299 Days: The Stronghold

Chapter 114 The Pierce Point Patriot (May 11)

The meeting broke up. Many people wanted to talk to Grant and thank him for shutting down Snelling and Abbott. Not all were thanking him, though. Some looked at him like he was a threat, like they were trying to figure out how he was going to screw them. That was fair. Politicians had been doing that regularly for several decades. And now here was a guy talking about following the Constitution; a guy with a scary rifle and a pistol. A little scrutiny was warranted.

There was one last guy who wanted to talk to Grant. He waited around for a while until everyone else was done and then came up and said, “Hi, Mr. Matson, I’m Ken Dolphson. My wife, Barbara, said you needed a copy machine.”

“Oh, great, Ken,” Grant said as they shook hands. “I think your copy machine can help perform an important service for the community out here.”

“What would that be?” Ken asked.

“A newspaper,” Grant said. “A one-page, double-sided piece with community news. Things like an obituary for Mrs. Roth. Updates on how people can help or be helped. Maybe letters to the editor. That kind of thing. Would you like to donate the use of your copier for that?”

“Oh, sure,” Ken said. “I had never thought of having a paper out here. Yeah, that would be great.”

“How much paper do you have out here?” Grant asked.

“Oh,” Ken said, thinking about how much he had, “I got several reams for all the flyers I do for my listings. I got a whole pallet of paper delivered out here a few years ago and have almost all of it. Sales of real estate are down a bit right now,” Ken said with a smile. “Can you design the paper? You know, headlines and that kind of thing?” Grant asked.

“I guess,” Ken said. He’d never put together a newspaper, but had done lots of fliers. Ken realized that, in the Collapse, people were doing lots of jobs they never expected to. “No problem,” he said. “Do I have to go get the stories?”

“No,” Grant said, “but you can if you want to. Anyone can publish a story. I have plenty of story ideas, like that obituary I mentioned. Mary Anne Morrell can write it; she had been taking care of Mrs. Roth.”

“What’s the paper going to be called?” Ken asked.

“The Pierce Point Patriot,” Grant said. The name jumped right out at him. The Patriot. That’s right. It would be a source of local news and non-political information that people could use. And they could trust it—unlike the news on TV and the internet. There wouldn’t be much, if any, overt political opinion. There wouldn’t need to be. If the Patriot told people where to get AA batteries and who was having a canning party to put up the season’s apple crop into applesauce, it wouldn’t need to have an editorial about the Founding Fathers or why the former government was a failure. It would be pretty obvious: the former government was a failure because they couldn’t provide anyone with AA batteries or apple sauce. The Patriots were providing those things. The Patriots were solving the problems that the former government created. That’s the kind of politics that people would gravitate toward: solving their problems, fairly and without force. So, one of Grant’s most political ideas, the newspaper, would not show any signs of being political.

“All I ask,” Grant said to Ken, “is that the name of the paper be the ‘Pierce Point Patriot’ and the logo be the ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ flag. Would that be OK, Mr. Publisher?”

Ken laughed at being called the publisher. “Sure,” he said. Ken had been sick of how things had been going for some time. The things the Feds did to the housing market were unbelievable. Ken hadn’t said anything; it was bad for business to be “political” especially if that meant pissing off the government people who held the approvals his business needed in their hands. He didn’t think there was anything he could do except try to eek out a living and pay his taxes. But, Ken had decided quite a while ago that the country needed a “restart.” So now he was the publisher of a Patriot newspaper. Fine with him.

Ken paused. He couldn’t help it, “Can I put in a little ad about my services? I will do property sales—with our own property title records system I guess we’ll have out at the Grange here—in exchange for some barter. Would that be OK?” Another use for the lot numbers: records of property sales.

“Of course, Ken,” Grant said. “Our side is all about free enterprise and small business. You are donating the copy machine and the paper. You’re entitled to a little advertising.” Then it hit Grant. This was the first sign of economic activity he’d seen out there. Donating deer meat to guys on guard duty didn’t count. But ads for realtors and buying and selling property did. For a brief moment, Grant thought that a recovery would be possible. This is how it would start: small and without government. People doing what they always have done: buying and selling things. The rebuilding is already showing signs of beginning, Grant thought.

It was late and Grant was tired. Really tired. He would try to sleep in tomorrow. He said good night to Ken and Rich and found out the Team had already gone back in Mark’s truck. Grant got on the moped and rode home on another beautiful May evening.

It was warm out, even after dark. The stars were out. In the middle of all this man-made mess and misery was beauty. Nature’s beauty.

Grant couldn’t turn his mind off. Today he had gone on patrol and conducted a census, outlined a criminal justice system, a Constitutional governance system, and a civil courts system. He had been elected as judge, kind of; there hadn’t been a vote, really. He had thought on his feet, tried to hand his pistol to a hostile man, and verbally demolished an opponent. Oh, and started a newspaper. Not a bad day’s work.