bring up the rear. We should have
the entire company on the ground and in our assigned sector by the time it gets good light. The Colonel
wants the first thing the good people of Queens to see tomorrow morning is that the United States
Marine Corps has landed and the situation is well in hand.”
Chapter

Corporal Carlos Ramirez leaned forward and looked down the line of his men strapped into their seats
on the Ch-46 E helicopter. Satisfied that all of them were properly belted in and weapons held muzzle
down, he sat back and glanced across the aisle at his platoon commander. The officer’s eyes met his
and Ramirez flashed a quick thumbs up. “Glad this is not a combat mission,” he thought. The lieutenant
had joined the company only a couple of months ago and it was still an open question whether he was
going to be an effective leader or not. So far, Ramirez had not been impressed. The new officer just
didn’t seem like the Marine type. But, the skipper, Captain Winters, was just about the greatest leader
Carlos could imagine. So long as he was in charge of the company, Carlos reasoned, the platoon
commanders couldn’t do too much damage. Hopefully, they would learn from the company
commander. “Well,’ he mused as he pulled once more on his seat belt strap, “time will tell.”

“Tiempo lo dira.” It had been his grandfather’s favorite saying. It had frustrated young Carlos that
nearly every question had the same answer from the old one. But now, with his abuelo gone, Carlos felt
differently about the phrase. It was his phrase now.

Grandfather Ramirez was from Juarez originally and had come north to California looking for work as a
teenager in 1950. A year later the war in Korea seemed to offer more opportunity for advancement in
his new country than gardening and Pablo Ramirez enlisted in the Marine Corps. The war was
stalemated along the 38th Parallel by the time he arrived in Korea and found himself in a trench facing
the Chinese. For nearly a year, Ramirez lived underground, trading rifle and machine gun fire with the
enemy on the hill across the way from his, and enduring sporadic mortar and artillery fire, until the
Armistice was signed in 1953. He mustered out at Camp Pendleton a year later, applied for citizenship
and used the pay he had saved to start his own gardening business in Bakersfield. He was 35 years old
when he married Carmen, nearly 15 years his junior. By 1990 Ramirez & Sons Landscaping was
profitable enough that third generation Ramirez’ were going to colleges of their choice.

Carlos, the youngest of Pablo’s twenty-two grandchildren, loafed through high school and after three
partying, and failing, semesters at UC Bakersfield, was given an ultimatum—improve his grades or man a
shovel. Instead, he walked into the nearest Marine recruiting office and enlisted.

His mother had pitched an unholy fit, loudly blaming her father-in-law for influencing the decision with
proud stories of his time in the Marine Corps. She demanded that Pablo change Carlos’ mind, snidely
asking what good could come of his joining the Marines. The old man had only flatly responded with
“Tiempo lo dira.”

Carlos thought he knew what to expect at boot camp. He was mistaken. From the moment he stepped
off the bus and onto the yellow footprints at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, Carlos’ world
became an unrelenting martial dance choreographed every second by men whose voices were
permanently hoarse from the strain of constant yelling. And although reality was the yelling was
directed in equal distribution to the sixty-five recruits in his platoon, it seemed at first to Carlos’ that he
had his own personal khaki-clad demon dedicated to detecting his every flaw and increasing the speed
at which he responded to commands.

In the first four weeks of boot camp, Carlos’ wondered every waking minute whether he had made the
right decision. There seemed to be nothing to this Marine Corps business but standing still, walking
stiffly, and running long distances—all in a close formation squared by incessant yelling. But as his
platoon began acting less like a loose collection of individuals and more like a being with one heartbeat,
Carlos got a glimmer of the concept of “brotherhood” that had been the common thread throughout his
grandfather’s stories of his time in the Corps.

On Graduation Day, thirteen weeks after stepping off the bus, Carlos stood proudly at attention on the
Parade Deck and waited for his drill instructor to command, “Dismissed!” For the first time in his young,
errant life, Carlos had accomplished something of which he felt an unusual feeling -- pride. It wasn’t so
much pride in self, as pride in belonging. He had often envied the gang members he knew for their
cohesion and esprit. He hadn’t used that word for the gang camaraderie he saw then, but he realized,
now, that was what it was. His father and uncles had closely supervised and kept his brothers and
cousins and him away from gang influence. In fact, it was a favorite half- jest of Pablo’s five sons that
they would beat the gang out of any Ramirez boy that ever joined one; and if the boy survived the
beating, the old man would kill him. Now, Carlos understood the draw of gang membership. He also
understood the difference between a gang and a professional organization -- leadership.

Carlos saw his grandfather stand proudly in the stands when the program narrator asked for all former
Marines in the audience to rise and be recognized, and he made straight for the old man as soon as they
were dismissed from their last boot camp formation. He wanted to run and embrace his abuelo like he
had done as a child, but stopped short, came to a rigid position of attention and snapped a crisp salute.

“Knock that off, Marine! I was no officer—I worked for a living.” Pablo growled and then embraced his
grandson in a bear hug. “Proud of you, Niño.”

Corporal Ramirez found himself thinking of his grandfather more and more these days. His enlistment
would be up in a matter of months and he was seriously considering staying in and making the Corps a
career. He wished the old man was still alive so he could ask him whether or not it was a good idea,
even though he knew what the answer would be — “Tiempo lo dira.”

The helicopter’s engines revved to full power and the intermeshing counter-rotating rotor blades lifted
the CH-46 off the deck of the ship with a lurch. The helicopter banked hard left before leveling out and
climbing to join on the other aircraft carrying the first wave of the company to the predetermined
landing zone at LaGuardia. The trip was a short one and within minutes Carlos felt the extra G as the
chopper’s pilot flared the aircraft above the airport tarmac and then settled it down on its three pairs of
wheels.

As soon as the bird was down, the crew-chief pulled the lever lowering the rear ramp and Ramirez’
lieutenant and his radio operator led the squad off the helo into the pre-dawn darkness. All of the
passengers out, the pilot pulled collective and the helicopter roared back into the air and back towards
the Iwo Jima to pick up the next wave. As the din of engine roar and blade chop receded into the
distance, Carlos marveled, as he always did, at the calm and quiet in the first few seconds after
unloading from a helicopter and distancing himself from the vibration and roar. The calm and quiet
never lasted long. This time was no exception.

“Squad leaders, up!”

Corporal Ramirez shrugged off his pack and jogged over to where his platoon commander and platoon
radioman were standing.
Chapter

He was a self-professed “news junkie,” but the events of the last several weeks had slaked even
Todd McGregor’s ravenous thirst for information. His drive-time had, for nearly his entire adult life,
been dominated by radio news; spurred by a combination of curiosity and self-disciplined study. For
most of his career in the Marines, he had paid close attention to the news for any early indication of
where he and his “first to fight” mates might be deployed in the near future. Since his retirement from
active duty, the old information gathering habits had succumbed slowly to his realization that current
events had much less of a chance of immediate impact on his life. And the news lately had been so
overwhelmingly bad and depressing. The global economic recession that had begun two years ago, had
lingered and deepened with each passing month and, while hyperventilating commentators insisted on
using the word ‘depression,’ it had looked like the situation wasn’t nearly so bad as that. It was bad, to
be sure, but any student of history knew that the economic downturn the country and the rest of the
world were going through at present was not anywhere near that which had been the case in the first
third of the previous century.

