This post from nine months ago of an unpublished apocalyptic novel I've had in the works for the last couple of years and have added a Part 2 for this @steemitbloggers contest. But I wanted to share Part 1 first so you can get a feel for this place.

Here are the rules for the contest:

Contest : Genesis | Utopia

Criterias :

1. Create your own world.
1. Wordcount must not be less than 350 words.
1. You may use photos/drawings to better illustrate your story.
1. Examples, describe the structures that your city have, gothic? steampunk? Living underground?
1. Name your Utopia and have it on the title.
1. Go unleash that imagination of yours

WOLF CROSSING SETTLEMENT

Outskirts of Wolf Crossing's Settlement, New State Republic, 2089

(AKA Mid Michigan, USA)

Duncan Gates steered the team of geldings into the corral behind Freedom's Place; the biggest house in the Wolf Crossing's settlement. The pen sat between the farthest point of Freedom's backyard and stretched to the sawmill's property line; just short of the river running through the settlement. Donal Perkins, proprietor of the sawmill, used the river as his power source. He cut planks for new buildings in the settlement or sold to local masses who lived outside the confines of the settlement. But most of his hard labor went to government contracts and, hearsay, the wages were pittance.
The outlanders; as they were known, who didn't have homes inside the settlement waited their chances of being selected to relocate inside the protected walls of the settlement. The only probability of being chosen to move into the settlement was when someone within the ambit of the colony either moved, passed on or was banned.
Hardly anyone chose to move and few passed away from age. Most that left the established population were forced to because of laws they had broken. And the jurisprudence of Wolf Crossing; just as with all government operated colonies, was strict and intolerant.
Duncan had seen entire families forced to leave with only the clothes on their backs in the middle of the night because a young child had attempted to snatch a few apples from the trading post's barter tables. He had seen fathers stolen away from their children because the dad had stood firm and refused to denounce an urban legend of a revolt and resistance that was rumored to be planning a government coup. He had seen every scenario and each occurrence left him feeling angry; but he refused to put his own livelihood in jeopardy. It was best to turn away, get on with your own business and let the civil patrol officers execute their orders.
Duncan pushed the lever down, engaging the brake of the wagon, and stood. His legs struggled to gain strength after sitting for the last twelve hours; with only brief moments of standing to extend his tired muscles. Brushing his palms across the tense muscles of his upper thighs, he stifled yet another yawn. He always dreaded the trip from Erie City through Blight Town before arriving at Wolf Crossing. Although he was more or less a drifter; due to his occupation, he considered Wolf Crossing home.
He had come upon Wolf Crossing early on in his calling as a messenger and, since it was centrally located between all of his stops, he decided to take a room as Freedom's >Place every time he traveled between The Divide and the Blight Town settlements. He had come to appreciate seeing the thoroughfare oil lamps from a distance as a beacon welcoming him home.
Wolf Crossing was one of the largest establishments in the territory; and from what Duncan had learned from old-timers, it had once been a fairgrounds in the Saginaw Valley of what was decades ago known as Bay City.
He clambered off the buckboard and unhitched the geldings. He had a longstanding agreement with Donal to board his equine when he arrived; no matter the time of day or night. Donal always kept a stall open for Duncan and he was much obliged to the man. In exchange for the use of the stall, Duncan always brought Donal unusual trinkets or much sought after delicacies he'd come across in his travels. Tonight he had a half-pound of cacao he had bartered for on a rare messenger journey south of Blight Town to Erie City.
In all of his travels, Duncan learned more about the settlements he traveled to. Blight Town had once been the heart of the region where motorcars and machines had been produced. While he had never seen a machine that had been described to him, he did wonder how much faster his deliveries would be if had such a contraption. One night while settling in a tent city on the outskirts of Erie City, Duncan had joined a conversation with other travelers. He had learned about the motorcars; and he was full of questions about what a motor was to begin with. The mossbacks talked about fuel, steel and horse power that would thrust the motorcar faster than any gelding ever could. Duncan recalled how mystified he was hearing about such nonsense; but he was still drawn into the chatter. He drifted off into a slumber envisioning rambling down the decrepit stone routes he frequented in a motorcar.

