The Law was simple.

To those caught in non-compliance, there was but one penalty: death.

And still there were those that would not comply.

The cityscape of Chicago is much different now than it was even fifty years ago. The Time of Troubles caught everyone up in its whirling vortex of panic, greed, and murder.

After the Stock Markets crashed, the riots were painful to behold– and even more painful to go through.

Chicago wasn’t hit as hard as New York or L.A., but it still stung. They thought we had control of the situation. . . until the Sears Tower got hit. When that monument to the Old World fell to the ground, it seemed that all restraints had been lifted from everyone. Mass chaos.

The place where the Tower fell is called the Shattergraves now. It’s a place of ill repute– hell, there are those that say it’s haunted. They scoff at that. This is where they meet.

They didn’t meet often, but when a problem arose, all of them would congregate there. They were led by the signs; a lampshade left at just such an angle, or the wheels on a parked car left at this angle, or the way the nice-looking redhead at the office wore her hip holster. They had to do this: they were in non-compliance.

“So, what’s the deal?” That was Henry. He was their ‘leader,’ if you could call him that. He looked more like an accountant with his receding hair and his thick glasses and the immaculate way that he dressed. He lit up a Winston after the question, which was directed at Scott.

“I heard something that I thought everyone would like to hear,” was his reply– after he lit his own cig. Camels are Scott’s smoke, what he has smoked since the age of 16...ten years before the Tower fell. “So I think we ought to wait on everyone, no?”
Henry nodded, leaning back against one of the larger chunks of concrete. “Sure thing, man. I’m in no hurry, just thought it was odd that we were meeting on a workday.”

“You’re complaining?” This new voice was Jolie, the aforementioned redhead that worked in the same office that Scott was employed at. They were wage-slaves, but it was either that or be forced out among the feral tribes of the Low City. “Hell, I’m happy to get to see y’all once a week, let alone in the middle of it. Gives me something to do of a night.” She was digging in her purse for something with her right hand– probably a lighter– as her left hand seductively rolled the tip of her Virginia Slim against her lips. She winked at Scott as he held up his lighter for her to use.

The three of them sat there for about an hour or so. They were always the first to arrive at their little meetings, and always the last to leave.

It’s not like the group was plotting to overthrow City Hall or anything...no, the new Daley was the first to use that name as his title, and was hell-bent on bringing back the Chicago Machine of old. To fight City Hall would take more than what they had. They didn’t protest, they didn’t bomb things. They were just ...... non-compliant.

“Where is everyone?” Henry again. In his little accountant way, he was annoyed by tardiness, or anything that didn’t fit between the lines of his mental ledger. Scott privately held close the idea that when the computers stopped working it drove the man to the edge of insanity. “Why aren’t they here already?” He puffed quicker at his Winston, then stubbed it out on a nearby rock. He was nervous.

“Give ‘em time, sugar.” Joline wasn’t ever rattled by much, if anything. “You know it takes some of them a while to get here. Have another smoke.” She offered him a Slim with a twinkle in her eye, knowing he couldn’t stand menthol– even in these times.

“Jimmy told me he’d be late.” Scott volunteered the information after Henry’s little outburst. “And it’s really his story to tell.”

Jimmy was a Teamster. His job was hauling whatever the Daley said was contraband to the incinerator plant. The security on those jobs was intense, because the Daley knew that those in non-compliance would be eager to snatch a load or two. The group had in the past, but it was always dangerous. Wetwork, it was called. Routinely some poor schmoe lost it all on one of those jobs.

The farms were easier to take.

Scott lit another Camel from a dwindling supply. Soon he’d have to scrounge around for some more.

“Well, well, well!” The cheerful voice of Jimmy sounded from a ways in the distance. “What’s all this then? Might there be some people off in the distance?” Jimmy was like your favorite uncle as a kid. You loved being around him because he was always cracking jokes and seemed to relate to you. When you get older he’s just annoying.

“There’s some people that are going to beat your ass, if you don’t be quiet for once.” Joline had a crush on Jimmy, everyone could see it except for him. Even if he could see it, probably nothing would be done about it. The guy’s happily married, two kids and a dog. Rare in this day and age.

After Jimmy got there and lit up the first of his many Marlboros of the evening, the other members of the little band of Merry Men (and Women) started filtering in until all 15 of them were there.

They were all pretty much insignificant though.

Jimmy sat back and told a story about this shipment that he was scheduled to take to the incinerator tomorrow. Loads and loads of contraband, he said. Enough so that when we pulled this off we could lay low for a year or more, and just reap the benefits of the heist, he said.