Then, at the tail end of what had been a relatively quiet hurricane season, Edgar had raked the
eastern seaboard, slammed into Manhattan as a category 3 storm and then sliced inland in an
northeastward arc that took hurricane force winds and torrential downpours across New England and
through the Canadian Maritime Provinces. The results, while not as dire has most hyperbolic predictions
had been over the years, had, nonetheless, completely overwhelmed the capabilities of local and state
governments to respond. Power and potable water was unavailable for 35 million people. Nearly 10
million were without adequate shelter. The anarchy that followed made the New Orleans experience
following Katrina look like a mere domestic disturbance. Howls of protest at the federal government’s
seeming inaction in the first 48 hours afterwards had turned to shocked silence when the President
went before the nation on radio and TV to announce a declaration of martial law in the affected areas.
Elements of three army and one Marine division, not deployed to the Middle East, combined with 9
ships from the US 2d Fleet and an Air Force expeditionary wing to form a joint task force tasked with
response to what the President had called “an unprecedented homeland crisis.”

Soldiers and Marines from Joint Task Force Hope (JTFH) had begun to arrive within hours after
the President’s announcement. They too, like the local police and fire units, had been overwhelmed at
the enormity of the humanitarian crisis. Overland routes for aid into the affected areas were clogged by
a combination of storm damage and debris and tens of thousands of vehicles abandoned by those who
had waited too long to evacuate to the west and had been caught by the storm as they sat in monstrous
traffic jams. The first tactical units on the ground had arrived by helicopter at key command and control
nodes and had begun to slowly fan out on foot to restore order and establish humanitarian supply
points. When some units began to respond to looting with deadly force, huge angry crowds turned on
the outnumbered military units. The JTF Commander responded with greater force and pitched battles
between military units and desperate civilians erupted across the region. President responded with a
news blackout.

That was a week ago. As he had following Katrina in 2005, Todd had practically gone sleepless
for days watching the crisis unfold live on TV. After the blackout, he watched and listened in growing
frustration to the limited White House reports and the unlimited babbling assessments of news
commentators. He finally forced himself to turn off the news.

A business trip to Chicago had helped to break his deepening mood of despair regarding the
country’s current events. There had been several days of intense negotiations and planning for the
future of a sales program with a client for his consulting company. He had immersed himself in the tasks
at hand and the hard work and mental gymnastics had been curative. He caught a late afternoon flight
out of O’Hare and landed at the Memphis airport as the sun was setting. He retrieved his car from long
term parking, exited the airport, took Winchester Avenue East, and a few minutes later turned onto
Highway 78 East. After three lights, he left Memphis behind, crossed the state line into Mississippi,
accelerated to his customary five miles an hour over the posted speed limit, and set the car’s cruise
control. He reached for his cell phone and thumbed the first number on the speed dial.

“Hello,” his wife’s voice warmed him.

“Hey, Sweetie. I’m on the way home. Should be there in an hour or so.”

“Okay. Have you had anything to eat yet?”

“Half a dozen peanuts,” he answered, thinking of how stingy airlines were getting nowadays.
“What’s cookin’?”

“Oh, I’ll get something together. You just be careful.”

“Middle name, Babe,” he answered automatically. From the beginning of their marriage she
had rarely failed to admonish him to be careful, and early on he had started reassuring her by
responding with “’careful’ is my middle name.” Over the years that response may have been
abbreviated, but it was a reassurance that she demanded of him and wouldn’t hang up or let him leave
her side without getting from him. “See you in a bit,” he concluded and thumbed the ‘Off’ button on the
phone.

His thoughts turned to the lengthening list of chores and projects waiting for him and the
upcoming weekend. When he had retired from the Marine Corps five years ago there had been no real
hometown to which to return, and the primary driver for the decision regarding where to live had been
finding some land on which to live out the dream he and his bride had shared long before they had
married and spent three decades wandering the world as a military family. Both he and Beth had been
military brats, whose fathers had both been career military men. They had both been born in the
Southern hometowns of their parents, and while that was the short answer to the question, “where’re
you from?” the long answer was that they had no roots to any finite place. The places they had lived the
longest in their lives had been on military assignment and were, for the most part, places to which they
had no desire to return. Their dream, shared since they had been high school sweethearts, was a place
in the country somewhere in the South. When it came time to decide where to live—a decision that was
not going to be made by a set of military orders for the first time in the first fifty years of their lives—
they were at a loss.

From a fork in the road south of Oxford to the intersection with the four lane Highway 78 at
Holly Springs, the “new” Highway 7 ran mostly straight north and south, curving only to swing around
natural and man-made obstacles that even the most ruthlessly efficient road re-engineering bureaucrat
could not pave over or plow through. What had been a winding country lane hemmed closely by kudzu-
clad oaks had been transformed into a soulless straight and open tar-patched concrete scar flanked by
the ubiquitous post clear-cut replanting of loblolly pine well off of artificially sloped shoulders. A few
stretches of the new road still maintained the character of the old. One such place was where the
highway crossed the Tallahatchie River just north of Abbeville and just east and upstream of one of the
Corps of Engineers’ signature flood control reservoirs, Sardis Lake. Sardis Dam, along with that of the
several other impoundments of other tributaries east of the Mississippi Delta, blocked the Tallahatchie
and flooded its valley to protect the Delta from floods. Depending on the season and the year, Sardis’
water level fluctuated wildly from upland forest and field inundation to mud flat formation. In wet years
Sardis spread out, covering the land like a huge watery mitten. In dry years, the lake hardly filled
enough of its basin behind the dam to qualify for the definition.

It was dark by the time Todd took the Highway 7 exit off of 78 at Holly Springs and turned south.
He had made this drive so many times over the past several years that he liked to think that he could
take a nap and his car would make it home without his input. Routine commutes like this had always
surprised him with their ability to allow his attention to drift off to the point that arriving at home would
often come as somewhat of a surprise. Little wonder, he would tell himself, and lucky for him it had not
been so accepted to treat attention deficit—his parents just called it, ‘daydreaming’—with drugs when
he was a kid. Had he been born 20 years later, he was certain he would have been a Ritalin Zombie. As
it was, it had always been a challenge for him to stay focused on assignments. He bored of routines
quickly, preferring the excitement of new projects. He had, he believed, the perfect temperament for a
member of the modern US military. He actually looked forward to the next set of orders that would
move him on to another assignment within 2 or 3 years of starting the present one. The Marine Corps’
demanding trainers had instilled the discipline Todd had needed to stay on task, but he was always
looking around for the next challenge—even in the midst of working the present problem. He was so
deep in thought about things other than driving, that the deer bolting across the road in front of him
narrowly missed becoming road kill. Todd tapped his brakes in reflex, but the doe was already clear,
bounding out of the arc of his headlights.