Image Source- Pixabay

After getting his geldings situated with feed and water buckets, he ambled across the corral and field towards Freedom's. He saw an oil lamp in the kitchen window and knew Freedom would be awake. It was as if she knew when he would be arriving; or the woman never slept because no matter the time he arrived, she was shuffling around the room preparing some meal, cleaning or sipping the herbal brew she swore would ease aches and pains.
As soon as he stepped onto the back porch, the door swung open and Freedom Carlton smiled down on him. “Well, I reckon you'll be wanting a hot meal.”
“Don't go to no trouble, Freedom.” He whispered more from being tired than for the reason of waking anyone.
“Ain't no fuss. I always have food here and ready.” She held the door open as he passed by her. “Got some leftovers biscuits and ham gravy from supper. Or I can whip up some eggs if you'd rather?”
“Either is good. Not even sure I can chew I'm so exhausted.”
“I'll reheat the gravy and later after you've had some rest, I will cook up fresh for you.” She began bustling around the room; putting a few more logs into the fire on her cookstove, as Duncan slumped into a chair at the opposite side of the room. “Any interesting tales to share?”
Duncan shook his head. “Naw, never saw a single person since leaving Blight Town.”
“No one?” Freedom opened two biscuits onto a ceramic plate and slathered them both with bits of smoked ham and thick gravy. “Seems odd considering the weather is starting to break. And you know what that means.”
“Yeah, sure do. But not a soul wandering on any of the roads or trails for hundreds of miles.”
Freedom set the plate before Duncan, then poured him a cup of water from a metal pail. She slid into the chair adjacent from him and continued sipping her tea.
“They'll be descending upon us any day now I suppose.” She sighed and Duncan looked at her. Her eyes squinted as he assumed she recalling the choler with the wanderers from years past.
Nomads were what they actually were. People who traveled from settlement to settlement, bartering goods, wreaking havoc and causing strife among the inhabitants.
Every spring and into the warmer summer months, the nomads arrived whether the settlements wanted them or not. Generally they brought great bounties for trade, but they also swarmed upon the establishments and caused ruckus beyond belief. Duncan, as well as others, wished the civil patrols would control the wanderers better, but they never did. It was as if the government was bringing the consternation onto the people purposely to test them. Duncan never could understand such thinking; but again, he steered clear of controversy and minded his own business. As he was taught from childhood, it was best that way.
Freedom wanted to refuse business to the nomads, but civil patrol and the government forbade it. Businesses and settlement people were ordered to accommodate the nomads or risk being banned and losing all their worldly possessions and place within the settlement.
“Freedom, it won't be so bad. They will come and leave before you know it. It's only for a short time.” Duncan said in between mouthfuls of food. Duncan delighted in something other than hard, stale bread and dried meats that he often ate while traveling.
“I know.” She set her cup onto the table and leaned closer. “But I am not going to allow those people to destroy my property again. I just finished repairing the smoke house out back.”
“I'll talk to Donal about being more vigilant, if you'd like.” He scooped up the last bite on his plate and chewed it. The salty pork gravy tasted more savory then the first bite and he wanted to ask for more, but he knew Freedom had an early morning creeping up and he needed to sleep. He had to reload the buckboard and head out by noon. >Glancing at the wind up timepiece hanging over the cook stove, Duncan figured he'd have maybe five hours of rest before his own day started. He pushed away from the table, stood then carried his empty plate the wash basin and finished drinking the water in his cup. “I'll talk to him before I leave the stable in the morning.”
“Thank you, Duncan. I'd appreciate the words.” Freedom stood, joined him at the wash basin and tilted up to kiss his cheek. “You are quite the find.”
They parted ways and both headed to their awaiting beds with hopes that slumber would reach them quickly.

Now I move onto the entry for the @steemitbloggers' contest...

Part 2

Rachel Dixon rearranged the assorted sundries on the wood-planked table. She attempted to keep the categories of items in order, but as the day went on and people rifled through the bottles and containers, it became a losing battle of organization. She walked to the glass enclosed showcase where she had the valuable knives, tools and much sought after items.

She saw that one of the hunter machetes was gone. She picked up the ledger to see who had bought it. Her eyes scanned the record and saw one of Donal's lumbermen had come in while she was outside setting up the overhead canvas had purchased it. She turned the page and saw her lead teller had initialed the purchase and registered the amount of the sale on the man's tag card.

“Everything okay?” Georgia, her teller that had signed the tag card, asked.

“Yes. Perfect. Thanks for recording the machete purchase.”

“You're welcome.” Georgia knew how Rachel concerned herself with every purchase and barter. She had issues a few months ago when her ledger wasn't matching up to the currency sheets and tag cards every resident owned showing all their purchases and barters or trades.

The currency sheets were the government's way of tracking the monetary system within the republic. Every person was issued a currency sheet upon turning twelve years of age and that was their way of making purchases and selling items. The sheet kept track of their life savings.

“It was a good sale.” Georgia remarked. “We got the asking price with no quibbling or haggling.”

“That's good.” Rachel replied, and shut the ledger. “Doesn't happen too often.”

Georgia smiled at Rachel and headed over to the grocer side of the complex to assist traders.

