[b]The Democratic Nation of Jackson[/b] Sherman Potter took a large swig of whiskey and tried to get up. His hangover was still killing his head, but the whiskey helped with the worst of it. Finally, on his fifth try, he was up on his feet and getting ready for the day. His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt and buckled his belt. A few more long sips of whiskey killed the shakes and got him to an operational level. Once upon a time, Potter had been without a doubt the worst doctor in the Grand Union Commonwealth. He killed more than he saved. That led to an awkward situation where he began to make money off of the killing by selling the dead bodies to interested parties. He was nearly hanged in Independence, quick timing and an even quicker horse got him out of town by the skin of his teeth. He headed out into the wilds and found Jackson three years ago. While he was the worst doctor in the Commonwealth, he happened to be the best doctor in Jackson... if only by default. He kept up his drinking, but only after work and to cure hangovers. He was still an alcoholic by any textbook definition, but now he wasn't a reckless one that killed patients. And to Potter, that made all the differences. "Doc Potter!" Potter was just out of his door when little Johnny Greene came running up. "My ma needs help, doc. My sister's sick... bad sick. We don't know what's going on." "C'mon," Potter said as he put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Show me." Johnny led Potter down the dirt road of Jackson towards the outskirts. The Greene family lived in house no bigger than a shack. Next to it was a field made up of half corn and half wheat. The plants were still sprouting, but it looked like a good indication that they'd have a nice crop this summer. "He's here," Johnny said as they went into the shack. Miriam Greene looked up and breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Potter. She was sitting beside a mattress laid on the floor. On the mattress was a little girl covered in blankets with a sweaty forehead. "Doc, thank god," Miriam said as Potter stepped forward. "She's got a fever. She's been sick the last few days, but I just thought it was a cold." "Let me see." Potter got on his knees and looked the little girl over. He pulled the covers back and could feel the sweat that drenched the blankets. He saw swelling near the neck and jaws along with something that frightened him. The little girl's face and neck were covered in dots. She was wearing pajamas, but he had no doubt that the dots were all over her body. He knew exactly what she had. Potter had seen it in a medical textbook the Commonwealth had managed to find somewhere. Smallpox, the book called it. Highly contagious and highly deadly if not treated right. The book said it had been all but wiped out by vaccines. But that was in the last age. That was before the people who made that miracle world tore it apart in a nuclear holocaust. Now, in the world they lived in, something like smallpox could destroy a whole town in no time. "Shit," was all Potter could say. ----- Andrew Jackson McCullough looked around at the small gathering of women and men in front of him. Mike Long, John Norman, Kelly Kilpatrick, Harry Flint, and Lisa Lewis were the closest he had to a general staff. Each one served as an officer in the Nation's defense force. Harry was the smartass that named it the Democratic Party. He found a book on the first Andrew Jackson in the ruins of a library one time and knew all there was to know about the man. In honor of McCullough's namesake, Harry said with a grin, they should name the fledgling force after the Democratic Party that Jackson founded over two hundred years ago. It passed in the town voting 298-1, McCullough the lone vote against. "Kel," McCullough finally said. "How do your folks feel about a ranging mission?" "They're antsy," the middle-aged woman replied. She pushed wiped her sandy blonde hair from her face and kept speaking. "It's been months since they had to go out and do anything. They're getting along fine with their farms and jobs, but I think they'd like to help out. What's the job, sir?" "Memphis." All five faces turned to stone all at once. "It's suicide." Mike Long placed his chubby hands on McCullough's desk. "Memphis is crawling with raiders. We'd have to take the whole Party to Memphis to even make a dent. This is--" "A scouting mission," McCullough snapped with a finger pointed at Long. He looked over at Kilpatrick with the same stern gaze. "And nothing more. Take your best squad and head out this afternoon. Get the lay of the land and see what they're doing and what their defenses are like. Take your time, Kel, I want y'all back safely." "Yes, sir," she replied with a semi-salute. "What about the rest of us?" John Norman drawled. "You called us all up here for a reason, boss." McCullough nodded and pulled a sheet of crinkled paper from his desk. He passed it to Lisa Lewis, who read it and passed it around to the others while McCullough spoke. "We got a courier from Looloo yesterday. They're running out of food and still have to wait for their spring crop to come in. I'm calling a meeting tonight to talk about it. With any luck, we can send a wagon train to them by the week's end. We'll need some of y'all to volunteer your companies for caravan duty." "This could be an opportunity," said Lewis. "Looloo is a shit hole, general. It's always barely scraping by and getting fucked with by bandits. We could bring them into the fold, offer them protection and food and let them join the Nation." "Hell no," said Long. "Loooloo folks ain't nothing but trouble. They're dirty and shifty. They can't be trusted." "Just like you couldn't be trusted?" McCullough asked Long. "I seem to recall you coming here six years ago, Mike, trying to hide from some very pissed off Badyoyo boys. We could have not let you in, Mike, but we knew you needed help. Just like Harry and his wife needed help when they got to Jackson, just like Kel needed help when she found us. The folks in Looloo ain't any different than you or me." Long shook his head and just shrugged his shoulders. "We'll see." "I'm for it," Flint smirked. "Folks in Looloo make some damn fine hooch." "We'll float that possibility at tonight's meeting," McCullough chuckled. "Among others. If the folks want it, then I'll ride with the convoy and open up negotiations with Looloo." Expansion. The idea was something McCullough and others had thought about for the last few years. The hard days of survival for Jackson had lasted the first six years. Now, four years past the last famine and they were stable and well-defended and well-fed. In these times, that alone was a mighty blessing. Looloo was how Jackson had been during those trying times. If they could help out, then they should. But then a whole new town to protect and upkeep? "Alright," McCullough said. "Kel, get your folks ready to head out. The rest of y'all are gonna go across Jackson and let folks know about tonight's meeting. I want as many people there as possible to discuss this. That's the end of the meeting." ----- [b]Georgia Frontier[/b] Holmstead's horse slowly walked down the cracked pavement of the highway. It weaved through the rusted out cars that had died on this road so long ago. An old, battered sign a few miles back told him he was near someplace called Dalton. Holmstead clicked his tongue in an effort to speed his mount up. Going this far out into the wild hadn't been part of the plan. His official mandate was to round up runaway slaves. The Neo-Cons paid damn good money for it, even more for the white folks that helped them to freedom. Most of the bounty hunters stuck to the northeast and the Carolina border. Holmstead instead headed northwest towards the wilds. A more recent sign let Holmstead know that Chatanooga was thirty miles away. In all his travels across the south he'd never been to Tennessee, but he'd certainly heard stories. Supposedly, the entire expanse of Tennessee was nothing but wilderness with the occasional pockets of civilization. Chatanooga would be where he could get his answers. He'd heard rumors in North Georgia about a town near the Mississippi River. One of the several dozen city-states that covered Tennessee. There was nothing special about it except its leader. He was named after one of the old leaders of the Republic, and he was a man with a very steep bounty on his head. If the rumors were true, then Andrew Jackson McCullough was hiding in plain sight. If he was indeed the man Holmstead was after, then the bounty hunter could bring the Neo-Cons his severed head and make more with that a than he could with a thousand runaway slaves.