Standard Disclaimer: No copyrighted material used in this chapter belongs to me. This story belongs to Linda Howard/Jones with some RIB and the writers of Glee mixed in.

Back to our our Mountain Grinch AKA Sam with his dog, whose tiny heart may have grown more than just a little but is still solitary to a fault and our Cedes, who has stepped out of her comfort zone, will she continue to step up to the plate and what is up with Herb can he just chill out?

Chapter Twelve

Sam got up at first light, took the dog out, then went back in where he made his coffee and fed them both. He had a specific mission for the day.

Yesterday afternoon he'd examined his woodpile and decided that, while he almost assuredly had enough wood to last him through the winter, having some surplus would be a good idea and cutting the wood now would give it a chance to dry out in case winter hung on longer than usual. Almost wasn't good enough. He wasn't assuming the power would come on within the next few months, or even in the next year. It would come on when it came on, and until that moment he'd keep preparing as if it never would. Cutting firewood was going to be a part of his daily routine.

He put some of his supply of gasoline into his chain saw, and dressed up with a jacket, gloves, safety glasses, chaps, and boots. He never took chances while cutting wood, but shit happened even to the most careful of people. Living alone meant he had to be extra alert and careful, because if he slipped up and got hurt, getting medical help was a roll of the dice—and that was true even before the grid went down. Unless his dog would somehow become like the TV dog Lassie and go into town and find Dr. Mike, and bring him back to Sam, and Sam knew that that would never happen.

Before he started cutting down the tree, he took off his jacket and tossed it on the ground, because loose clothing and chainsaws didn't play well together. He made his guiding cut, then the notch, then moved around to the other side to make the felling cut.

He was almost ready to stop cutting when the universal law of "shit happens" kicked in.

For whatever reason, the tree began toppling before he was ready for it to, twisting as it went down, and the broken base of the trunk kicked out toward him. His reflexes saved him. He threw the chainsaw in one direction and he tried to run in the other, twisting so the tree caught him a glancing blow on the back of his shoulder instead of hitting the center of his chest and perhaps crushing his sternum. The chainsaw brakes engaged as soon as he released it, of course, but he still didn't want to fall on the jagged teeth. Instead he crashed on the forest floor and rolled a few yards down the slope of the mountain, until he ended up against a good-sized rock.

"Son of a ...!" he ground out before the air left and came back into his lungs. Once he was breathing again, he climbed to his feet, shaking off the leaves and sticks and dirt that had stuck to his clothes and skin. He moved and rotated, checking that all his parts were in working order. They were, though the back of his shoulder felt as if he'd been kicked by a mule. He had felt worse pain before, so he knew he would be alright. The pain he now felt wasn't as bad as taking a round to the chest while wearing bulletproof shields, but it was bad enough. He went over to the chainsaw and picked it up and checked it to make sure it was still working. He didn't have an extra one. The chainsaw had ended up not far from him on top of a bush which was a good thing because he didn't have to clean dirt out of the chain. When he pulled the starter cord, it roared to life.

He turned it off, and assessed the mess he was in. The tree might have knocked him down and beat the crap out of him, but at least the freaking thing had fallen clean and he could get back to work cutting it down for firewood. While he was working, he could feel a hot trickle down his back where the tree had broken skin where it had hit him; nothing too bad, though. He'd kept going in combat with worse injuries than this. Besides, he was pissed off, both at the tree and at himself. If he'd done something wrong, he wanted to know what it was, so he didn't do it again. Mentally retracing every thing he had done, he couldn't see where he messed up or what he should have done differently.

He continued sawing the branches and trunk of the tree and worked constantly throughout the morning. His shoulder continued to ache, and the blood he was losing caused his shirt to adhere to his back. He ignored both of these nuisances. When his stomach told him it was past time to eat by growling ferociously, and his head reminded him he needed to let the dog out, Sam decided to quit and thought that maybe he'd come back later this afternoon to finish cutting up the trunk of the tree.

When he got back to the cabin, he let the dog out to do its business, which it did, then came running back to the cabin and barked to be let back in. Hunting dog or not, the puppy liked being inside, liked his company. Sam fixed and ate some stew for his lunch, then stripped off his bloody shirt and rest of his clothes to take a shower. Not only was his body sweaty from the morning's work, but his back was still leaking red with his blood. Standing with his back turned to the bathroom mirror, he looked over his shoulder at the injury.

