The hooves of the horses clopped against the broken stone and asphalt road. Mismatching slabs of concrete and graying asphalt paving lay in a broken pattern along a dirt path intermixed with flattened and rain-washed slabs of pink and gray field stone. Swaying on either side of the long path slender middle-aged cucumber trees rose on either side, providing inter-spaced shade and the summer air was sweet with the smell of magnolia flowers. As the carriage passed under the boughs of thick ancient oaks casting checker-boarded patterns of shade and light.

The carriage was built from a pole-built frame, covered in a long cloth of heavy colored cotton cloth. When the summer breeze blew the cover pulled against the frame. Leaning against the side of the carriage a middle-aged man with a pair of small round glasses laid his chin against gnarled knuckles with fading scars and gazed out across the fields on either side. The flashing sunlight glinted and shone off the lenses.

On either side of the road were stretches of long flowing fields that hugged the curvature of the Tennessee countryside. Bright green fields of soy rose and fell with a topography much akin to the playful dance of ocean waves. At the edge of each plotted field a pencil-thin bank of trees and brush drew lines to separate one field from another.

A field of pollarded trees lay along the other side of the road, opposite of the soy. The long slender branches that grew from the cut-away main branches thrust into the air bushels of straight and narrow shoots. Alternating rows of willow and beech created a procession of the copped trees. In places, the trees had been recently cut down, whether for fire-wood or to weave or build with creating half-bald patches in the springy thin trees.

With a tall stature, that only showed when he stood William McAlbridge was an individual whose former youthful strength shone well in his build. As he grew older his muscles had lost their vigor, but still remained as well as they could with someone who had long since left the fields. A long head of ginger-brown hair grew down from atop his head, leaving a thinning and receding hairline as it trailed to a braid which had been tied behind his head. From behind his glasses he looked out in the world with splitting blue eyes.

Having since long left the fields – his family field had actually long been bought out by the man he was going to visit – he had turned himself into a lawyer. Although in the current state of things law was no more complex than the Ten Commandments, the title was little more than a self-confession he was a man who boasted a prominent education; perhaps self-educated even. For William, it had been a process carried out with the money his family had gotten when they were bought out, and a long life of moving between trades and to read along the way, focusing on political theory and history.

He would have been a truly influential man in a sense, if he had a vote to count. But having no significant land, William couldn't be called a defacto county governor. The value of his role now becoming evident as the carriage he rode in came into sight of the large stone-house that stood on the hill overlooking the farmlands below.

Two-stories tall, it was a modest structure by the old standards of the days before the great catastrophe that brought down the world. But in its almost Quaker build it was itself far-removed from pseudo-Antebellum pride and styling which decorated these southern counties of the confederation. It still retained its porch, a large and long white dress that skirted all sides with a gentle slopping roof with wooden panel shingles. The shingles were slathered over in thick wood tar so they were a sticky matte black. Seated in the shade on a chair of wicker was a man in a white summer's coat sat waiting. Watching the carriage as he raised a glass of sweet tea to hail the visitor to his home.

“Good evenin'!” the man called from the porch, rising from his seat to reach out for the porch railing. Albert Ronson was a stately looking gentleman; though he was a farmer, if in name. For many he had more land than any one man could tend and enough money from it to pay people to do it for him. But he was a farmer all the same and held out a glass expectantly for William with the humble generosity befitting a tiller of the land.

“How's it goin', chief?” William asked as he took the glass from Sugar Tongue's hand and took his seat on the porch, his carriage driver expertly turned the cart about and headed to the stables, to tie up the horses and park the cloth-wrapped carriage around back.

“Sun shines, the fields grow, and the tea is sweet.” Albert answered his friend as he followed and he too sat down. Between the two men a jug of amber-colored tea sat on the table. It could no longer be iced like the old-days, but it could still be sweet. He sipped his glass as he looked out over his property.

Albert Ronson's name was well-earned. His words dripped like sweetened honey from his mouth. Spoken slow, but clearly in a way that was calming and relaxing. He never seemed to raise his voice in temper, but kept it level and gentlemanly. It was said once he soothed the harsh feelings of a competitor by simply holding his constant diplomatic tone, and before long the man who had earlier been enraged and disruptive was apologetic and offering to buy him a beer.