That’s really all he had to say to get them excited. Really, none of the group were prime candidates for what they were doing. Accountants, teachers, truck drivers, secretaries....none of them a warrior, paramilitary, cop....nothing. So they had to deal with the hands we were given, and most of the time they bluffed.

Seemed to work so far, though.

To underscore the importance of this shipment, Jimmy paused to light a cig. He inhaled deeply and said, “To hell with their noncompliance rules, y’know? Let’s get while the gettin’s good, and then just fade off. No more midnight meetings here at the ‘graves, no more anything. Just bop along and do our own thing, y’know? And when all this runs out, we just do it again. No need to be greedy about it, y’know?”

Scott stared at Jimmy in amazement. That was the most he had ever heard him say in one breath. Scott nodded, though. No more midnight meetings, no more heading to the Shattergraves to be among people like himself....just go off on his own for a while. Yeah, that’s seductive.

Scott was suspicious of the ease of it, though. “What’s the catch?”

Jimmy looked hurt that he was doubted. “What do you mean, ca...”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Jimmy. If there’s a shipment this big, there’s going to be a catch somewhere. The Daley wouldn’t send something out this big if there wasn’t going to be some protection for it, and you know it!”

Jimmy held up his hands as if to fend off Scott’s verbal blows. “Seriously, no catch! Seriously!”

Scott’s face said it all, because Jimmy looked even more hurt when he continued.

“The Daley knows that there are those non-compliers out there– like us– and knows that we’ll be drawn to the big stuff. So he knows that to put massive amounts of guards on the shipment would be to attract trouble. So there’s going to be a decoy shipment leave the ‘yards about 10 minutes before mine....I hear through the grapevine that the Rush Street Irregulars are going to hit that one. They’ll get a shock.”

It made sense in the convoluted, labyrinthine way of Chicago’s Machine.

“So when do you leave the ‘yard?”

“Six. Six in the a.m., tomorrow.”

“We’ll be there, I suppose?” Henry spoke this, having to assert his leadership over all the peons as the night came to a close. “The usual hit and run?” Jimmy had said earlier he was using the same path to the incinerator that he always did...the Machine frowned on that, but he swore it was the safest. Until now, it had been.

Everyone nodded, and then broke up into their usual groups, smoking and talking and slowly dispersing into the night.

Joline went home with Scott that night.

* * *

Five-thirty in the morning, and everyone was in their places. Nobody was smoking as far as could be seen– which was the smart thing to do. One wisp of smoke and the guards of the shipment would be on them like ants on a picnic basket. Guards were trained to recognize the differences between the mist of breath on a cold day and cig smoke. It was eerie how good they were at it.

Jimmy’s usual schedule was to head out, do a couple turns around the block that the ‘yards were on, then proceed at a stately pace. The group’s watchers signaled – through mirrors and the like. EMP-proof radios were still expensive...the blasts had screwed up more than computers– that there was nobody following Jimmy.

Right in front of Scott, Jimmy stopped. This was usual. It was close to the ‘graves, there was no pursuit, and hell, he could make a blessing from the pope sound like whatever he wanted it to when he gets the chance to act somethin’ out.

Jimmy stopped, and the ten members of the little band that weren’t on watcher duty rushed the truck. Quickness was needed, get the stuff to the ‘graves before Jimmy’s lack of arrival was noticed.

“Hurry! Hurry!” Jimmy called to them as they skittered back and forth, back and forth like ants ferrying their food to the nest. Each of them carrying a box of contraband.

“YOU WILL CEASE ALL MOVEMENT. HANDS UP, YOU ARE SURROUNDED, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MOVE.”

The voice took everyone by surprise. Scott swore to himself and looked at the sky.

Sure enough there were three of those new hover things– one person vehicles, use hoverjets to get around. Silent as all hell.
Jimmy’s eyes were wide as he whispered to no one in particular. “We’re dead.”

Scott stood stock-still, holding the box close to his chest.

One of the cops landed, and started walking toward him. Scott’s mind twisted all possibilities in a matter of a micro-second, but he couldn’t figure any way out of this.

The cop looked at him in disgust, and held his hand out for the box.

Scott set the box on the ground, and– slowly– reached into his breast pocket for a Camel.

“Officer, you’ve got me.”

As Scott lit up a smoke, everyone was looking at him oddly. The members of the little band with awe, and the cops with distaste.

“I’m in noncompliance.”

Scott inhaled the sweet smoke deeply as the cop looked in the box. Of course he found what he expected to– 100 cartons of Camel Light Filters, just confiscated by the Machine.

“You know the Law?” the cop asked. It seemed to observers that there was some small germ of pity in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Scott said between puffs. “It’s pretty clear, isn’t it?”

“Then you know what we’ve got to do.”

The rattle of machine-gun fire echoed off the empty street.