It was hard to tell with all the blood smeared around, but he thought the injury looked more as if the impact had broken the skin open, rather than actually pierce it. For sure the area was swollen and bruised, and still trickling blood. Maybe it needed a stitch or two but he didn't think it was deep enough, and in any event he wasn't going to hike down the mountain and go looking for someone willing to sew him up. It might heal ugly on its own, but it would heal eventually.

He showered, keeping it brief but enjoying the warm water. The bleeding got worse, of course. He got some gauze out of the bathroom cabinet and folded a thick pad, put some antibiotic salve on it, and with several tries managed to get it placed just right over the wound. Then he leaned his back against the door frame to put pressure on the pad until it stuck. There. Good. First aid taken care of. Now he wouldn't drip blood all through the house.

He put on a flannel shirt and some clean jeans, put his bloody clothes in the bathtub and ran cold water for them to soak. Then he made some coffee and sat down for a while to read, pleased with the morning's work despite being injured.

Cedes took a deep breath; there were sixty or eighty people gathered in her store—some she knew, some she didn't—and from what she could tell all of the community patrol was there, which was what she was hoping to be the case. She'd only began suffering from panic attacks as an adult not as a child. If she could just keep her nerves under control and act confident and in charge like her auntie, then she could do this without a problem. Survival of her community mattered more than her discomfort in being front and center. She could do this.

"Most of you may already know that Roz has fallen down the stairs of her home and has broken her leg. This happened yesterday, and I'm only here in her place until she can get on her feet—"

"Wait just a minute." Predictably, it would be Herb who interrupted. "You weren't even elected neither did you volunteer or accept a nomination to lead our community. Why are you taking her place instead of someone who was interested in actually doing the job in the first place?"

"For crying out loud, Benjamin Franklin, just give it a rest," Brett muttered, earning himself a glare from Herb and a snicker from a few others, because the Ben Franklin resemblance hadn't gone unnoticed.

"My name is not Benjamin Franklin. It is Herb Duncan," Herb snapped.

Her heart started pounding hard and her cheeks were enflamed. Cedes wanted to just walk out and leave them to it, but instead she said, "To answer your question Herb, because Roz asked me to take her place in the meetings. And because I talk to her several times a day, every day."

"That still doesn't make you the logical—"

"It does to me." Mike frowned at Herb. "Maybe you weren't standing close enough to hear that night at the school, but most of the ideas Roz presented were ones Cedes whispered to her. Cedes was the one who handled things early this morning when the Carlisles had that break-in."

There was an immediate buzz of comments from people asking what had happened, exactly, how were the Carlisles, had the sheriff been contacted, etc., which set Herb off in another direction. "I didn't even hear about the Carlisles until just before I got here. Why didn't someone make the effort to notify me last night?"

"Maybe because no one wanted to walk halfway up Cove Mountain in the dark with bears and other wild animals prowling around," Mike said irritably. "For Pete's sake, Herb, we didn't go out and get every member of the community patrol. We let people get their sleep. There was nothing you or the others could have done."

A flurry of comments and questions, about both Roz and the Carlisles, drowned out and deflected anything else Herb might have said. He didn't question Mike, but he looked sulky about it.

Cedes held up her hand, and wonder of wonders, the noise quieted. "Roz will be fine, it was a simple break, but she has to stay off her feet for about eight weeks. The Carlisles aren't hurt. We have no way of notifying the sheriff, so we did what we could. It looks like a clear case of self-defense. The intruder was armed and shot at them, and Jim was a better shot. The intruder was from the Nashville area. We have his driver's license, he was photographed and fingerprinted, and Jim gave a signed statement. The man has been buried. That's the best we can do."

There was another half hour of basically the same questions asked over and over, just framed slightly differently.

She caught Mike's eye, gave him a look that combined "help me" and exasperation, to which he responded with a small smile and a thumbs-up, which wasn't at all helpful.

As firmly as she could, she said, "Moving on, I have a couple of other things on our to do list to go over. First, is there a potter in the area? And a kiln, too. I know there's a pottery store over in Sevierville, but I'd prefer one that's more convenient. There are a lot of people who don't have fireplaces, and they need a heat source. A clay brazier with an oven rack over it would provide both heat and a way to cook this winter."