But now he was 'chief', a title as devoid of political office as it was informal, but all the same functionally uniting; in a sense. He was looked up to to settle disputes and assuage the tempers of the bitter to maintain peace. And that he that did well. Where others had did so under the threat of violence he worked with the art of flattery and humble offering.

He looked the part as much as he spoke it. A trim neatly kept man with a softly tanned caramel face. Eyes as green and blue as the Kentucky grass in spring shone with an almost grandfatherly light, practiced in his own time in teaching and guiding his own children along on the right path. His trimmed facial hair made him look like a colonel, but the shallow lines and sagging features of an aging man turned him into as much a sage as he was a military looking personality from an even more ancient age.

“Hit's all th' same then.” William said with a smile. He was a smart straight to the point man who spoke a model of English far more ancient than either man could comprehend. He had been born in the mountains, but his father had lead his family into the lowlands seeking fortune. They had gotten good at it, but when push came to shove became hard and he folded and sold. He could have lived as a land renter to the estate of the very man whose porch he sat on but William took himself elsewhere and into towns and cities where-ever he could travel and simply learned and practiced before answering the call of nostalgia and heading home, living in the outskirts of Memphis' old city and marrying a lady half his age.

“It is, but I know that everything ain't the farm.” Albert said, “If only things were easy.”

William nodded, “A-sure as the sun shines, someone's pissin' around somewhere and being trouble.”

“Inner-fact:” he continued, “Bill Curty oe'r Franklin County is gettin' itchy and looks to want to see what he can do to hit further south. If I was to make any guesses I would say he's looking to make an impression of strength to make himself a viable candidate for when you die. But there's rumors Curtis Halmridge from next door in Lincoln is afeared, gearin' to keep a balance with his rival and will like-wise be doing the same or similar. Both men have wide-pockets and I imagine they're going to be bending local wills to one or the other. I predict a proxy-war.”

“Where will they go, Atlanta?”

William gave a certain nod. “For sure.” he said, “Curtis don't have as many allies, not as much as Bill Curty does and a few friends of mine from Lincoln is sayin' that a few of his boys on horses have been moving across the Alabama Line and flirting with the Black Baptists, callin' himself some savior of negro protection. Curtis being a negro himself, he ain't going to have problems.”

“I want this stopped.” Albert stated bluntly, “Can you get them to stop?”

“I'm afeared the chief doesn't have the authority to stop it. And they's just gonna argue that this sort of thing is why the confederacy got as big as it is.”

“I don't mean using my authority.” Albert said, “I mean by whichever means. Will, you have fellow lawyer friends across the region. Can you reach them to convince their allies to refuse the offer?”

William turned his glass of tea in his hand and shrugged, “I can see what I can do.” he muttered softly, “But it isn't a guarantee.”

“Curtis is merely following Bill, if you can cut up Bill's adventures south than Curtis won't have incentive to follow and we can avoid this potentially distracting incident. The way I feel things are now, I need able men on hand and I can't have that with half the confederacy rolling south.”

“I agree, chief.”

Now it was Williams turn to fall into a steady silence, punctuated only by the sounds of the birds and the rattling of the leaves in the upper boughs of the oaks and softwoods that rung the yard. Horses whinnied and huffed somewhere off in the distance. “You're thinking.” Albert spoke up, turning in his chair to William, “What about?”

“How easy it might be if the Chief just had the power to say, and folk would.” Will answered in a long tired drawl, “And beyond that, who I might need to convince Bill to stop.”

Albert nodded his head in understanding and turned back to look out over the yard. The chair groaned as he shifted his weight and he took a sip of his tea.

“If I was to say though,” William spoke again, “your predecessor, Jackson White was a-more than happy to let these sorts fight it out, then he storm in an break up the new territories. Set about handin' it out to his best of friends in the process while keepin' down the ambitious few.”