Rachel stared at her emporium. Generations ago this large barn had been some kind of gathering barn for different commonwealth events. She had heard tales about how livestock were raised and put on display to be judged, and how people would prepare foods in jars for the same reason. All the time involved and hard work to win a piece of cloth and reward. She couldn't fathom the logic behind such a frivolous activity. Every day people here raised food to reproduce, barter or trade and eat. To put these daily essentials on display for a medal was beyond her rational thinking.

Image Source- Pixabay

She knew life in generations past was easier and conveniences were unappreciated, but she just couldn't wrap her mind around parading a milking cow or a jar of spiced cucumbers as anything but a valuable commodity and waste of time.

Shaking her head at the notion, she stared up at the lofts overhead. She had extra supplies stored up there, but she could remember when she first happened upon the vacant building all the huge pieces of cloth that had been hung from the rafters. The tattered ends were worn beyond use and she ended up utilizing the cloths as blankets that first winter before the Trading Post came to be a layover for all travelers. Some of the wording on the cloths was confusing at first; it wasn't until she learned more about her domain and the surrounding buildings that she realized the words' meanings.

It had taken her almost a year to get the building in shape; and when she opened its doors over ten years ago, she had been a main supplier to nomads, hunters and trappers and any other lost soul that happened upon her settlement. It took a year to get the Republic government to acknowledge and her establishment, but when they never approved it to be part of the Globalist Republic. She named it Wolf Crossing. No particular reason other than it sounded ideal considering the Republic wouldn't sanction the community as a government institution. She felt the community would be seen as outsiders and the greatest stranger to unification and acceptance were wolves.

Wolf Crossing used the same bartering and trade currency as authorized communities, but they could never receive governing resources or a judicial system. In Rachel's mind, Wolf Crossing was just a wide spot in the road for travelers to rest, eat and trade.

Her eyes traveled to the individual stalls that had been standing when she first arrived. She had left them all there, only repairing some broken posts. They were perfect for people to have separate markets to sell their goods. Once word got out that the enclosed settlement was accepting inhabitants, Rachel had every building and container occupied. People waiting to get the chance to move into Wolf Crossing had set up a tent city outside the fencing hoping to one day be a permanent resident. But the Republic had intolerant of having more people in one settlement then it would allow. So only five-hundred people could lawfully live within the enclosure. To this day she still found it astounding that no laws were set in place to govern Wolf Crossing but the Republic made no qualms about enforcing laws they felt within their right.

When the government sent out a civil patrol group to investigate her region and to keep law and order, one man was assigned to oversee the new community. Evan Knotts. And to Rachel's consternation, the man still resided in the settlement.

Evan Knotts was a strict enforcer and never allowed even the smallest crime to be forgotten or punishment enforced. Where Rachel had a strong hatred towards the man; only because he was always instigating problems, Evan Knotts had strong feelings for Rachel. He never resisted taunting her, flirting with her; which caused other people in the settlement to assume she was sweet on him, and he took every opportunity to seek her out.

The man was insufferable and she despised him more than she could ever thought imaginable. Without realizing it, the man made her disposition sour and unpleasant. She blamed the Globalist Republic's denial of her community for government help more than she blamed Knotts; but the morose she harbored for the government seeped over to her animosity towards him.

“I hope that sullen look isn't meant for me.” Rachel broke from her reverie to see Duncan standing next to her.

“No, never.” She smiled. Duncan could make her worst day seem perfect. Whenever he was around her attitude perked up and she couldn't help but feel complacent.

“Not sure I want to know what, or who, caused such a glowering look on your face.” He returned the smile. “I'm here to pick up the deliveries heading up to The Divide.”

“Oh, yes.” Rachel sidestepped Duncan's massive stature and walked towards the postal where all the incoming and outgoing packages, correspondences and deliveries were kept. She grabbed the register and took a large postal bag and began filling it with letters, small packages and a few other assorted deliveries. She handed the bag to Duncan then walked to the rear of the room and pointed out the larger boxes that needed to be loaded into his wagon.

“I think Donal has some lumber and Solomon may have some things too.” She watched as he stooped down, and with great ease, lifted the sizable packages as if they were nothing. Her eyes roamed up and down his muscular biceps and flexing back. He hefted the packages and placed them on the counter.

“Okay. I can head over to the lumber mill and blacksmith's on my way out. Do you know if Starr has any spun cotton to go up that way?” He repositioned the packages on his broad shoulder and started to walk towards the door.

Starr Allen was the seamstress and sheep herder in the community. She was constantly selling fabric and clothing to people in the north community, known as The Divide. She was also one of Rachel's closest friends.