That provoked some thought, scratched jaws, and more conversation as they worked through the problem set before them. A woman said, "I'll go talk to Holly Holiday. I think she used to do some pottery, or maybe that was her mother. Either way, she might know something about a kiln."

"Thank you. Anyone else know anyone who can throw pots? They don't have to look pretty, they just have to function."

"My kids did, in Vacation Bible School."

There was a round of laughter, but Cedes pointed at the man who had spoken and said, "Good, we may need your kids." She was only half joking but it did clear the atmosphere of the earlier tension caused by Herb.

A few people brought up issues that Cedes jotted down in her notebook to check out and get back to them. The meetings had taken on a routine. They talked about what would be needed in the immediate future, what had happened in their respective neighborhoods, and some of what they'd need long term, though discussions of the last sort were scary and short, because no matter how they tried to prepare, the truth was they had no idea what might happen. Day to day was easier; they could manage that. Wondering what January would be like scared the hell out of all of them.

She'd talk to Roz about everything mentioned, though she was fairly sure she knew what Roz would say. That way Roz wouldn't feel left out, because despite her protestations, she had always loved making a show of things—hence the color of hair, which was growing out. Cedes made another note: find a hairdresser who could freshen color, if possible. That would keep her aunt in good spirits.

Finally people began exiting the cold store. Without a heat source the inside always felt as if it were twenty degrees colder than it was outside, where the sun had heated the day to around sixty. By the end of the month it would be much colder. Sighing, Cedes made another note. Find another kerosene heater, or else tote the one they had—the one they'd been saving for when it would really be needed—to the store for each meeting. Or maybe they'd luck out and find someone who really could make braziers. It was either that or find another place to meet.

Through the windows she saw knots of the others still standing around outside, talking. In the almost two months since the power went out she had met and recognized many more of the area residents than she had before, but every week she saw new faces after the meetings, people who didn't necessarily want to attend a meeting but who wanted to talk to the ones who had. They were usually people who lived outside the city limits of Cosby and well beyond the heart of the community, and who had to travel several miles to get here. Most of them just wanted to make sure that their neighborhoods weren't forgotten, and to be included in any food distribution—as if that ship hadn't sailed back at the very beginning. What people had now was what they had either put back, or hunted, fished, or bartered for.

As she had requested beforehand, the members of the community patrol remained behind, and gathered closer now that the majority of people had gone outside. "What's up?" Mike asked.

"Do we need to step up patrols, after what happened with the Carlisles?" Herb suggested, which wasn't a bad idea.

"Probably," she replied, nodding at him. He looked somewhat gratified, and smug, that she hadn't shot him down again. "But that's up to y'all, because you know what you can do. This is something else entirely." She blew out a breath. "When the announcement came that the solar storm was coming, I shut down my gas pumps."

There was silence, realization dawning across their faces. "Holy moly," Dave said. "You're sitting on gold."

"Not really. It's gold with a time limit. It's ethanol gasoline so it'll go bad if I keep it much longer. We need to dispense it, get it out into the community where it can be put to use. Likely January and February would be times when it'll be more needed, but who knows if it'll be any good by then? We'd be gambling big. By now the octane level has degraded but it's still usable."

She took a breath, organized her thoughts. "We can fill up your vehicles, run some generators, chain saws to cut more wood. People can get warm, take hot showers, and do some emergency cooking. If we can find a kiln anywhere near and use the gasoline to fire it up, to make braziers, then we'll have heat sources for people who don't have fireplaces. Those are my suggestions. If anyone has more, or different uses, that's up to them. I'm not about to try to micromanage all that."

Predictably, Herb burst out with anger. "You've been selfishly sitting on tanks of fuel all this blasted time—"

"Saving it for when we'd need it the most. Yes, I have." Her tone didn't quite have an edge to it, but she was getting there. It took a lot to get her angry . . . but she was definitely almost there. If the chore of "community leader" actually paid anything, or had prestige, his resentful attitude would make more sense—but it didn't, and mostly it was endless lists, a pain in the butt, and listening to people complain. And darn if she'd apologize to Herb for how she managed her own products or possessions.

"The first freeze can occur at anytime," Mike said. "I'm surprised it's held off this long. I'd say you have perfect timing and used wisdom in saving the gas when you could have made a killing selling it before the CME hit."