“I would consider it but I don't want to leave any ideas for anyone outside of the confederacy.” Albert reminded, “I don't need half the land going out to war in one direction and some damnable moon-worshippers from the north swingin' their Jeahad south while our backs are turned.

“I'd be more than happy to reconcile anyone into this great union through treaty and good-will. Less men at arms need to be moved that way.”

Haligonian Quarter, New York, Sylvania

Randolph Hearad leaned impatiently against the wheel of his coach-and-four. A slight drizzle, not uncommon along the Eastern Seaboard of Amerocanadia, was falling lightly upon the busy square in which he waited. Despite its lack of weight, the accumulated moisture was beginning to dampen even the inner lining of his hooded overmantle.

He would have waited inside his coach, were in not that his valet and secretary sat ordering important papers within, and had need of the extra seat for the documents. Randolph was not prepared to exercise his de jure authority to recapture the seat, since his qualifications extended to ‘relations’ only. It was his secretary that dealt with the finances, and it was never any good interrupting the man mid-calculation.

Just as he was beginning to contemplate seeking rudimentary shelter beneath the coach itself, the blurred figure of Mr. Thomas, the driver, materialised through the rain amongst the multitude of anonymous Sylvanians in the square. Randolph straightened himself, brushing off some of the excess water that had pooled in the folds of his mantle.

“You took your time.” He said sarcastically. “I hope you found the man, after all this.”

Mr Thomas did not give Randolph the satisfaction of a response to the veiled insult.

“Yes, sir, indeed I did. He lives at the far end of the Haligonian Quarter, that way.” He gestured vaguely in the direction that he’d come.

“Very well, Thomas. It seems my trust in you was not entirely misplaced, after all.” A small upward tug at the corner of his mouth betrayed his inner amusement.

Parting the front of his overmantle, he revealed his ever-accompanying short cane of pine wood. With a flourish usually native only to conjurers and pickpockets, he rapped smartly upon the door of the coach-and-four.

An indignant face popped out, glaring.

“I trust this interruption means that Mr Thomas has found our quarry, Hearad?” said the face. It spoke with a slight French accent, remnant of its Acadian roots.

“Indeed, Peter. Have you managed to deal with those papers yet?” replied Randolph, coolly. He was used to Peter’s brash manner.

“Well, most of them…” the response began, but Randolph was already moving. With the crook of his cane, he pulled the door open further, almost propelling Peter, the secretary, out onto the pavement.

“Jolly good then. Stand aside, there’s a good fellow.”

Peter could only gape as his ‘superior’ stepped up into the coach, brushing the secretary aside.

The company representative deposited himself next to his valet, Harold. The poor gentlemen had only seconds to retrieve the sheaf of papers that had been piled there a moment before.

“Presumably you have memorised the route, Mr Thomas?” Randolph bellowed towards the front of the coach, causing Peter to wince in the seat opposite.

“Yes, sir.” Came the tight response.

As the driver cracked the whip to move the horses, Randolph settled back into his comfortable seat to enjoy the short journey. Rivulets of rain meandered their way lazily down the window pane, and lulled him into the warm embrace of a daydream.

While the light of the afternoon sun shown brightly down on the countryside the ruins of downtown Tennessee stood dark against the landscape. A ruinous canyon filled with steel and concrete mountains that rose dark and gray from the landscape around it. Crawling up around its corners and through its windows the creeping vines of the Kudzu plant grew largely uncontrolled all through the city presenting an ominous sight to behold at any range. The strength and determined twisting of the plants turned the stone-gray remains of skyscrapers and office buildings into lush green mountains complete with rivers and streams of green vine that completely covered the roadways and concrete with growing vine and a decaying may of vine from years passed. The entire city would have become an unwelcome nexus of a green doom, if the people who did not call their own city Memphis had not built away from the unsafe decay of Memphis city proper. Wrapping around like a human vine human settlement scoured the hills with brick and wooden buildings, and it was this belt that kept the existing kudzu plague at bay for the most part.