“Crazy girl,” Todd muttered, and accelerated back up to speed. Then, “whoa!” as another deer
darted across the road and then, “this is weird!” as yet another doe and a fawn ran across the road in
the other direction. Less than a half mile along two coyotes bolted across the highway. “What’s going
on?”
 Suddenly the car jolted like a gust of wind had slammed it from the side. Just as suddenly the
car seemed to lurch into the air and then drop giving Todd the weightless sensation he felt on flights
going through turbulence. The car’s engine raced as all four tires lost traction and then the car slammed
down hard with a screech of reengaged rubber and asphalt. Todd reflexively jammed his foot on the
brake pedal and the car’s rear end swung right and off the road onto the shoulder. Todd lifted his brake
foot, turned the steering wheel in the direction of the slide, and was rewarded with control of the car.
But the road had disappeared from the headlights. Todd saw a flash of tree trunks and then felt the
explosion of the car’s airbags as the car slammed to a halt...
Chapter

Mattie Johnson’s cat lay curled in her lap as she sat watching TV. The local sportscaster was
hyping the upcoming University of Memphis football game and Mattie absently stroked the cat’s head,
not caring much about sports and waiting for the weather forecast. Not that the weather forecast
meant much to Mattie’s plans for the coming day—she rarely left her small apartment. It wasn’t so
much that she was afraid to go outside; there just wasn’t much that appealed to her outside her door.
Navigating the musty, poorly lit hallway was enough to discourage someone half her age and the
blighted neighborhood just left her depressed after each foray down the stairwell and outside the red
brick building built about the same time Mattie was born. No, she had all she needed right here—the
latest in a long line of purring kitties and a television to block out the depressing sights and sounds
outside.

Ten years ago, Mattie even stopped accompanying her daughter on trips to the grocery store.
Angela, a nurse at the Le Bonheur Children's hospital downtown, had stopped asking her to come along
after several years’ of refusals and now once a week brought Mattie her groceries and stayed to eat
dinner. Angela’s husband, George, was a firefighter whose schedule provided him the excuse he needed
to keep from going with Angela to her mother’s more than once a year or so. George had escaped the
projects thanks to a strict and protective mother who had demanded he stay in school and off the
streets. Since his mother had passed away, he avoided returning to his old neighborhood or to any
other of the city’s housing projects unless it was to fight a fire, and that happened too often as it was.
For Mattie, the fact that Angela and her high school sweetheart had flown the coop of poverty and
persevered in their marriage for nearly twenty years was the single most cherished happenstance in her
otherwise forgettable life. Her immense pride in them was tempered only by the lack of grandchildren,
the not-so subtle encouragement for she had ceased only a few years previous when it became obvious
that Angela and George weren’t childless for lack of trying.

“Who cares about them boys playin’ football, huh Puddin?,” Mattie murmured low to the cat.
“Never did like that rough ol’ game. Much rather watch my Cardinals play baseball, ain’t that right?”

The cat rumbled in reply and the two of them were asleep together in the tattered old recliner
before Mattie’s favorite weatherman could tell her about the sunshine she would be missing out on
tomorrow. ..
Chapter

“I’m just a buffalo soldier in the heart of America,

Stolen from Africa, brought to America,

Said he was fighting on arrival, fighting for survival;

Said he was a buffalo soldier, win the war for America”

Buffalo Soldier, Bob Marley, 1980

Kendrick Hightower sat at the window of his dorm room on the seventh floor of the eastern twin
of the eleven story dormitory towers--Stockard and Martin Halls. Built in 1968 at the southern edge of
the University of Mississippi’s campus, the dormitory towers were home to a thousand freshmen each
year. Most who resided there in their first year left as soon as they became sophomores to live in off-
campus apartments or in one of the fraternity or sorority houses on campus. Kendrick was on an Army
ROTC scholarship that paid tuition and Ole Miss had enticed him and the scholarship’s federal dollars to
Oxford by offering a significant cut on dorm fees. Since there had been no money from home to help
with living expenses, let alone tuition, the full-ride ROTC scholarship and the inexpensive lodging on
campus was the only way Kendrick had been able to afford college. Born and raised in Helena, Arkansas,
Kendrick

Kendrick’s great uncle Norbert had served in the Army and never missed an opportunity to
regale Kendrick and his siblings and cousins with stories of the great African-American soldiers of the
post-Civil War all-black cavalry regiments—the Buffalo Soldiers—who had fought in the Indian Wars on
the western frontier. Uncle Norbert was an indirect descendant of John Hanks Alexander, the second
black graduate of West Point, and the first to hold a command position in the U.S. Army. Alexander had
been born in Helena in 1864 to former slave parents. Alexander’s father James was a successful barber
and land owner in Helena and ensured that all his children got the education he had been denied. John
Alexander graduated high school in Helena at the top of his class and took a teaching position in
Carrolton, Mississippi, before attending Oberlin College in Cincinnati, Ohio. While at Oberlin, Alexander
applied for a nomination to the US Military Academy and was appointed to the Class of 1887. He
graduated 32nd in a class of 64 and was assigned to the Buffalo Soldiers at Fort Robinson, Nebraska.
These facts and more, Uncle Norbert had drilled into Kendrick before he was old enough to read. When
Kendrick learned to read, he found out everything he could about the Buffalo Soldiers, reading and re-
reading every book and article, watching and re-watching every film. In particular, John Hanks
Alexander had become Kendrick’s hero. By the time Kendrick had entered Central High—the
consolidated high school for the combined towns of Helena and West Helena—he was set on the goal of
attending West Point and commanding soldiers, like his idol had over a century past.
 Kendrick graduated at the top of his class from Central and was nominated by his congressman
for an appointment to West Point. He would never forget the kick-in-the-gut feeling when the
correspondence from the Military Academy arrived informing him that while his high school
accomplishments were impressive, competition for the small entering classes at West Point was
especially keen and Kendrick’s record was not stellar enough.

Uncle Norbert was perhaps even more disappointed than Kendrick and called an old Army
buddy to commiserate and complain. Norbert had served as a radio operator in then Second Lieutenant
Robert Campbell’s infantry platoon in Vietnam. Campbell had made a career out of the Army and his
last assignment before retiring with 30 year’s service had been as the Professor of Military Science—
head of the ROTC unit—at the University of Oklahoma. Campbell recommended that Kendrick apply for
the Army ROTC Scholarship and then called in a favor from an old subordinate now serving at Army
Headquarters who hand-walked his application through the system.