"Thanks, Mike. I have tanks for ten thousand gallons each of 87 and 91 octane, and would get a delivery every four days during the tourist off-season, every three days during peak. It had been two days since my last delivery, so I have roughly five thousand gallons of each, ten thousand total. What I don't have is a way of getting it out of the tanks. Does anyone know how to rig a suction pump?" She had asked Sam about rigging a pump, but he wasn't here at the moment, so she might as well see if anyone else could handle it.

"I've siphoned gas out of a car, but never anything that big," Brett said. "Most of us have done that. Still, I guess the method is the same. I think I could have something rigged up by tomorrow."

Someone else said, "Some people have propane generators, so there's no help for them, but just as many have gasoline powered."

"Get the word out," she said. "Hoarding it won't do any good, because it'll go bad. What they get, they need to use. Everyone who can needs to come tomorrow to fill their tanks or gas cans."

"Another suggestion," Mike said. "It's up to you, because it's your gas. But you paid for that gas, and if we take it without paying you, you're going to be left holding the short end of the stick when the power comes back on."

"People don't have money—"

Herb. Of course. For a surprisingly potent moment she thought about giving him the finger, something she'd never done to anyone's face before. The urge was so strong she had to clench her hands. One day, though . . . well, maybe. She'd need to work on that. The unrelenting stress was either wearing her down or building her up, and she wasn't sure which.

Mike held up his hand. "I know that. Hear me out. We should pump it out in five-gallon cans so we can write down who gets how much, and the price it cost when the grid went down. When everything gets back to normal, people should pay you for the gas. That's only right. Cedes can't afford to just give away thousands of dollars of gasoline."

He was right, and she hadn't thought that far. Her mind had been more on using the gas before it went bad, and helping people survive the winter, than it had been on profit and loss. She had kept the much smaller tank, the one with hundred percent gasoline in it, for herself and emergencies, and she felt guilty doing even that, but she had three other people to think of and take care of.

She looked around at her empty store—and it was completely empty. The shelves and refrigeration spaces were bare, not a cracker left, not a can of Spam, literally nothing other than some oil and fuel additives. She'd have to completely restock, and wouldn't be able to do it all at once because goods would only gradually become available again. Who knew when the pipelines would start moving oil to the refineries again? Just living was going to be a struggle, at least until spring.

"That's all I have to say. Y'all get the word out about the gasoline. I'm not going to play favorites, not going to pick and choose who gets it—except for maybe someone with a gas-fired kiln, but that will benefit all of us and could save some lives this winter. Starting at nine o'clock tomorrow, if Brett has a suction pump going, we'll start emptying the tanks. I suggest y'all drive here and have your vehicles first in line, because Herb was right about stepping up the patrols. We might have more people who are up to no good coming into the area."

Almost everyone got up to go; Mike was the only one who stayed behind. "That was a smart thing, shutting down the pumps."

"It didn't feel smart, I was out of mind with fear."

"Right along with everyone else. You still did the smart and right thing." Crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits to keep them warm, he stared out the window at the people still standing around in the parking lot. The patrol members were moving through the crowd, spreading the news about the gasoline. She watched them, saw excitement dawning at the prospect of a small taste of luxury, because that's what the gasoline represented: heat, mobility, a brief respite from making do, and a means of swiftly increasing their woodpiles. Fire meant life.

"I know that I am the only doctor around here, but I am a surgeon who worked as a medic almost twenty years ago. I do what I can. We had someone almost cut his finger off this morning, chopping wood. One of his neighbors is a retired veterinarian and he sewed it back as best he could; I went by and checked on him and it was as good as a job that I would have been able to do with the resources we now have. There's also a couple of cases of what might be the flu going around. Again nothing I can do about it, but I thought you should know what was going on from a medical standpoint."

They had no medical team. Those with nursing, veterinary, and medic training have been doing what they could, and Mike was only fetched if it was a serious injury.

"The flu? This early in the year?" That didn't seem likely. If anything, they should be safer from the flu this year. They'd had almost no close contact with anyone from outside their neighborhoods, no one was touching contaminated cart handles in Walmart or Kroger.

