TiredFingers
Spraying far'n'wide
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2017
- Posts
- 438
Northend "Squatters" Camp, Toland (map link; NSC is at the very top)
Noon or so, Sunday, March 22, 2025 (a day ahead, but that's alright; Connor wasn't going to do anything important on Saturday)
Deputy Connor Evans drove his brand-new Ford Police Interceptor slowly into the roads of the former Northend Neighborhood for several reasons.
The first was that, although it was only a 2018, making it 7 years old, it was brand new to the Toland County Sheriff's Department. in fact, Connor was the first person to take it out since it had been found at auction, restored, fitted with the latest equipment, and painted for the County's color scheme.
The second was that the roads in the Northend were hazardous to drive at any more than 5 mph. (OOC: Taken from Alice/DOME's "Map history" here and edited by me for "flavor".) The Northend Neighborhood, which had been planned through the 90's and begun in 2001 had been all but abandoned by 2003. Heavy rains and snowmelt had caused the Vizcaino River to jump its banks, destroying what few houses had already been completed or started.
Connor had been living here with his family at the time. They'd been one of the 14 family's who'd moved into their brand new, beautiful, spacious, modern homes only to have Mother Nature piss on their new lives in the most spectacular way. Connor's home had literally washed off the foundation, floating six blocks away before striking and crumbling against a large section of basalt that stuck up out of the otherwise sedimentary plain.
The kids of Toland had long called the 18-foot-tall outcropping The Rock of Gibraltar, and for years it had been the recipient of coat after coat of spray paint, sometimes in shapes, sometimes in words, most of the latter profane as these were kids, of course. Connor had always loved that rock, right up until it killed his home and his family's dreams. These days, as he drove into the Northend as an adult, he could hardly even look its way.
The flood had destroyed more than just the homes, of course. Three small parks, a tennis court, a skate park, and two playgrounds atop ground level had been planned, and those that had been completed had been destroyed. Below ground level, the shifting land had left the water, sewer, power, and gas unusable as well. They'd all been shut off and abandoned to the south where they connected to the older City systems.
As he drove slowly, Connor watched for cracks, potholes, and even sink holes. There were four of them, just 9 or 10 feet across and about the same depth. But one spectacular one just a few dozen yards from the Rock of Gibraltar was 20 feet across and, it was believed, as much as twice as deep. No one really understood the science behind how it had formed, not that a 14-year-old kid had cared at the time.
The summer after it first opened up and filled with ground water, the kids swam in it and even built a makeshift slide reaching from the top of the Rock, not that it stood there for long before the Cops tore it down. Over and over again, the kids were told to stay out of it, and over and over again they ignored the Authorities, the locals living nearby to the south, and their own parents.
There was a challenge going on during that time: Capture the flag. Someone had tossed a 5-pound dumbbell with a ribbon tied loosely to it into the center of the sinkhole, and the challenge was to swim down, find the weight, remove the ribbon, and get back up before you ran out of air.
There was more than just a ribbon awaiting the person who succeeded, though. A Toland teen nicknamed Candy Cane (who was really named Candice Kenner and to whom the ribbon had belonged, not a coincidence) had promised a blow job to the first guy who returned with her ribbon. More than two dozen different teens from within and even from beyond Toland made the attempt.
The man to beat had been Howie Garibaldi. He was a strong, good looking, athletic 17-year-old who'd stayed down the longest and, as far as anyone could tell, had gone the deepest. He'd come up with other things that people, mostly kids, of course, had been tossing into the sinkhole all spring and early summer.
Then one day, as Candy Cane watched on (as was the rule; if she wasn't there, it wouldn't count) Howie made his next diving attempt and simply never came back up. The Sheriff's would bring in a dive team, and Howie was found snagged to a gas pipe that the kids knew was there, but which had never been deemed much of a hazard.
Just 24 hours later, the sink hole was being filled in, and the Rock of Gibraltar came to be known as the Rock of Garibaldi. The Northend was blocked by concrete barricades, patrolled by the police, and watched over by Neighborhood Watch. But things change. Eventually the supervision faded, then ended. A barrier was removed, allowing vehicles inside. The Squatters camp came to be, and the Sheriff's Department looked the other way.
That is, so long as no law were being broken, which was what brought Connor here today.
The last reason for Connor driving slowly through the Northend was that he was looking for a specific person. Nyland Cahn, who the kids had obviously nicknamed Khan after the Star Trek character, was reported to be living here in the squatters' camp.
Connor had his windows down, despite the unusually cold temperature outside, and as he passed camp trailers, 5th wheels, pickups with campers, and even tents, he smiled at and waved to those residents who weren't afraid to be spotted by him, greeted them, and asked if they'd seen the man. None had, or at the least, none would admit it.
But eventually, Connor rolled up to an old box delivery truck, its rolling door all the way up at the back, while Nyland pillaged through a cargo trailer nearby, separating the various metal objects he'd been collecting all about Toland over the last week. "Hey, Kahn."