Now only a year away from graduation and his dream of an Army career commanding troops,
Kendrick was enjoying his last Fall at Ole Miss. The football team was winning more than losing—a rare
treat—and the campus seemed to glow in the reds and yellows of leaves turning as the days shortened
and cooled. It had been a long hot summer. Most of it Kendrick had spent in Georgia at Fort Benning.
He had been lucky enough to snag one of the Airborne “jump school” seats reserved for ROTC and
Academy cadets and had spent three weeks earning his paratrooper’s jump wings. After the early
mornings and 24/7 harassment of the Black Hats at Benning, attending classes and studying for tests
seemed almost a vacation. He thought back to the first semester of his freshman year and the five
semester-hour math class that met every morning at 8, and remembered how it had taken every bit of
the self discipline he could muster to get himself up and to that early class on time. Nowadays, he was
up and running several miles before breakfast. When he first started at Ole Miss, Kendrick spent much
of his days sleeping when he wasn’t in class. Now, as his college career was winding to a close, he
spurned sleep. He was having a great time and didn’t want to miss a possible minute of the
experience...
Chapter

Highway 7 crossed the Tallahatchie on a narrow, low-overhead trestle bridge. The set of
railroad tracks belonging to the Mississippi Central Railroad that roughly paralleled the highway came
closely alongside the highway and crossed the river on its own equally antiquated bridge, less than a
hundred yards upstream. The overhead clearance on the highway bridge was so low that an over-height
radar warning system had been installed at either end to prevent too-tall trucks from attempting to
cross. The bridge’s trestle at either entrance bore scars demonstrating the need for such a system.

Where the highway and railroad bridges had crossed the Tallahatchie upstream of Sardis Lake,
the river was barely a 100 yards across at low water. Now the middle spans of both bridges lay crumpled
in the river, brown water swirling around the twisted trestle beams poking above the surface. The light
of a half moon seemed to animate the metal shapes in a writhing mass that in the dark made Todd think
nervously of snakes. Todd stood on the threshold of the ruined bridge and considered his options. He
flipped open his cell phone one last time, saw that there still was no signal, and pocketed it.

“Probably no cell towers left standing,” he muttered to himself. His hike down the remains of
Highway 7 had exhausted him and he still had better than ten miles to go once he got over the
Tallahatchie. He briefly considered finding a safe spot to lie down and sleep until it got light. “Beth,” he
reminded himself. As he had traveled down the highway, the few houses and trailers he could see from
the road looked intact, but he could still not dismiss the fear that his wife lay trapped under the rubble
of their home. Even if she were safe, Beth would be beside herself with worry about him and it looked
like the only way he was going to be able to reassure her was in person.

“Wishin’ you had a boat?” The voice behind him made Todd jump, and he turned to see a man
standing behind him. He had a blood stained t-shirt wrapped around his head and was cradling one arm
in the other.

“Hey,” Todd responded. “You hurt bad?”

“Well, I got a nasty cut on my forehead, and I think my arm’s broke, but I reckon I’ll live. I was
sittin’ on my truck back there and saw you walk by.”

“Your truck? I didn’t see it.”

“Kinda hard to see it—it’s on its side back there off the road. I’m just glad I wasn’t on the bridge
when it dropped. Another 30 seconds later and I’d a been swimmin’.”

“Anybody else been down this way?”

“Yeah, there was a couple of folks that walked up an hour or so after I wrecked. But they took
one look at that river and turned around and headed back north. Said they would send some help.”

“Friend, I wouldn’t hold my breath on that. There won’t be any tow trucks down this way for a
long time. I can tell you for sure that the road between here and about five miles south of Holly Springs
is torn up pretty bad. I expect that the overpass up on 78 is down and I can only imagine the amount of
wreckage up there—traffic was fairly heavy when I was coming out of Memphis.”

“Hmmph.” The man turned and looked back up the road into the dark. “Guess I better start
walkin’.”

“Look,” Todd recommended, “if I was you, I‘d walk back up to Wall Doxey State Park. It’s about
ten miles back up 7.”

“Why would I wanna go there?”

“Well, my guess is that the park ranger will have the best first aid equipment you’re going to find
between here and Holly Springs. Also wouldn’t be surprised if he had a generator for power and maybe
even a radio. Seems a logical place to me for the State to use for a starting point to begin getting aid
into this area.”

“Hmmph.”

“Here,” Todd offered, “let’s see what we can do to splint that arm and rig you up a sling. You
got any other clothes in your truck?”

“Yeah.”

Todd and the man walked over to where the man’s tractor trailer was laying on its side well off
the shoulder, tires pointing back toward the ruined roadbed.

“Whatcha haulin’,” Todd asked.

“Empty,” the man answered. “Was on my way down to Oxford to pick up a load.”

“Where’s home?”

“Grand Junction. I got clothes and a small backpack in the sleeper. There’s some water in there,
too. After I climbed out, my arm hurt too bad to try and climb back in.”

“Thought you said there was some other folks here earlier? Why didn’t you get them to help
you get your stuff out?”

“Been asking that myself for the past couple of hours. Didn’t think they would be so long
bringin’ help back.”

Todd climbed up on the cab of the truck and dropped down through the open door. He stood
on the opposite door, turned right and leaned forward into the sleeper at the back of the truck.

“Hey,” Todd shouted back at the trucker, “you got a flashlight in here?”
 “Yeah, there’s a cabinet under the bed. Should be in there.”

Todd groped futilely in the dark for the bed, and then realized that with the truck on its side, the
bed would be vertical to his right. He swung his arm that way, found the bed and felt for the cabinet
doors. He climbed further into the back of the truck, pulled open the cabinet and rummaged blindly for
the flashlight. His fingers touched metal and he grabbed what he quickly realized was a revolver. He
pocketed the pistol and continued his search for the flashlight.

“Gotcha!” Todd exclaimed to himself as his hand wrapped around the long tube of the flashlight.

“What?”

“Found the flashlight,” Todd hollered back, and thumbed the on/off button. With light, he
quickly found a couple of shirts and a small back pack. The door of the sleeper’s small fridge had
opened when the truck turned over and its contents were spilled out at Todd’s feet. He grabbed a
couple of bottled waters and stuffed them into the pack. Todd climbed back out of the cab and jumped
down next to the driver.

“Need to find a good stick,” Todd swung the flashlight beam around on the ground at the edge
of the buck brush lining the road shoulder. “That one ought to do.” He picked up a branch and broke
off pieces until he had a clean straight section. “Let me see that arm.”

The man’s forearm was clearly broken, but Todd saw that fortunately it wasn’t a compound
fracture. “I’m not going to try and reset this or anything,” Todd told him. “We just need to immobilize it
so that walking won’t hurt it as much.”

Todd splinted the arm, securing the stick to the man’s forearm with a shirt, and then fashioned a
sling to hold the arm across is body with another shirt. “There, that ought to do until you can get a
doctor to take a look at it.”

“Thanks for your help. We never introduced ourselves. I’m Nate Frick.”

“Nate, I’m Todd MacGregor. Nice to meet you…I guess. Sure could have been under better
circumstances, huh?”

“Yep. You gonna head back north with me?”

“No. My home is on the other side of that river.”

“Well, you ain’t got a boat. You gonna swim?” Nate snorted at the thought.

“Reckon I will,” Todd answered matter of factly. He turned to toward Nate’s truck and asked,
“You wouldn’t happen to have some garbage bags, would you?”

