There were children too. Most were smaller than they should have been, had runny noses, or were clearly ill. Malnutrition wasn’t the only enemy in Shantytown. There hadn’t been any inoculations in more than a generation, and sanitation was next to nonexistent. That meant the maze of shacks was a breeding ground for flu, cholera, and dysentery. Voss raised a bullhorn and turned it on. “I won’t say good morning because it sure as hell isn’t.” It was a joke, but none of the squatters laughed. They stared up at Voss with hollow eyes.
“All right,” Voss said, “here’s the deal. My name is Luther Voss. I own the farms located to the north of this settlement and I need more land. That’s why you have to leave. Once you’re gone, my boys will burn these shacks to the ground. So don’t come back.”
The crowd had been silent up to that point, but now they began to react. There was a rumble of protest as a man with a full beard stepped forward. He was dressed in filthy overalls and armed with a shotgun. “He’s right where we want him!” the man exclaimed loudly. “Let’s hang the bastard.”
There was a flash of movement followed by a loud bang as Hawkins drew a pistol and shot the man in the forehead. He fell over backward and mud splashed as he hit. A woman and two children came forward to sob over the body. “Sorry about that,” Voss said mildly, “but he was stupid. Look at the wagons located to either side of the platform.”
The squatters looked. What they saw were tarps, which when whipped aside revealed crew-served machine guns—both aimed at
them
. “That’s right,” Voss said. “You can swarm the platform, but most of you will die. And for what? A tar-paper shack? And a muddy grave? That would be stupid. So rather than commit suicide, come to work for me.”
The crowd was silent and Voss could see the uncertainty on many of their faces. “Think about it,” Voss continued. “If you come to work for me, you will receive new clothes, a basic set of household items, and an apartment in a building that has electricity and running water. You will also receive medical care and a better life for your children.
“In return,” Voss continued, “you will help me grow food. I will sell most of it, but there will be plenty left over for you and for your families. And, as a result of your efforts, other people will have more to eat as well, something you can feel good about when you put your head down at night.”
Voss scanned the faces in front of him. He had them, or a lot of them at any rate, and it was time to close the sale. “You have thirty minutes in which to gather your belongings and leave. Those of you who want to work for me should line up on the highway for a two-mile walk to Farm 3. The rest of you can go where you will so long as it isn’t on my land. Any attempt to interfere with my employees will be met with deadly force. That will be all.”
Having finished his presentation, Voss jumped to the ground. His horse, a gigantic mount named Odin, stood patiently while Voss put a foot in a stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Then, with Hawkins and two mercenaries to guard him, Voss rode out into the slum.
The crowd had dispersed by then, and with only half an hour to work with, the residents of Shantytown were rushing to rescue their meager possessions before the entire community went up in flames. As Odin carried Voss through muddy streets, he was appalled by the squalid conditions. Most of the homes were little more than crude huts, but each had a small garden. Pitiful things, really . . . fenced off with whatever scraps of wood and wire the owners had been able to scavenge. Feces, offal, and garbage lay everywhere.
Here,
he thought,
is proof of how base they are. If they had any initiative, if they were willing to work, they could live as I do. Instead they choose to dwell here like pigs in a sty.
Forty mounted mercenaries had gathered at the north end of the shantytown
“All right,” Voss said, “here’s the deal. My name is Luther Voss. I own the farms located to the north of this settlement and I need more land. That’s why you have to leave. Once you’re gone, my boys will burn these shacks to the ground. So don’t come back.”
The crowd had been silent up to that point, but now they began to react. There was a rumble of protest as a man with a full beard stepped forward. He was dressed in filthy overalls and armed with a shotgun. “He’s right where we want him!” the man exclaimed loudly. “Let’s hang the bastard.”
There was a flash of movement followed by a loud bang as Hawkins drew a pistol and shot the man in the forehead. He fell over backward and mud splashed as he hit. A woman and two children came forward to sob over the body. “Sorry about that,” Voss said mildly, “but he was stupid. Look at the wagons located to either side of the platform.”
The squatters looked. What they saw were tarps, which when whipped aside revealed crew-served machine guns—both aimed at
them
. “That’s right,” Voss said. “You can swarm the platform, but most of you will die. And for what? A tar-paper shack? And a muddy grave? That would be stupid. So rather than commit suicide, come to work for me.”
The crowd was silent and Voss could see the uncertainty on many of their faces. “Think about it,” Voss continued. “If you come to work for me, you will receive new clothes, a basic set of household items, and an apartment in a building that has electricity and running water. You will also receive medical care and a better life for your children.
“In return,” Voss continued, “you will help me grow food. I will sell most of it, but there will be plenty left over for you and for your families. And, as a result of your efforts, other people will have more to eat as well, something you can feel good about when you put your head down at night.”
Voss scanned the faces in front of him. He had them, or a lot of them at any rate, and it was time to close the sale. “You have thirty minutes in which to gather your belongings and leave. Those of you who want to work for me should line up on the highway for a two-mile walk to Farm 3. The rest of you can go where you will so long as it isn’t on my land. Any attempt to interfere with my employees will be met with deadly force. That will be all.”
Having finished his presentation, Voss jumped to the ground. His horse, a gigantic mount named Odin, stood patiently while Voss put a foot in a stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Then, with Hawkins and two mercenaries to guard him, Voss rode out into the slum.
The crowd had dispersed by then, and with only half an hour to work with, the residents of Shantytown were rushing to rescue their meager possessions before the entire community went up in flames. As Odin carried Voss through muddy streets, he was appalled by the squalid conditions. Most of the homes were little more than crude huts, but each had a small garden. Pitiful things, really . . . fenced off with whatever scraps of wood and wire the owners had been able to scavenge. Feces, offal, and garbage lay everywhere.
Here,
he thought,
is proof of how base they are. If they had any initiative, if they were willing to work, they could live as I do. Instead they choose to dwell here like pigs in a sty.
Forty mounted mercenaries had gathered at the north end of the shantytown
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