From a morning meeting with the Chief, William pulled into the new town in his carriage. The wheels and hooves of the cart and horses jostled and jumped over the cracked and pitted road that wound narrow through a new city landscape of wooden structures leaning over the road two to three stories tall. Albert the Sugar Tongue kept the city modestly rich, and unlike most was not comprised of shacks but care had been taken to beautify the city in spaces. Field stone and brick had been dragged in to lay foundation and there was a serene colonial softness in the city's air as people milled about in the streets moving product and business about. Those individuals who benefited most from Albert Ronson were not hard to find, as their houses stood like urban mansions made out of stone and brick with enough space between they and their neighbors so as to provide comfort. These were not buildings as large as Ronson's own mansion, and by comparison narrow in their width as well as depth. But the way they stood in the city were like the bastions in some ancient castle.

William's carriage pulled up out front of his home, a modestly built red-brick home with a faux Tudor facade that looked out over a cobblestone square where a public pond sparkled in the afternoon sun. Merchants and peddlers had already pulled up into the square and were selling goods from behind stalls or from within large horse-drawn carriages parked around the edge. Their heckling and shouting rising into the noon sky as a human storm as they competed against each other for the attention of the city-folks and the smaller farmers or land tenants coming into town coming in to sell what summer produce they could to afford a bit of luxury. Stepping out of the carriage William turned to the driver, and thanking him for his service paid the young driver dutifully and the horse that drove the cart galloped away.

Turning his back on the square, he stepped inside.

The sign over the door read, “William McAlbridge Appraisals and Reality”, an attempt to make money on appraising the value of old-world junk with some land-trade on the side. His education benefited the former, and the later was supplemental when he had enough funds to put into stock to live off of. This all counting in when Sugar Tongue's support wasn't enough.

Stepping inside he was greeted front and center by the smell of fresh biscuits. He breathed in the earthly aroma as he walked across the empty greeting room for the back. “Sure smells a-good'n.” he called out with a smile.

“Do'ya think?” a woman's voice called out from behind a few doors.

“Do they come with gravy?” he asked, walking into a kitchen-dining room in the back of the house. A homely goodness permeated and the open windows on the far-side let in a mix of fresh air from the outside to mix with the smell of freshly baked biscuits. A bowl of apples stood on a raised unfinished wooden counter that met with the wall, just nearby a clay oven sat, its chimney bent towards the wall and disappeared into the wallpapered wood and towards the outside. Pulling out a metal tray full of crisp golden cookies a homely plump woman stood leaning as she lifted the fresh batch out of the smoldering warmth of the oven.

She turned to smile at him, she was a soft woman with a round flush face and her ceaseless smiling had created no lack of wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. Her hair still hung about her face silken brown and without a line of gray in it yet. William moved to her and gave his wife a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“How was the chief, hon?”

“As pleasant and warm as any man God did create.” William appraised as he dragged his hand along the counter a bowl of biscuits now lay on. Unlike the other this had been finished, or just recently dressed with mineral oil to give it a rich sealed luster that reflected the sunlight coming through the window.

“I'm afraid there'll be no gravy today dear.” the woman said in a conciliatory voice walking up alongside William and touching him gently on the shoulder. “But there's fresh fruit in the cupboard iffin' ya take them with those.” she invited.

“I wouldn't think of denying it.” he said with a smile, moving with trained grace through the cramped kitchen to reach for the bowl.

As influential a man as he was his home was hardly large and navigating the kitchen with two adult bodies in it was a delicate dance. William and his wife Betty both had children, but they had become young teenagers now and both had sent them out to find a trade or employment. It helped to empty the home during the day, but it did not exactly widen many of the economically built rooms.

Despite all things, the couple had collected a fair number of knick-knacks such as the bowl that contained the fruit. A reddish-beige it was adorned with geometrically painted lines and the ceramic was adorned with multiple colors of earthly clay which featured a twine pair of fantastical snake-like creatures that wrapped around the bowl's base. It had been acquired by a merchant who was sailing up the Mississippi with goods from the Gulf. The man had said he acquired the bowl from Mexico. William had no money at the time he visited, but had exchanged a few hours of idle work to acquire it as a birthday present for his wife several years ago. She had used it since as a bowl for apples, strawberries, and raspberries since, claiming it looked like a good fruitbowl.