Mike shrugged. "That's what I heard. I kind of doubt it its the flu. Severe Colds, yeah, but I'm not going over there to check. Their colds will get better unless is turns in pneumonia." He frowned as he looked out the window, and Cedes turned to see what had caused the frown.

"What?"

"Herb's talking to Lawrence Nelson. I know you said don't pick and choose, but I hate to see good gasoline going to a piece of trash like him. Still, he's got a couple of kids, so that's that."

Cedes watched the two men, who had stepped away from the others. Herb's body language was saying he was large and in charge, or at least he thought he was. Lawrence Nelson looked vaguely familiar, or maybe it was his name she'd heard before. He was a young man, and good-looking in a lean, wolfish way. Maybe he'd bought gas here before. She was tired and didn't care much. She wanted a nap, but that wasn't going to happen. There was too much to do, and she felt as if the typhoon of responsibilities was about to swallow her up and drown her.

Herb might not like Cedes Jones hiding the fact that she had thousands of gallons of gasoline hoarded, but he did like telling people about it, seeing how excited they got and being able to answer their questions. It was as if they thought he was doing them a favor. He was slapped down so often in this community, for a change it was nice to be looked up to.

For once he agreed with her that the community patrol should be first in line; he'd fill up his car, and if Bailey wanted to go anywhere he'd be able to take her. Too much walking wasn't good for her. She was losing weight—not a lot, and really everyone was, but it worried him. If anything happened to her, he wanted to be able to get her down the mountain to the doctor. He couldn't stop himself from worrying about her, even though she insisted she was fine.

"Hey, Herb."

He jumped a little, because he'd gotten distracted, and looked at the young man he'd been talking to a minute ago. The man inclined his head. "Let's step over here, away from the others, so we can talk."

Herb started to decline, but maybe there was something interesting he needed to know. Together they walked to the edge of the parking lot, where they couldn't be overheard.

"Sorry, I don't know your name."

"Lawrence." The man put out his hand for a quick shake. "Lawrence Nelson."

Nelson had a hard look to him. He was lean to the point of thinness, and he needed both a shave and a haircut, but these days who didn't—except for himself, of course. He made an effort to stay well groomed, partly for Bailey, and partly because when he was at his tire stores it was important to look professional. In his opinion, it was a good habit to have.

"Do your friends call you Larry?"

That earned him a hard stare. "Do yours call you Ben Franklin?"

Point taken. "What can I do for you, Lawrence?"

"I have a few thoughts about this community patrol."

"Then why didn't you speak up at the meeting?"

Nelson made a sharp, dismissive motion. "Like that would work. That Jones woman and her smart-mouthed aunt, those two black bitches think they're better than everyone else; Obama is no longer president. This is Trump country, and we need white men to show those two how things around here should be run."

He was right about that. He'd thought that Roz Washington was so full of herself it was a wonder she could eat, while the niece had stayed in the background, but now he knew that one was just as bossy as the other.

"What's your idea?"

"My idea is that the community patrol is a waste of time, the way they've got it set up. Me and my cousin, we volunteered at the beginning. Most of the men involved don't know their ass from a hole in the ground. They just walk around and look important. Did they do anything to stop old man Carlisle from having his home broken in to? No, the old man took care of it himself. I think we need our own community patrol—patrol 2.0, you might call it. I don't have the smarts to lead an effort like that, but I think you do. I think you'd be good at putting together an army of sorts, taking control of this area, making people do what they should."

Herb hesitated. He was already in the community patrol, and Lawrence Nelson looked like the type of person he'd always avoided. On the other hand, no one else had sought him out, asked his opinion on anything, or made use of his expertise in management and organization. Cedes Jones was going about everything all wrong, waiting for people to step up and volunteer, waiting for them to donate their goods and time and services. People would hold back for themselves, instead of some New Testament thing so that everyone was taken care of.

"I don't see any harm in discussing this," he finally admitted.

"Good. Maybe tomorrow afternoon we can meet with at your house with a few of my friends."

Herb's first instinct was to keep this far away from Bailey. "No, no sense in everyone walking that far, I'll come down. Beside the bank, after lunch. How about around two?"

Lawrence nodded, said, "See you there," and with a quick wave of his hand walked away.

An army . . . of sorts. Herb couldn't stop the thrill that ran through him at the thought. And they wanted him to be in charge. They would take over this community, and do things right. Make their community great again.