“Yeah, I keep a box back in the sleeper.”

 Todd climbed back up into the truck cab, retrieved the box of plastic garbage bags, and jumped
back down to the road shoulder. He pulled a couple of bags from the box and started undressing.
When he started to slide his trousers off, he felt the pistol in his pocket that he had found earlier and
pulled it out. “Nate, I forgot I found this in your truck. You might need it.” He handed the pistol over to
the man, butt first.

Nate put his hand up, “You keep it.” He pulled his shirt up on his side exposing an automatic in a
waistband holster. “I ain’t got but one good hand and I noticed you weren’t carryin’ when you were
climbing in and out of my truck. You might need it more’n I need a second one.”

“Thanks, Nate,” Todd continued to proffer the pistol, “but I’ve never felt the need to carry.
Afraid I might be too tempted to use it sometime, I guess.”

“Just the same, Todd, I appreciate your help and I want you to have it. Never had much use for
wheel guns, anyway.”

“Alright then, thanks,” Todd stuck the revolver back in the pocket of his trousers, rolled them up
and put them in the plastic bag along with his shirt, shoes, and socks. He knotted the bag closed,
dropped it into the second bag, and tied the top in a tight knot to keep it both air and water tight.

“Good luck, Nate,” Todd stuck out his hand.

Nate grabbed his hand in a tight grip, “You too, Todd.”

Todd walked over to the downstream side of the bridge and stepped gingerly down the stone
riprap to the water’s edge. He squatted there and hesitated. “You’ve done this before, knucklehead,”
Todd chided himself, and he recalled other streams and swamps across which he had waded and swam.
But he had been a lot younger, and leading lots of even younger men whose presence at his back didn’t
allow for hesitation or displays of fear. And then he thought, “Beth,” and stepped into the current.
Chapter

Tukabatchee, December 16, 1811

Cepanekerris woke to the sound of dogs howling. It was still dark and the boy heard the voices
of men raised to hush the dogs. The howling persisted. Then another sound joined that of the dogs’.
This sound, a deep rumble, was more felt than heard. Lying on his pallet upon the dirt floor of the
lodge, Cepanekerris felt the earth beneath his back tremble and then lurch violently like a horse trying
to throw him. The ground continued to heave and roll as he scrambled to gain his feet. Cepanekerris felt
like he was standing in a canoe with his friends rocking it to pitch him into the river.

With a crack and a crash the roof of the lodge collapsed, dropping poles and timbers around
Cepanekerris in a shower of dust and debris. A board struck a glancing blow to the boy’s head and he
felt his skull vibrate as he dropped to his knees in the dirt. Another timber slammed into his back,
smashing his face into the ground and knocking him unconscious.

“Cepanekerris! Cepanekerris!” The sound of his name came to the boy’s ear as if from across
the river on a foggy morning. He could hear the voice, but the sound seemed muffled and far off.

Cepanekerris coughed at the dust in his throat and lungs and spat the grime from his mouth.
“Here, Uncle!” the boy croaked.

Pain shot through his left shoulder as he struggled to move and he realized he was pinned under
a great weight. He cried out again, “Uncle, help me! I’m here!”

Suddenly, the weight lifted from his back and Cepanekerris felt strong hands pulling him up by
his underarms. “Oww!” A sharp stab of pain lanced through his shoulder. “Put me down!”

Muktacompee pulled the boy free of the pile of debris that had been the lodge, and sat him on
the ground next to the village lane. “Are you hurt badly, Cepan?”

“My shoulder, Uncle. I can’t use my arm.” Cepanekerris cradled his left arm in his right and
looked up at Muktacompee. “What happened?”

“Winotlichi,” Cepan. “Earthquake. Here let me look at your arm.

Muktacompee felt up the boy’s upper arm and over his shoulder. “I’hamoffi,” he said in a calm
voice. Your shoulder is dislocated. Lie back.”

Cepanekerris did as he was told and, before he could protest, his uncle placed a foot on the
boy’s chest, pulled on the arm and then eased up in one smooth motion. Cepanekerris yowled and then
quieted quickly; partly in shame, but mostly because the pain in his shoulder had lessened considerably.

“Your shoulder will be sore for a few days but you will live, Cepanekerris,” the boy’s uncle
informed him matter-of-factly and with no little sarcasm in his voice. He grabbed the boy’s other arm
and hauled him to his feet.
 Cepanekerris opened his mouth to ask a question, but stopped and turned his attention with his
uncle to the man running up the lane yelling hysterically.

“He is back at the great lake! Tecumseh is back at his lodge! He has stomped his foot and shook
the earth, just as he said!”

Cepanekerris watched the man run past, repeating over and over, “Tecumseh is back at his
lodge! Tecumseh is back at his lodge!” and then turned to his uncle.

“Did Tecumseh do this?”

“No, boy! Tecumseh is not the Great Spirit.”

“But, we heard him tell Big Warrior that we would know that the Great Spirit had sent him when
the earth shook. And that it would be a sign that we should join him to…” Cepanekerris saw the
tightness in Muktacompee’s jaw and stopped.

Muktacompee looked after the man still hollering down the lane and softly finished the boy’s
sentence, “…fight the white man.” He looked down at Cepanekerris, “Boy, listen carefully. Speak no
more of Tecumseh and of war.”

Muktacompee stepped into the ruins of the lodge and retrieved breeches and a shirt and tossed
them to his nephew. “Get dressed and see what you can save from this mess. I go to talk with your
mother and my mother. Stay here until I get back.”

Okifoopatka sat on the ground outside the ruins of her lodge. She was completely dressed
and, but for the pile of beams and thatching at her back, her almost regal composure would
have given the impression that nothing was out of the ordinary in her always orderly world. She was the
matriarch of her matrilineal clan and the unquestioned authority figure. Her name was the Muscogee
word for water-lily, but she was anything but a delicate flower. For nearly a generation she had been
the backbone of her extended family and a leader among the other clan heads. As a play on her name,
she was sometimes called Okifachinto, water-moccasin, but never to her face. She was always calm,
detached, and slow to wrath; but could blister an offender with torrent of recrimination when provoked
to her breaking point. Her expression barely registered recognition as Muktacompee approached and
bowed respectfully.

“Mother, all is well with you?”

Okifoopatka looked back over her left shoulder at her collapsed lodge and smiled ruefully.
“With me, yes. With my home, not so well. Are you well, my son?”

“I am, Mother.”
 “And Cepanekerris?”

“His shoulder was i’mhoffi, but he is otherwise unharmed.”

“That is good.”

“Mother, where is my sister?”

“Ittokoowisa lies over there,” the woman’s face betrayed no emotion, but Muktacompee
detected a slight shake in her hand as she pointed to a form under a blanket several yards away. “Her
spirit goes to be with the Great Spirit.”

Muktacompee groaned and made to move toward his sister’s body, but his mother stopped
him. “No! She is gone. Let her spirit go in peace. You can do nothing for her, now.”

Muktacompee sank to his knees in front of his mother.