Treating himself to a handful of strawberries that found themselves at home in the bowl, he tossed them in on a plate of golden corn-bread biscuits and made to retreat from the kitchen.

“I have some things I need to do.” he told his wife leaving, “I'll be upstairs in my study. If anyone visits, shout and send them up.”

“Does the chief need you to do something?” she asked, turning to watch her husband leave.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “I need to meet with a few friends, I got to look something over and write some letters in advance of my leaving.”

“Well, be sure to tell me when you're leavin'.”

“I will, when I set a date.” he said, and left.



A musical chorus sang in a small wooden church straddled in the bosom of a mountain valley where a creek ran beside it and a long dirt road trailed from the church's door to the main road where travelers would be at the invitation of an open road to head north to Pennsylvania or south to Tennessee or the Carolinas. Some five miles north of the village of Tazewell, Virginia the church served a portion of a community isolated in its mountain range.

The village itself had fared as well as nearly any community in the rural lands of America after the so-called end of the world. First inundated by refugees seeking home and food from raiders in the urban parts of America they soon moved on with most of the village's population. Conflict had threatened to destroy the sleepy hamlet, but it was preserved when the banners of the Cuthridge and Barlow families settled nearby in the expansion of a union that'd become a confederacy.

But now these days that was a part of the past and well forgotten. The parishioners now gathered to sing in devotion the songs of the Bible accompanied by a wailing high-energy fiddle and the melodic song of a dulcimer as played by a two-man band standing alongside the wooden pulpit of the local preacher. Conducting the chorus with his hands a tall and handsome middle-ages preacher waved his hands to and fro through the air as if he was conducting an orchestra while himself singing in a deep unwavering voice as he praised the Lord's spirit as much as his son.

The church was his, built by his own two hands after his old houses of worship had collapsed inwards in a violent rainstorm that had stressed the rotting beams and foundation. His new church was an impressive log building, reinforced by beams hewn just over a year ago last summer and the fresh smell of clean cut timber still permeated the air inside. This was a joyous house to him and he would have it no other way.

The preacher himself was the towering Paul Staffeld, an impressive man standing over six feet in height. Though he was handsome in face he was gangly in proportions. Locals made no secret they compared him to a cartoon, especially the way he rode a horse. He looked out of place amid the world and stuck out from a crowd with his wild bushy blonde hair standing not only out, but over all else.

Behind him over the pulpit hung a cross not made of wood, but several rusting and broken pre-collapse fire-arms arranged in the shape of a cross, flanked by a pair of tall plate-glass windows that shone a heavenly light matched by the windows that ran at intervals down the church's length, as well as the myriad of candles and lanterns that burned away, helping to diminish the shadows and bring a peaceable light to the worship.

But the gun-cross was an odd sign, and an even stranger way to construct the holy cross. People called the preacher Paul Saffield of the Gun Cross because of it, and the arranged peeling and rusty black and brown rifles banded and forge-welded together had given his church (and the one before it) the Baptist Church of the Gun Cross.

When the song came to an end Paul rose his hands and shouted, “Hallelujah!” to a smattering of proud applause as his parishioners sat back into the pews.

“Aw praise th' lawd allmighty, he is divine!” Paul declared in a softened sing-songy voice. He held out his hands and smiled, “There be no choir here on this fine Earth can match this fine congregation before I.” he complimented with a warm touch, “And verily, do we revel in Jesus' spirit and mercy. And more so that today I have news to break before you all. It was this morning before we came to meet for our glorious praise our own brother Andrew came forward with his wife Mary and said to me, 'Humble preacher, I come to say that I have given up the evils of corn liquor and I have been a sober man for ten months and three-quarters'.

“And so I invite Andrew to rise before us, so he may receive his communities praise for his blessed sobriety!” he invited, holding a soft hand out to invite the bedraggled looking man with a long mountain beard in the front row to stand. Taking off his hat he smiled wide and rosily as he bowed collecting the enthusiastic applause from the men, women, and children gathered in that church house. The emotion was so strong in the man that as he rose a lone tear was hanging from the edge of his long nose. He dabbed at his eyes with the felt hat he had laid on the floor in front of him as he came to sit.