Nyland had seen the SUV coming, and he recognized the voice. Without turning around, he called back with the Deputy's own childhood nickname, "Hey, Conn'."
"Can you spare me a minute?" the cop asked. When Nyland hesitantly obliged and moved to the cruiser, Connor said, "I've been hearing reports you've been collecting scrap up on the Annex property."
Nyland only stared without reaction. Connor looked to the trailer and its contents. He knew that if he looked hard enough, he could probably find something with the T-Triple C logo for Tri-City Community College on it. But did he really want to go through all that? He'd take Nyland all the way up to Carlson Creek, book him, release him with a court date, and find him back here tomorrow again, probably salvaging scrap on the campus again.
A man has to feed his belly, Connor reminded himself. The Deputy knew that Nyland had been off dope for years, which was the only reason he didn't take him in and try to get him into treatment in place of jail. Connor asked, "When do you hit the salvage yard?"
"Tomorrow," the man answered. "They close early on Sundays, and it's too late to drive all the way to Magnus."
Connor considered the options, then reached into his vehicle's glove box for an envelope full of gift certificates for meals around Toland. He knew that Nyland wouldn't take cash from him, and even if he did take it, he'd probably give it to one of his friends in the camp to feed the bad habits that Nyland knew all too well could rip a person's existence to shreds if not fed.
"These'll get you breakfast at The Sunrise and lunch at Roxanne's," Connor told him. He looked to the box van, asking, "How ya doin' on gas?" Nyland shrugged slightly. Connor continued, "I'll tell Pete over at Gas For Less to advance you five gallons, but--"
"But I have to pay him out of my scrap cash," Nyland finished. This wasn't their first go-round at this. "Thanks, Conn'."
The two fist bumped, after which Connor put the Interceptor in gear, telling Nyland, "Stay off the campus. The State took it over. It's not even my jurisdiction anymore. You get caught up there stealing even an old, abandoned extension cord..."
The men nodded their farewells and parted, with Nyland returning to separating his salvage and Connor slowly driving through the squatters' camp looking for glaringly obvious things about which to be concerned. The only thing that kept the Sheriffs or the Toland City Council from having this place cleared out was that the people who unofficially ran Northend had rules, and if you didn't follow those rules, you'd find yourself hooded, bound, and driven away to Magnus or Carlson Creek and your rig taken off and dumped somewhere else. It had happened, Connor knew, and it would probably happen again in the future. But not today, probably. Everything here looked clean and organized, or as much so as a squatters' camp could be.
He slowly drove out of the Northend and headed for Roxanne's for his regularly expected visit for lunch.
Noon or so, Sunday, March 22, 2025 (a day ahead, but that's alright; Connor wasn't going to do anything important on Saturday)
Deputy Connor Evans drove his brand-new Ford Police Interceptor slowly into the roads of the former Northend Neighborhood for several reasons.
The first was that, although it was only a 2018, making it 7 years old, it was brand new to the Toland County Sheriff's Department. in fact, Connor was the first person to take it out since it had been found at auction, restored, fitted with the latest equipment, and painted for the County's color scheme.
The second was that the roads in the Northend were hazardous to drive at any more than 5 mph. (OOC: Taken from Alice/DOME's "Map history" here and edited by me for "flavor".) The Northend Neighborhood, which had been planned through the 90's and begun in 2001 had been all but abandoned by 2003. Heavy rains and snowmelt had caused the Vizcaino River to jump its banks, destroying what few houses had already been completed or started.
Connor had been living here with his family at the time. They'd been one of the 14 family's who'd moved into their brand new, beautiful, spacious, modern homes only to have Mother Nature piss on their new lives in the most spectacular way. Connor's home had literally washed off the foundation, floating six blocks away before striking and crumbling against a large section of basalt that stuck up out of the otherwise sedimentary plain.
The kids of Toland had long called the 18-foot-tall outcropping The Rock of Gibraltar, and for years it had been the recipient of coat after coat of spray paint, sometimes in shapes, sometimes in words, most of the latter profane as these were kids, of course. Connor had always loved that rock, right up until it killed his home and his family's dreams. These days, as he drove into the Northend as an adult, he could hardly even look its way.
The flood had destroyed more than just the homes, of course. Three small parks, a tennis court, a skate park, and two playgrounds atop ground level had been planned, and those that had been completed had been destroyed. Below ground level, the shifting land had left the water, sewer, power, and gas unusable as well. They'd all been shut off and abandoned to the south where they connected to the older City systems.
As he drove slowly, Connor watched for cracks, potholes, and even sink holes. There were four of them, just 9 or 10 feet across and about the same depth. But one spectacular one just a few dozen yards from the Rock of Gibraltar was 20 feet across and, it was believed, as much as twice as deep. No one really understood the science behind how it had formed, not that a 14-year-old kid had cared at the time.
The summer after it first opened up and filled with ground water, the kids swam in it and even built a makeshift slide reaching from the top of the Rock, not that it stood there for long before the Cops tore it down. Over and over again, the kids were told to stay out of it, and over and over again they ignored the Authorities, the locals living nearby to the south, and their own parents.