 Chapter

“What you are contemplating here is secession—that didn’t turn out so well the last time it was
tried.” Todd MacGregor had listened to the city councilmen and others gathered in the small meeting
room in the town hall describe what they had heard and seen since the earthquake had struck last
evening. Most of the reports were little more than conjecture—there was no power, phone lines were
down, and so were cell towers, judging from the lack of signal. The talk had quickly turned to
maintaining order and protecting property against looters. That topic had inspired someone to half-
jokingly submit that, “maybe it’s time to declare the establishment of the Tallahatchie Free State,” and
was surprised to hear his comment receive serious support.

“We’re not tryin’ to start a civil war. We’re just tryin’ to protect what is ours and that means we have
to take matters into our own hands.”

“That’s right, the state and the feds ain’t gonna be able to do anythin’ to keep us from being overrun.
The governor’s got the Guard and most of the state police down around Jackson dealin’ with what’s
happenin’ in his own backyard.

‘The Governor ain’t even here right now. Read in the paper the other day that he was back over in
Japan on another one of his trade trips.”

“Great. That means Lancaster is running the show in the Jackson, and he ain’t seen the ball since the
kick-off.

“Yep, and there ain’t gonna be any federal troops riding to the rescue anytime soon, neither.

“Okay, so just what is it that you want to accomplish. What is your desired end state?”

“Desired what?”

“End state. What do you want things to look like a year, two years, ten years from now? The actions
you take now will shape your future in ways you need to be prepared to accept. On the other hand, if
there are eventualities that you don’t want to have happen, then you need to draw some distinct lines
in the sand beyond which you are not willing to go. For what, and against whom are you willing to fight?
It may seem like a simple decision to take up arms, throw up some barricades, and post some ‘Keep out’
signs. And, you might very well be able to make it work in the short run. But, the first time you hurt or
kill someone to keep ‘em out, you will have crossed a line beyond which there may be no return.”

“So, what should we do, Colonel, just let gangs of folks run all over us, take everything we have? We
have the right of self defense, don’t we?”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t defend ourselves. I’m just trying to get you to think about the future
consequences of our actions and make sure we have a clear view of what it is we are committing
ourselves to. My guess is we aren’t the only community like ours having this discussion right now.
What do you think the good folks down in Oxford, or up in Holly Springs are talking about right now?
The only difference is they are talking about where they are going to get food to feed the folks whose
only resource used to be the local Piggly Wiggly. There are probably some state and local government
departments adding Abbeville to the list of places to go to get the resources they need. What are you
going to do when they show up in force to ‘requisition’ supplies? Are we going to fight them? I’m not
saying we shouldn’t. I’m just trying to get you to think about the possibilities and the consequences of
our actions in response.”

“I heard that Mayor Banning is thinking about declaring martial law in Oxford.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Doesn’t matter, I heard it. Besides, you don’t think he would?

“C’mon, Pete, you can’t start spreadin’ rumors like that. Next thing you know, we’ll be hearin’ that the
governor is declarin’ martial law.”

“Probably will.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I suggest we focus on what we know for certain. We have resources, food,
and land on which to grow and raise more food, and that make us a target of those whose bellies are
already starting to growl.”

“Makin’ me hungry just talkin’ about it.”

“Let’s be clear, once we decide to take matters into our own hands we need to commit to seeing it
through. We need to know and accept what our actions will mean and how other governmental and
non-governmental authorities will react.”

“Whadaya mean by ‘non-govermental authorities?”

“I mean other groups like ours that decide to take matters into their own hands. There will likely be
men who will take advantage of this crisis to accumulate power. They’ll convince people to follow them
by promising to take care of their needs. If the local, state, or federal government doesn’t fill their
bellies, a large percentage of our population will eventually follow anyone who can deliver on the
promise to feed them. I can almost guarantee that there’ll be someone down in Oxford who’ll stand up
in the back of a pickup out in front of an empty Kroger’s and start enlisting an army to follow him to go
find and take food. It might not happen this week, but give it three weeks and I’ll bet you a punch in the
jaw and give you fifteen minutes to draw a crowd that gangs of hungry folks will start to form to find and
take food.”

“The police and sheriff’s department won’t let that happen.”

“Some of the gang leaders will be police, Pete. We’re likely to see some food gangs form right here in
Abbeville, if we don’t work out a plan to make sure everyone we include in our collective gets a fare
share of our resources.”

“You’re painting a pretty bleak picture, there, Colonel.”

“Maybe I’m overestimating the crisis. Don’t think I am, but let’s say that there’s only a 25 percent
chance that things will get as bad as I’m saying. You willing to take that chance? You willing to bet the
safety and lives of your family on the hope that starving folks will just lie down on the side of the road
and die. Make no mistake, a lot will just give up. But, enough will fight, just as you are willing to fight, to
fill their families’ stomachs.”

“Why don’t we just take ‘em all in and feed ‘em. Ain’t that the Christian thing to do?”

“Charlie, you are absolutely right. That would be the Christian thing to do. There are two problems with
that idea. First, you’ll never be able to satisfy the non-Christian actors that will show up looking for
food. You’re a deacon at the church; you think you get taken advantage of by drifters who stop by the
church looking for benevolence? Multiply that one or two a week by ten thousand. Second, once the
word gets out that you are an easy source, you will be overwhelmed immediately and all of your food
and resources will be gone in days, if not hours.”

“If we decide to go down this road, we can’t start taking half measures. We have to ruthlessly enforce
our own rules against any who oppose us from without or from within.”

“Whadaya mean by within?”

“I mean our most dangerous enemy may not be someone outside of the community. There will be folks,
maybe some right here in this room, who will determine that their own interests are more important
than the rest of us. They’ll start hoarding. Or, they’ll try to make a profit selling outside of the
collective. Or, they’ll disregard the immigration rules we set…”

“Immigration rules?”

“Robbie, do you have family that doesn’t live here right now? Close friends that you would like to take
in? I’m not saying that we can’t bring in folks who aren’t current residents—but we’ll need to set up
quotas and qualifications that fit our resource constraints and community requirements.”

“Hold on now, Colonel, this is starting to sound more and more like some sort of military dictatorship or
cult compound you’re talking about here. I guess the next thing you’ll tell us is that you need to be in
charge and making the rules.”

“Gentlemen, nothing could be further from the truth. I got my belly full of being in charge in the Marine
Corps. The last thing I want is to be held responsible for decision-making the likes of which will be
required to make this work. Frankly, not sure I’m ruthless enough to hold something like this together.”
“ Ruthless? I’m not gonna be a part of something that needs to be led by somebody
ruthless .”

“Not crazy about that idea, myself. But, like I said, once you go down this road, you had better be ready
to accept the consequences. That means you better be ready to oppose even federal authorities, and
you better be ready to enforce the rules you are going to need to hold this all together against
resistance from without and within. We aren’t deciding how much to charge for booth space at the
annual Harvest Festival here. This is a life and death decision that ranks right up there with the decision
made by folks in New England in 1775 and in the South in 1861. The best we can hope for is that we
might eventually become part of some sort of autonomous regional confederation operating under a
form of democracy. But, that would be accomplished at the end of a very rough time. Between now
and then, there’s liable to be a lot of bloodshed and …”

“Whoa, you’re back to talking about a civil war. That’s not what we want.”