“Dearest Andrew, God smiles upon you. And there will be no shortage of sweet water in heaven now that you have overcome your ailing attachment to the sinful fire water. You make us all stronger!” Paul praised, offering a polite political smile.

Straightening himself and looking out over the room he spied a lone man standing by the door. He would have been inconspicuous in a darker setting with his long dark over-coat and muddy deerskin trousers that came down to his heavy leather boots. An impatient realization came on the preacher as he spotted a glint of the mystery man's eyes under the brim of a wide straw hat and the long narrow pipe he moved from side-to-side in his mouth. It wasn't lit yet, so he wasn't smoking. But the thought irked the preacher; but he knew it was to catch his attention.

He was on time though. Paul again rose his hands one last time and with a wave of his hands said, “Thank you for coming. But now we must go about our day. Do a good living children, and God bless us all.” he said, warmly bidding his people farewell for the day. At the cue the sound of people rising to their feet filled the high-ceiling room as they made for the door. Bowing their heads in polite greeting to the unknown stranger who stood by the door.

Paul followed the exiting flock, closing the door as the last soul left. When a silence befell the room Paul turned to his now lone companion. “Crow.” he said simply.

“Preacher.” Crow responded in a deep voice. He raised the rim of his cap to show off his face. He was a wide man with a creamy brown complexion. A Cherokee man, or a mixed blood. It wasn't really know, just that he spoke the Indian language and had moved north from the Carolina mountains sometime last winter.

His face betrayed no glory. He was deeply wrinkled for being a man of thirty and heavily scarred. Bite and claw marks riddled his face and more than a few stab and shot woods elsewhere. His brow sagged over one eye, he claimed he had nearly lost it when a man struck him in the face with a hammer and only took half of his vision in his left eye when it connected. Whether or not it was true was uncertain, for now a knot of limp flesh and ill-healed bone hung down in front, carrying the eyebrows with it so it was always furrowed on that side.

“What's the word?” Paul asked.

“The shipment's ready, Preacher.” Crow responded. His voice was low and rough like tumbling stones. He also never referred to Paul by his own name.

“So it'll be on its way out...?” asked Paul again, leaving the question hang for Crow to answer.

An answer didn't come immediately as the battle-scarred man pulled from his coat a long stick with a cotton swab at the end. Inviting himself to a candle he poked the twig into the flame and it sparked to life. He lowered his pipe and used the new fire to ignite the tobacco inside. He allowed himself a few puffs before he turned to Paul. “Yup.” he answered.

“What about personnel, men to move it?”

Crow nodded, “I have a few names, I visited them. You can review the troops before they set out tonight.”

Paul sighed with relief, “So it's all handled then there. I suppose you'll need to get paid.”

“Of course.” Crow answered.

Crow's purpose was Paul's own, and he never told anyone. Walking away he half-jogged down the aisle to the pulpit where he kept a small cash box. Though money was an awkward thing to deal with in the mountains there was one thing at least somewhat universal: leaves of tobbaco. He took the box and headed to Crow, pulling out a handful of bundles of dried leaves and handed them over to the scarred Cherokee man. He took them with a snap of his hands but wasn't wholly pleased.

“Tobacco's not as much as it once was.” he grumbled, “Pennsylvania has been flooding the market in the area.”

“I haven't gotten much else.” the preacher responded.

Crow nodded, “You can pay me then when the job is finished, or write ahead of the delivery to ask if they can handle the rest of the bill.” the low thunderous wait in his voice betrayed a sign of displeasure. Paul couldn't blame him though, he couldn't control how much tobacco – or cotton bails really – that hit the street. If he had some good scrap to offer him though, he would. But all the high-value items in the mountains were long gone.

He nodded appreciatively all the same, “Thank you.” he said apologetically, “I'll be at the still by sundown.”

“I'll be there too.” Crow nodded.