There was a challenge going on during that time: Capture the flag. Someone had tossed a 5-pound dumbbell with a ribbon tied loosely to it into the center of the sinkhole, and the challenge was to swim down, find the weight, remove the ribbon, and get back up before you ran out of air.
There was more than just a ribbon awaiting the person who succeeded, though. A Toland teen nicknamed Candy Cane (who was really named Candice Kenner and to whom the ribbon had belonged, not a coincidence) had promised a blow job to the first guy who returned with her ribbon. More than two dozen different teens from within and even from beyond Toland made the attempt.
The man to beat had been Howie Garibaldi. He was a strong, good looking, athletic 17-year-old who'd stayed down the longest and, as far as anyone could tell, had gone the deepest. He'd come up with other things that people, mostly kids, of course, had been tossing into the sinkhole all spring and early summer.
Then one day, as Candy Cane watched on (as was the rule; if she wasn't there, it wouldn't count) Howie made his next diving attempt and simply never came back up. The Sheriff's would bring in a dive team, and Howie was found snagged to a gas pipe that the kids knew was there, but which had never been deemed much of a hazard.
Just 24 hours later, the sink hole was being filled in, and the Rock of Gibraltar came to be known as the Rock of Garibaldi. The Northend was blocked by concrete barricades, patrolled by the police, and watched over by Neighborhood Watch. But things change. Eventually the supervision faded, then ended. A barrier was removed, allowing vehicles inside. The Squatters camp came to be, and the Sheriff's Department looked the other way.
That is, so long as no law were being broken, which was what brought Connor here today.
The last reason for Connor driving slowly through the Northend was that he was looking for a specific person. Nyland Cahn, who the kids had obviously nicknamed Khan after the Star Trek character, was reported to be living here in the squatters' camp.
Connor had his windows down, despite the unusually cold temperature outside, and as he passed camp trailers, 5th wheels, pickups with campers, and even tents, he smiled at and waved to those residents who weren't afraid to be spotted by him, greeted them, and asked if they'd seen the man. None had, or at the least, none would admit it.
But eventually, Connor rolled up to an old box delivery truck, its rolling door all the way up at the back, while Nyland pillaged through a cargo trailer nearby, separating the various metal objects he'd been collecting all about Toland over the last week. "Hey, Kahn."
Nyland had seen the SUV coming, and he recognized the voice. Without turning around, he called back with the Deputy's own childhood nickname, "Hey, Conn'."
"Can you spare me a minute?" the cop asked. When Nyland hesitantly obliged and moved to the cruiser, Connor said, "I've been hearing reports you've been collecting scrap up on the Annex property."
Nyland only stared without reaction. Connor looked to the trailer and its contents. He knew that if he looked hard enough, he could probably find something with the T-Triple C logo for Tri-City Community College on it. But did he really want to go through all that? He'd take Nyland all the way up to Carlson Creek, book him, release him with a court date, and find him back here tomorrow again, probably salvaging scrap on the campus again.
A man has to feed his belly, Connor reminded himself. The Deputy knew that Nyland had been off dope for years, which was the only reason he didn't take him in and try to get him into treatment in place of jail. Connor asked, "When do you hit the salvage yard?"
"Tomorrow," the man answered. "They close early on Sundays, and it's too late to drive all the way to Magnus."
Connor considered the options, then reached into his vehicle's glove box for an envelope full of gift certificates for meals around Toland. He knew that Nyland wouldn't take cash from him, and even if he did take it, he'd probably give it to one of his friends in the camp to feed the bad habits that Nyland knew all too well could rip a person's existence to shreds if not fed.
"These'll get you breakfast at The Sunrise and lunch at Roxanne's," Connor told him. He looked to the box van, asking, "How ya doin' on gas?" Nyland shrugged slightly. Connor continued, "I'll tell Pete over at Gas For Less to advance you five gallons, but--"
"But I have to pay him out of my scrap cash," Nyland finished. This wasn't their first go-round at this. "Thanks, Conn'."
The two fist bumped, after which Connor put the Interceptor in gear, telling Nyland, "Stay off the campus. The State took it over. It's not even my jurisdiction anymore. You get caught up there stealing even an old, abandoned extension cord..."
The men nodded their farewells and parted, with Nyland returning to separating his salvage and Connor slowly driving through the squatters' camp looking for glaringly obvious things about which to be concerned. The only thing that kept the Sheriffs or the Toland City Council from having this place cleared out was that the people who unofficially ran Northend had rules, and if you didn't follow those rules, you'd find yourself hooded, bound, and driven away to Magnus or Carlson Creek and your rig taken off and dumped somewhere else. It had happened, Connor knew, and it would probably happen again in the future. But not today, probably. Everything here looked clean and organized, or as much so as a squatters' camp could be.
He slowly drove out of the Northend and headed for Roxanne's for his regularly expected visit for lunch.
)