“It wasn’t what the American colonists wanted in 1775, or Southerners wanted in 1861. Declaration of
independence from an established authority has nearly always provoked an armed response from those
whose power is derived from that government and whose power will be diminished by the secession of
a part of that whole. The minute we set ourselves apart from the rest, we will be attacked by the rest.
We can’t expect to be left alone. It won’t happen.”

“Seems to me, we haven’t got much of a choice. Either way, we’re gonna end up fightin’.”

“Well, actually there is another option. Form a coalition.”

“You mean an alliance, team up with other communities?”

“Or other forces.”

“Other forces?”

“Yeah. Look, a viable nation-state needs three things—defensible borders, resources, and manpower to
harvest those resources and to protect them from others. We have the first two…”

“We got the third, too. There’s plenty of guns here and people who know how to use ‘em.”

“We don’t have enough. It’s going to take the vast majority of our available manpower to produce food
and energy. We have defensible borders, but we don’t have the manpower to defend our territory and
harvest our resources.”

“So we make a deal with the first gang that shows up looking to take from us?”

“Might be too late if we wait until an army shows up against us. We would need to recruit and train a
force to be ready before that happens.”
“Sounds like you have this all figured out, already.”

“Far from it. I’m still trying to wrap my head around this just as much as the rest of you are. I still have
way more questions and problems than I have answers and solutions. I’m just trying to be as realistic as
possible about our situation and the choices all of us have to make, both for ourselves and our families
and for this community as a whole.”

“Okay. We could discuss this all day and all night for the next week and still be right back where we are
now. And, frankly, I’m not so sure the situation is as bad as our imaginations are allowing us to think.”
Mayor Frank Andrews, as was his custom, sat quietly while others debated the issues, having learned
long ago that listening, rather than engaging in the debate, brought a lot more understanding of the
positions and those who held them. He also knew that once he did speak, the longer his silence on the
issue, the more everyone anticipated his opinion. This situation was way beyond his experience and
comprehension, but the one thing he did know for certain was that he had to continue to project calm
and confidence or his authority would erode rapidly in the face of the storm. “We need to gather some
information about what is actually going on before we start making any decisions or plans. I’ll see if I
can find out what’s going on down in Oxford and Jackson. In the meantime, I think we need to get a grip
on what we have available to us. How much food and fuel do we have right now? What is the condition
of our infrastructure and what can we fix ourselves? There’s a hundred other questions that need
answering. So, I’m going to ask some of you to start finding answers and report back to me and the
council, tomorrow. I know that’s short notice. We’ll probably not get all of the answers we need by
then, but it might be enough information to start making some more plans and decisions. But, people,
we are not about to go to war. Things are bad, but not that bad. We all need to just calm down and
think about what we need to do to take care of our immediate needs.”

“Pete, please check on fuel supplies in our area. Talk to George Emory and see what his tanks have in
them. Find out if we can get fuel without power, and find out if he thinks he needs help protecting his
store. And don’t wait until tomorrow to get back to me. That’s something I need to know sooner rather
than later.”

“Dell, we know that the bridges over the Tallahatchie are down. Please find out about the other bridges,
highway overpasses, and all. We need to know whether and what kind of vehicle traffic can still move in
and out of our area.”

“Roger, we’re going to need to be able to tend to our own folks that are sick or get hurt. I expect that
most, if not all, of the medical facilities to the north and west of us are either out of commission or
overwhelmed. Please ask Susan to do two things for us—make a list of what medical supplies we need
and let me know the best place to set up a clinic. We also need a list of the other folks in the community
who are trained as nurses or vets.”

Andrews continued with his polite, soft-spoken requests of members of the council for specific reports
on different resources and situations, and caught the hardening in MacGregor’s eyes and the ripple
along his jaw line. He ignored the signs of impatience and wrapped up the meeting, “Folks, we are
adjorned. Thank you for your time. I’ll either be at home or here, if you need to get a hold of me.” He
swung his head toward MacGregor and smiled thinly, “Colonel, would you mind waiting a few minutes?
We need to talk.”
Chapter

“Todd, I appreciate your input tonight. You raise a lot of good points. I just need for you to tone down
the rhetoric a bit.”

“Rhetoric?”

“Sorry, bad choice of words. Look, we may very well need to eventually consider the possibilities you
brought up, but right now all of that kind of talk just scares people. And, scared people do stupid, rash
things. Besides, we don’t need somebody south of here hearing that we are declaring our
independence…”

“Hold on,” MacGregor threw his hands up, palms out. “I didn’t start that discussion. I was trying to
bring it back to reality.”

“I know that. I understood what you were trying to do. I’m just not so sure that many others in this
room caught on. Listen, you and I both know we are going to have to take some tough stands, make
some hard decisions, in the coming days. I just don’t want to get the cart before the horse, and I sure
don’t want folks getting all worked up thinking we are about to go to war.”

“We just might be, Mr. Mayor.”

“That may be so, Colonel. And you would know about war better than me. But, I know the people of
this community, and the people running things in this state. I’ve learned that you have to handle both
very carefully in crisis. There are a lot of toes to avoid steppin’ on and noses to keep from gettin’ out of
joint. Letting rumors get out that Abbeville is contemplating what we discussed tonight would not be a
good thing.”

“Frank, you know me well enough by now to know that I’m no rabble-rouser. And, I think you know that
I’m not one to talk out of school. Most of all, I respect your authority. Spent the better part of my adult
life defending the people from whom that authority comes. I’m not looking to lead a revolution. If I
thought it would work, I’d hole up on my own property, mind my own business, and hope everyone
would leave me and mine alone. But, if I learned anything in three decades of soldiering it’s that ‘hope’
is not a viable course of action. Professional soldiers execute their plans enthusiastically, but they make
their plans pessimistically. Preparation for the worst case scenario is the most prudent and ethical
management of manpower and resources. My professional training, heck, my conscience, won’t let me
ignore the hard facts just because they may seem too horrible to contemplate. But, I’ll keep my mouth
shut and my opinions to myself, if that’s what you think is best for your town.”

“Todd, this is your town, too. You may not have grown up here, but you have plugged in and
contributed as if you have lived here your whole life. I’m not asking you to keep your mouth shut. I
value your opinion and expertise. Hell, I’ll admit just between the two of us that your background is
intimidating. I’m sure you’ve made life and death decisions more times than I’ve decided what tie to
wear. Frankly, I’m counting on your council—things might just get ugly enough to need your expertise.
But, in the meantime, I believe we are best served by keeping those discussions between just the two of
us. I’m not trying to be secretive—just want to keep a lid on this to keep it from boiling over.”

“Agreed. What do you need me to do, right now?”

“Well, Colonel, how about we start with you figuring just how much danger we are facing from outside
and how much time we have to get ready?”

