Election Day
Fiction: The settlement of Clearwater holds and election, but the candidates couldn't have suspected the final outcome.
Crowds pushed into the main square of their polluted settlement. Voices shouted and called to each other. Each person had a hand thrust into the air, holding broken pieces of pottery with the same initials carved into the shards: GBQ. It was election day, and the people of Clearwater wanted their voices to be heard.
At the far end of the square, a platform of reclaimed wood had been erected. Around it, militiamen gathered pottery shards into large boxes for counting.
"That's it! Come, vote, vote!" The voice came from a handsome, middle-aged man. For someone who made his money in the local clay trade, he dressed very casually. He had access to finer apparel, but George-Bryan Quinn preferred to appear like the common man. It endeared him to the clay miners and brick makers. He lined his pockets with their sweat and gave them a pittance in return -- not that anyone complained. George-Bryan made sure his workers received a daily loaf of bread and a bottle of hard liquor on holidays.
Today, election day, a holiday his father had established, he made sure his supporters were well supplied with food and alcohol. It gave them the vigour to push through the crowds and cast their votes against any dissenting voices. If any violence happened to his opponent, Viana Shotwell, he couldn't be blamed for it. So far, only a few glass bottles had been thrown.
The stink of the crowd repulsed Viana and her twin-brother Vernon, but they remained on the election platform. Their forefathers had led the settlement into a golden age. Under the Shotwells, Clearwater built its walls and expanded its reach. People felt safe at night. Bullets remained currency, but no one had the need to carry guns. No longer were they a band of scavengers, merchants, and farmers; they were a real settlement in the Wastes
The Quinns had returned them to a level of savagery despite an increase in wealth. No longer were their buildings made from pre-Cataclysm cinderblocks and the rusted sides of shipping containers. Now, the settlement had buildings made of strong red bricks. On the outside, their corner of the world appeared more civilized, but the moral rot continued to spread into the clay carapace of Clearwater.
The Shotwell twins believed that, with a stern hand, it could return to its previous stability, a prosperity beyond mere coin. Few, however, voted for the Shotwells. Viana stood unperturbed by the turpitude at her feet. Statuesque in her posture and frame, she silently bore the indignities her opponent had aroused. The only ones brave enough to vote for her were those whose businesses had been shuttered by George-Bryan's monopolies and those whose lives had been ruined by recent thefts and murders.
Everyone else voted for Quinn. A vote for Quinn, they murmured to each other, was a vote for bottle and bread.
Vernon, however, bore the farce of this election with less poise. He stood beside his twin-sister, not as a supporter or confidant, but as the overseeing militia officer. His father had refused to get his hands dirty with politics and served in the local militia. Vernon followed in his footsteps, recruited at the age of fourteen, and had worked among the military-minded for the last ten years. In that time, he had risen through the ranks and now had the privilege of overseeing the election, even though the whole thing resembled more a mosh pit of the mad.
He rested one hand upon the pistol at his side and watched as his subordinates gathered potshards in boxes. He knew the way the election would go, everyone did. Still, he had his militiamen work the election and made sure the vote was honest.
George-Bryan, however, had no qualms. He had practically built a factory to process broken pottery and carve his initials into the shards. People lined up to receive their potshard alongside a roll of bread. Some of the afflicted and downtrodden took the bread and still cast their votes for the Shotwells. Those caught doing so were swiftly beaten by Quinn's supporters. The militia broke up the fights, but the atmosphere of violence lingered in the air.
"Ah, tough love, Viana," George-Bryan said, crossing the platform. "It seems as though the people have spoken." The man tossed out his hand in a gallant motion, promising no hard feelings. No one had begun to count the votes, but the winner could easily be guessed. His gesture of friendly peace endeared him at once to the crowd. Spectators roared with approval and applause.
Viana, however, stayed put. Her eyes inspected his hands, hands deceptively clean and uncalloused. In the ruins of their world, very few had the luxury of soft hands. She turned her gaze from him to the horizon and crossed her arms.
"She thinks she's better than the rest of us!" a voice in the crowd shouted.
"Yeah!" a chorus replied.
Then, in the blink of an eye, a small stone was flung at her head. She flinched as the pebble struck, but soon a series of stones flew through the air. At once, the tumult began. George-Bryan and his posse quickly left the platform, pushing through the crowd. He had their favour, but he wanted to take no chances in the ensuing chaos.
In a matter of seconds, the madness of the masses spread. The delirium of riot gripped the drunken men, the excitable women, and the young rabble-rousers. People began to toss fists. The shouting became a roar.
Vernon jumped from the platform and pushed members of the crowd back. One of his fellow militiamen joined him at once. Then, Vernon turned his eyes upward. He saw a baseball-size rock rock fly through the air. He followed its trajectory and saw it strike his twin-sister in the head. She collapsed to the ground. Blood flowed profusely from the wound.
Vernon flew into a rage. He charged toward the platform, throwing people out of his way. "Control them!" he shouted to his militia. Spittle flew from his mouth as he commanded his soldiers to fight the people they were sworn to protect.
Quickly, Vernon reached his sister. He knelt beside her and brushed her hair away from the gash across her forehead. She blinked, but seemed incapable of speech. Her lips moved without sound
It was too much. It was all too much. Like water from a rock, the matter became clear. This settlement was ruled by the mob and its masters. There was neither law nor order. The people spoke one language, and that language was violence.
"Very well," Vernon almost said to himself. The words were choked in his throat, swallowed in a silent rage. Only he and his sister remained on the platform. Better this way, Vernon thought, rising to full height.
Almost mechanically, his hand went to his holster. He drew his pistol and lifted it into the air. He stared over the brutal fighting among the crowds. The mob used their hands and fists and feet and anything they could wield. His militiamen, however, flung their clubs and cudgels.
Vernon's finger curled around the trigger.
Bang. Bang.
The earth itself seemed to quiet. The fights and melees stopped as the mob turned to take in the sight of the man on the platform, his hand raised to the heavens. Smoke rose from the end of the barrel of his gun.
"Enough!" he said, a voice powerful and calm. Had he control of his body, he might have felt fear. Instead, it seemed the spirit of another occupied him.
The fighting resumed for a mere moment.
Bang.
"I said enough!"
Vernon called his militiamen back to the platform. They surrounded the makeshift wooden structure, their backs to the man who blew the conch of their tribe.
"Everyone shall return to their homes immediately. Anyone found lingering in the streets after an hour will be executed."
"You can't do that!" a voice shouted from the crowd.
The people around a broad-shouldered man parted from him. Exposed in a circle of the mob, he stared at Vernon. Slowly, methodically, unfeelingly, Vernon tipped his gun in the man’s direction and pulled the trigger.
No one heard the man's body hit the floor. They were too busy rushing to their homes, shouting for others to move.
The election concluded, and they had found their new leader.