Chapter 1: The Contract

The old Prospect Bend VFW hall smelled like sawdust, sweat, and coffee gone stale in the pot. The scent was decades old—as permanent as the cracked linoleum floor and faded American flag pinned to the back wall. 

The men gathered inside were tired. Not just from the heat—though the single oscillating fan in the corner wasn’t doing much to cool the high desert air. Not just from the years of hard labor—though their calloused hands, stooped shoulders, and sun-weathered faces spoke of decades spent working ranches, mending fences, and running businesses that stopped turning profits years ago. 

No, they were tired because they had lost. 

Earl Lindstrom, mayor of Prospect Bend, wiped the sweat off his brow with a white handkerchief, unknowingly yet symbolically waving a flag of surrender. He cleared his throat and tried to look in control, but his weak, tinny voice immediately betrayed his true self. 

“All right, folks. Let’s come to order,” he said, smacking a gavel against a sagging foldable card table. After leading the room in the Lord’s Prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance, he plucked a page of notes from the table, the paper crinkling in his chubby hands. “I know lots of us are worried. I know it ain’t good. But we got a way forward.” 

Murmurs rippled through the room. Everyone knew how the numbers looked. Half a century of ignorance and resistance to change had bankrupted the town. Three generations of elected leaders had squandered, mismanaged, and embezzled from the town’s coffers. The police department barely functioned. The streets were crumbling. Half the storefronts on Independence Avenue were boarded up. 

Some bean-counting bureaucrat at the State Capitol in Salem had given Prospect Bend an ultimatum. Either return the town to solvency or be forcibly disincorporated. Wiped off the map. 

Which is why the men from PulseTech were there. 

Three of them—tall, polished, and impeccably dressed—cut impressive figures at the mayor’s table. Their haircuts were precise, their suits casual but expensive looking, their smiles just wide enough to feel disarming. Despite the sweltering summer heat, they sat perfectly at ease, hands folded as they waited for the townspeople to finish simmering in their own misery. 

Mayor Lindstrom concluded his long-winded assessment of the town’s dire straits. Then, he yielded the floor to the frontman of the PulseTech team. He was young for an executive, maybe thirty-five, with a square jaw and a confident stance. His charcoal gray suit and fitted white shirt seemed impervious to the dust and grime that swept through Prospect Bend whenever the winds changed. He leaned forward slightly, drawing the townspeople in. 

“Mayor Lindstrom, thank you for having us,” he said smoothly. The winds were changing, indeed. “Gentlemen, my name is Grant Hudson. I’m with PulseTech.” 

Grant’s voice was calm and assured, with an untraceable Generican accent and a slight rising tone at the end of each sentence. A voice like his could make any bad news sound like an opportunity. 

“We understand your concerns,” Grant continued. “Prospect Bend is facing serious financial hardship. Your elected leaders and small business owners have done their best, but traditional solutions aren’t enough. The world is changing, and towns like this—well, they either adapt or get left behind.” 

A calculated silence allowed the townspeople to absorb his words. A few scowled. Others just nodded grimly. The man was right. 

“But we have a solution,” Grand said, smiling. “A full-scale revitalization project—privately funded, expertly managed, and designed to bring Prospect Bend into the future.” 

The mayor shifted in his seat, the cheap folding chair creaking under his weight. “Now, Grant, we appreciate the offer, but this is a simple, plain-speaking ranching community. What exactly does this deal mean for us?” 

Grant’s smile widened. “It means your problems go away.” 

The sales pitch was adequate, if blunt. A ripple of tension passed through the room. Grant waited for the rumblings to die down before he continued. 

“We take over essential services. Law enforcement, infrastructure, utilities. We eliminate inefficiencies, cut waste, and prioritize modernization. Improvements attract new businesses, bring in new residents, and increase property values for everyone.” 

“And in return?” Someone grunted from the back of the room. 

Grant, as if anticipating the question, spread his hands wide. “Just a little governance consultation.” 

The murmurs grew louder. Mayor Lindstrom raised a hand. “Now, hold on, let’s hear ’em out.” 