“You want a threat assessment and operational courses of action?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I want,” Andrews grinned sheepishly. Just try to keep it in plain English for
this civilian, will ya?”

MacGregor chuckled. “Sorry. Guess I need to work on translation, huh?”

The two stood and Andrews extended his hand to the other. “Thanks, Todd.”

“You bet, Mr. Mayor.”

Chapter

Todd and Mayor Andrews stood over the table under the window upon which Todd had spread
a highway map of Mississippi and another map he had drawn roughly to scale showing a twenty mile
radius of the town of Abbeville. Todd pointed to the several circles he had drawn on the highway map,
“In addition to the bridge over the Tallahatchie just north of here, every other bridge within ten miles of
here is down. On Highway 7 south of here, the bridge over Hurricane Creek is out. The bridge across
the creek over on Old Highway 7 is out as well. The bridge on County Road 215 between here and
Hurricane Landing is down. So there’s no way, at present, to get in or out of here by vehicle from the
north, west, or south. East of here, Ridge Road is open all the way to Highway 30, but the bridges
between here and New Albany on 30 are down. Ridge Road is the only way to get from here to Oxford,
but the highway overpass at 7 and Molly Barr Road is down, so any traffic has to use the access ramps
around that mess.”

“When you say these bridges are down, what do you mean? Can they be repaired anytime
soon?”

“Well, my best guess is the Tallahatchie Bridge can’t be replaced for several months—maybe a
year. The bridges over Hurricane Creek will take some time as well.” Todd paused and looked the other
man in the eye.

“Look, we’re talking about damage to the road infrastructure around here on a scale that would
take all resources the state has to fix. And we’re just a fraction of the problem the state faces. Even
with massive Federal help, and the Feds are overwhelmed right now dealing with the mess up in New
York, it would be the better part of a year before the road system in this part of the state would be able
to support even the most basic commerce.”

“You paint a pretty bleak picture.”

“I’m afraid the picture is going to get a lot worse the more we find out. Assuming this
earthquake’s epicenter was over in the New Madrid fault, I can only imagine the extent of the damage in
Memphis and St. Louis. I talked with Jimmy Talbot this morning. He finally got the antenna for his ham
radio back up and says what he is hearing is that Memphis looks like a war zone. But, he says the only
people he has talked to are not anywhere near Memphis. So, that has to be chalked up to speculation at
best. The thing that bothers me is that he hasn’t been able to talk to anyone in Memphis…”

“That’s not a good sign,” Frank Andrews turned and looked out the window of his office. “If
nobody is on the radio from Memphis things must be pretty bad there.”

“Well,” Todd offered, “there just aren’t as many folks with ham radios anymore and it could just
be that nobody with one has been able to get a generator up, yet. Still, based on the damage we have
seen around here, we have to assume that most of the infrastructure and buildings in Memphis proper
have been severely damaged or destroyed. Frank, there’s a million and a half people in the Memphis
metropolitan area. A conservative estimate of ten percent casualties means 150,000 dead or seriously
wounded. With no sanitation and bad water, that number will double in two to three weeks. My guess
is that there aren’t any hospitals operational up there right now, and if there are, they will be
completely overwhelmed.”

Todd paused as he noticed Frank’s face go pale. Then, measuring his words carefully, he
resumed, “Listen, I don’t want to make this sound too apocalyptic, but the nightmare for the people in
Memphis has only just begun. They have no power, no running water, and what food is left on the
shelves will be gone in a day or so. When that reality sets in, what’s left of the police force will be
overwhelmed. To call what will be happening in Memphis over the next few days ‘chaos’ is a huge
understatement. A lot of folks will try to leave; try to find somewhere outside of Memphis that has a
civilization- supporting infrastructure still intact. They can’t go west—there’s probably no bridges left
over the Mississippi River. Those that try to go north will find that it only gets worse the farther they go.
The best bet for them is to go east toward Nashville, southeast toward Tupelo and Birmingham, and
south toward Jackson. Having the bridge out over the Tallahatchie may actually be a blessing in
disguise.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Frank, we are going to have a hard enough time maintaining order and keeping our community
fed and well. If only one percent of the half a million refugees leaving Memphis looking for food and
shelter come this way, that’s five thousand. Even Jesus only fed that many folks just one meal out of
nothing. Assume that ten percent of that number is desperate enough to do anything to get food—our
food—and that is five hundred bad guys. To me, that’s an infantry battalion. And it takes a concerted,
well-planned and well-executed defense to prevent an infantry battalion, even a ragtag one, from rolling
over you. And, to make matters worse, if a refugee army does start heading this way, there will be lots
of folks between here and Memphis trying to get out of their way. ”

“Todd, even if you are right about the refugees, they won’t be able to come south on 7 with the
bridge out. They’ll head for Tupelo and Birmingham once they find out they can’t get across the river.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on it. The bridge being out didn’t keep me from crossing
and I wasn’t particularly desperate or hungry.”

“But you said the bridge being out was a ‘blessing in disguise.’”

“Yep, makes that line much easier to defend. But that will only help us against the initial
onslaught. The really determined folks will start looking for ways around that road block. There are a
lot of roads up in Marshall County that lead down to the Tallahatchie to the northeast of here and lots of
places to easily cross the river on foot. And, I doubt seriously we are the only folks outside of the
destruction zone having this discussion. If any communities to the northeast of us start blocking or
turning refugees away, that will back up and put pressure on us.”
 “Seems to me that the Federal government would be encouraging folks to evacuate from what
you call the destruction zone, and get to places like Birmingham, Atlanta, and Nashville, where they can
help those cities absorb the refugee wave.”

“Not sure the Feds have the capability to help those cities right now. Remember what
happened to Houston, Baton Rouge, and Jackson after Katrina? Baton Rouge’s population nearly
doubled overnight. Houston, the fourth largest populated city in the country, is still dealing with
problems from taking in just a small percentage of New Orleans’ refugees. New Orleans wasn’t
completely destroyed—just a fraction of that city was uninhabitable after Katrina. Some cities may
decide that it’s not in their best interests to shelter folks from Memphis indefinitely. And, we don’t have
any idea yet about how far north the effects of the quake went. St. Louis could be in just as bad a shape
as Memphis.”

“St. Louis? That’s 150 miles north of Memphis!”

“Frank, the three major quakes in 1811 and 1812 were felt as far away as the East Coast; with
damage to buildings as far away as Columbia, South Carolina. The geology east of the Rockies is much
different than in California. Quakes out there don’t travel through the rock like they do in our half of the
country.”

“Thought you were a Marine, not a geologist.”

Todd grinned, “contrary to popular belief, grunts can read. In addition to being a huge history
buff, geography and geology has always been fascinating to me, as well. Of course, I know just enough
about the subjects to get myself in trouble in a serious discussion. Beth always says my knowledge base
is a ‘mile wide and an inch deep.’”

Andrews laughed in appreciation and then turned his attention back to the map. “I guess we
should assume that Olive Branch…