B.A. looked at the town council - those that were left - and their expressions of mixed disbelief, chagrin, and anger. At their cars, full, he knew, of only their own families and security team. At the trailing lights of buses and trucks, still working their way up the mountain.
"Sauve qui peut, eh?"
The Assistant Mayor cleared his throat. "Now, look, B.A. - we're the advance scout, making sure there's somewhere for the good people of Mossberg to go."
"Six Eagle School District buses' worth? Where are the rest?" B.A. only sounded dismissive. Inside, he was seething. He'd been watching for days, telescope trained on the doomed fight of the town that'd ignored the warnings of a whack job hydrologist and engineer who claimed one good storm would cause this droughted land to overwhelm the dam. Who'd wanted a lot of money a decade ago to take steps to prevent it.
Silence. They wouldn't even look at him.
"Do you know this quote? 'Varus, Varus / Give me my three Eagles back! / Varus, Varus, General Varus, / Give my Regiments back again!' Where are the other three thousand residents you swore to serve and protect??"
"You disgust me. No, you can't shelter here. There's plenty of space a mile down the road for you all to set up camp. In fact, you'll be...drowning...in the space I'd leveled for everyone's tents. But don't come back here. Only the drowned have the right to complain to me. You, the Council of the Wicked, have none."
B.A. turned back toward his gate. They weren't - quite - ready to stop him forcefully, not yet. Later, he'd have to appoint someone to negotiate water purchases. Of course he had a well that was sufficient. Instead of an ark, he'd built an oasis. One he'd hardly need.
That night, the ghosts came for him. They'd come, preemptively, ever since he'd been fired by the council for "continuing to harp on an imaginary problem instead of performing his job duties". Now, they came in force. Three regiments of them. Asking what else he could have done.
Damned if he knew. Damned if he'd ever know. He wondered if they'd come for the "leaders" the town had preferred to listen to, also?
— FriarMir
"Sauve qui peut, eh?"
The Assistant Mayor cleared his throat. "Now, look, B.A. - we're the advance scout, making sure there's somewhere for the good people of Mossberg to go."
"Six Eagle School District buses' worth? Where are the rest?" B.A. only sounded dismissive. Inside, he was seething. He'd been watching for days, telescope trained on the doomed fight of the town that'd ignored the warnings of a whack job hydrologist and engineer who claimed one good storm would cause this droughted land to overwhelm the dam. Who'd wanted a lot of money a decade ago to take steps to prevent it.
Silence. They wouldn't even look at him.
"Do you know this quote? 'Varus, Varus / Give me my three Eagles back! / Varus, Varus, General Varus, / Give my Regiments back again!' Where are the other three thousand residents you swore to serve and protect??"
"You disgust me. No, you can't shelter here. There's plenty of space a mile down the road for you all to set up camp. In fact, you'll be...drowning...in the space I'd leveled for everyone's tents. But don't come back here. Only the drowned have the right to complain to me. You, the Council of the Wicked, have none."
B.A. turned back toward his gate. They weren't - quite - ready to stop him forcefully, not yet. Later, he'd have to appoint someone to negotiate water purchases. Of course he had a well that was sufficient. Instead of an ark, he'd built an oasis. One he'd hardly need.
That night, the ghosts came for him. They'd come, preemptively, ever since he'd been fired by the council for "continuing to harp on an imaginary problem instead of performing his job duties". Now, they came in force. Three regiments of them. Asking what else he could have done.
Damned if he knew. Damned if he'd ever know. He wondered if they'd come for the "leaders" the town had preferred to listen to, also?
— FriarMir
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