Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors by Benjamin Wallace Page A

the rig that he had sketched on the wall of the town hall barn.
    Gasps came from the gathered crowd. Every citizen of New Hope was in attendance to hear the proposed plans for the defense or evacuation of New Hope.
    “What do they do with the slaves?” The question arose from the back of the room.
    Logan shook his head, “I don’t know. Trade them? Forced labor? Worse? There are no limits to this man’s evil.”
    “How many men on this truck?” Sheriff Willie Deatherage looked up at the crude drawing of the rig.
    “Twenty or more.”
    “I’m pretty sure we’ve got that many bullets.”
    Logan raised a hand to calm the lawman. “All of them are well armed and trained. They may be former military.”
    “I don’t buy it.” A young councilman stood in the back of the room. After speaking with Logan, the mayor had requested a gathering of the town’s administrators. Most of the council members supported his plan. Timothy Simmons, however, had been swayed by Roy’s arguments. The young council remained skeptical that there was a threat at all.
    Simmons pushed a pair of ill-fitting glasses further up the bridge of his nose before he spoke. “It’s been seven years. Seven years since everything stopped and we’ve never seen anything like this. Why, all of a sudden, is the post-apocalypse turning into Mad Max?”
    Logan straightened, “I don’t mean to argue, but you’ve been fortunate. Gangs have formed and towns have burned. I’ve seen it. And, I’ve stopped it from happening.”
    “Bullshit. Bullshit, Mr. Logan.” The glasses slid back down his nose.
    “Why would I make this up?”
    “A good question, Mr. Logan. Let’s examine that, shall we?” The young councilman approached the front of the room, adjusted his glasses and spoke to the crowd. “Have you ever heard of the grasshopper and the ants?”
    Logan shook his head in disbelief. “That’s hardly …”
    “The ants, ladies and gentlemen, worked diligently all year harvesting food for winter.”
    Someone in the crowd muttered, “We know the story, Timothy.”
    The young man continued, fidgeting with his new glasses as he spoke. “They worked hard, storing food so that they might live. But, the grasshopper …” He turned to face Logan. “The Grasshopper, Mr. Logan, played and played. And he didn’t do shit for work.”
    “Yes, sir. I know the parable and …”
    “And, when winter came, the grasshopper began to starve. That lazy, lazy grasshopper. And, the ants took pity and fed him. No, wait. That’s not right.”
    “I think the ants let him starve,” said the Director of Internal Communications.
    “No, they fed him and he learned to work hard,” said the Secretary of the Treasury.
    The crowd began to offer their own recollections of the story:
    “I thought that the grasshoppers were bullies.”
    “No, that was A Bug’s Life.”
    “Was that the one with Stallone?”
    “No, that was Ant Bully.”
    “Antz.”
    “What?”
    “You mean Antz. With a z. Antz.”
    “What’s with a z?”
    “The ant movie with Stallone and Woody Allen.”
    “Look at the movie nerd.”
    “Shut it, Miller.”
    “The point is, ladies and gentlemen,” Timothy shouted, “that the story is no less true today than when Dr. Seuss first penned it. And here,” he pointed to Logan, “is our grasshopper. Knocking on our ant hill with a story about a truck full of killers.”
    The room was quiet. All men and women looked to Logan. The only sound was Miller and the movie nerd trading insults back and forth. Logan waited for the arguing to stop before he responded.
    “Wow. Just, wow. I don’t know what to say to that.”
    “That’s what I thought,” Timothy began to walk back to his seat.
    “Aesop, not Seuss, Mr. Timothy, was a wise man. And,” he gestured to a gray-haired man in the front row, “you were right, the ants let the grasshopper starve. And deservedly so. The grasshopper sang and played while the ants toiled. He offered