Grant nodded. “Look, gentlemen. We’re not here to take over your town. We’re here to advise and consult. You’ll still have a mayor. Still have local businesses. However, the town manager position will be held by an employee of PulseTech. His office will provide leadership. Direction. A vision.” 

He took a breath and then delivered the final pitch. 

“PulseTech can return prosperity to Prospect Bend. And all it takes is one signature.” 

He pulled a sleek tablet from his briefcase and set it on the table before the mayor. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, from the back, a voice cut through the silence. 

“And what if we say no?” 

Everyone turned, forming a halo of contorted bodies around Buck Stamets, the last real cowboy in Prospect Bend. He sat with his arms crossed, a permanent scowl etched onto his sunburnt face. His jeans were stained with dirt, his boots caked in mud and bits of scrub grass, and his hat was pulled low over his sharp, lined features. He looked at Grant like a man looks at a rattlesnake that got too close to the porch. 

Grant didn’t flinch. He maintained his calm, painted-on smile. “Then you go bankrupt.” 

Mayor Lindstrom heaved himself out of his chair, his trick knee popping with a grotesque crack as he got to his feet. “He’s right about that, Buck. We’ve all read the notice from that fatass down in Salem. Disincorporation is the only other option.” 

“Or maybe we could elect someone competent and fix our own damn town.” 

A few men muttered in agreement. 

“Fix it with prayers.” another voice cut in. 

All eyes moved across the room to Father Dale Peterson, standing near the exit, his Bible tucked under one arm, a rosary hanging from his cassock’s belt, a frown carved into his usually peaceful face. 

“Faith has carried us through hard times before,” Father Dale said, his voice steady. “You gentlemen come here with your money, fine clothes, and promises, but the Lord doesn’t ask for a contract. He asks for trust. Community. That’s what holds a town together, not some out-of-state tech corporation with big ideas.” 

Grant tilted his head as if generally considering the cleric’s words. “Father,” he said lightly, “do you think faith alone is going to fix your roads? Restore your businesses? Pay your people?” 

Dale hesitated, and Grant pounced. “You say you want a strong community. Then, let us help you build one. A better one. A healthier one. A stronger one. We believe in the power of transformation, Father. We believe in making this town—and every man in it—the best they can be.” 

Father Dale clutched his Bible tighter as the townspeople averted their eyes. Not exactly blessed with the charism of preaching, the priest had failed yet again to inspire his flock with a meaningful sermon. Their problems would have been solved long ago if prayers could save the town. Unable to construct a response, Father Dale withdrew into the corner. 

“I got one question.” 

Nate Ferguson emerged from a group of men standing in the back. The only person to have moved to Prospect Bend in living memory, “Nate the Pate”—short for patriot—was a transplant from somewhere back east. Taciturn to a fault, Nate had made no close friends, and no one really knew much about him other than he was an untamable libertarian. He lived off –grid, hunting and fishing for his livelihood, and only came into town when necessary. 

“What happens to our freedom?” Nate asked, eliciting a few groans from the others in attendance. The Pate was nothing if not predictable. “Because I don’t trust any company that tells people what they can and can’t do.” 

Grant laughed and rested his perfectly manicured hands on the table. “Freedom isn’t going anywhere,” he said, nudging the tablet an inch closer to the mayor. “We’re giving you more than you’ve ever had before.” 

The room was silent. Mayor Lindstrom sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. He looked at Grant, the other two PulseTech goons, and then at his own people. Everyone in Prospect Bend was tired, desperate, and out of options. 

“Shall we put it to a vote?” Lindstrom asked. Grant had already proffered him a stylus to sign. 

The show of hands was conclusive if not a landslide. The town approved the deal by a vote of 29 in favor to 19 against, with Nate the Pate abstaining, having rejected the legitimacy of the town government. 

Without another word, Mayor Lindstrom took the stylus from Grant. He let the tip hover over the screen for a long moment of hesitation, and then he signed. The deal was done. 

Grant shook Lindstrom’s hand and turned to face the townspeople. “Gentlemen, welcome to the future.” 

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