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Post by mic on Mar 3, 2016 7:04:58 GMT -6
Hello readers, This is Book 2, in my Siege of New Hampshire series. It follows Book 1, entitled "Plan B: Revised". I posted the first draft of Siege Fall on another forum and received many helpful comments. After making revisions, I'd like to post the second draft here, for YOUR comments. You were all quite helpful regarding Book 1. Thanks for that. If you're a member of both forums, you'll recognize the book. It just has a new title now. But, just because you've already read Draft 1 doesn't mean you can't chime in on Draft 2. All comments are welcome.
Just for handy linking, here is the link to Plan B: Revised (Book 1), in case you missed it. pawfiction.proboards.com/thread/532/plan-revised Thanks for reading!
-- Mic
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Post by mic on Mar 3, 2016 7:11:13 GMT -6
Siege Fall
© Mic Roland, 2015
(Book Two in Siege of New Hampshire series)
Chapter One: (part 1) Awakening
The faint clanking of spoon-on-bowl woke Martin up. He forced one eye open a crack. He was in the living room: in his chair. A slow fire rolled in the wood stove. Sun beams dappled the wall over the couch. Sunrise. Apparently, he had spent the night in his chair. That was not uncommon, but the pots on top of the wood stove were.
His open eye stared at the pots, his mind still too sleepy to think well. What seemed like the fading wisps of a dream floated around the edges of his mind. He was running through a forest: chased by someone. There was a girl too.
He noticed the old blue percolator among the pots. The only time the wood stove was topped with pots and the percolator was when the power was out. When did the power go out? More faint noises came from the kitchen. Margaret was working on something. He was glad to be done with his dream and back into the comforts of his regular life.
Leaning against the dining room wall was his old gray backpack. That triggered his memory. His other eye popped open. He still had on his brown pants, complete with mud stains. He still wore his old flannel shirt. The events of the prior three days flooded his mind. He had been traveling through a forest. There was a girl. It was not a dream.
“Oh. You’re awake,” said Margaret as she came to check one of the pots.
Martin looked at her, but said nothing. The curve of her cheek, her full lips, her slate-blue eyes, that little streak of gray in her hair which she was alternately proud of and embarrassed by: it was great to see her again. He realized he was gawking.
“Not awake enough to talk, eh? A cup of coffee should get you going.” Margaret poured a cup from the percolator. “Sorry about any floaty bits. You know how this old thing is.”
Martin took the cup, but continued to stare. She was wearing her blue apron tied tight, which showed off her waist.
God, she looks good, he thought. The thought caught his attention. The challenges of getting home had somehow jarred his awareness. When was the last time he told her she looked good? When was the last time he had put his arm around her slender waist? He could not recall. This home life was peaceful, cordial and respectful, but somewhere along the line, air pecks had replaced kisses. Pats had replaced hugs. Putting his arm around her waist felt out of place. He wondered when that happened.
“You must have been really tired when you got home. You barely got your coat and shoes off before you were asleep in your chair. I decided to just leave you there. You looked so comfortable. I fixed your guest a little supper before she turned in. She told me all about your adventures getting home.”
All about them? Martin felt a surge of embarrassment, or was it guilt? He was not sure why he felt guilty. There must have been something…something he could not recall at the moment. “Everything?” he squeaked.
Margaret smiled a mischievous smile. “Hmm. Perhaps she didn’t tell me everything. That’s quite the look on your face.” She let him twist in the wind awhile.
In his mind, he quickly replayed all he could remember, but old tube radios take awhile to warm up. What had he done? He tried to replay his recent past.
The power went out Monday morning. He decided to walk home. He met Susan outside of the bank. His mind paused on the image of Susan’s face. Faithfully married or not, Susan was easy to look at. He enjoyed walking with her and talking to her too. It felt vaguely inappropriate. But was it? They were just talking.
There was the fire, the hotels, the Walsh brothers. Nothing untoward there. Yet, there was that sudden hug during the gunfight on 93. Margaret would not have smiled at that. He touched Susan’s bare foot when she had her blister. Was that wrong? It was a doctor thing. Nothing more.
There was riding with Isabel up to Lawrence and the bridge. Was it his falling on top of Susan beside the 495 bridge and looking into her eyes? Had Susan described that event in a darker light? He would explain. Could he explain?
“I should just let you stew awhile longer,” Margaret said. “Your expressions are priceless. But I think you’re still just too groggy for any serious questions. Sip your coffee and wake up. I’ll warm you up a slice of toast.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
“She told me about her apartment burning down and you offering to help her find a hotel,” Margaret said from the kitchen. She returned with a slice of toasted bread and laid it on the wood stove to warm it up.
“She was saying how you were trying to get her to a hotel, but each one had something wrong with it, a bunch of shooting on 93 and how you fell asleep behind some rocks, then spent the night under a bridge.”
‘Spent the night’ sounded terrible when she said it. “Yes, but we were only resting…I never…I mean, nothing ever…”
“I know, Martin. I know. Relax. She said you were the perfect gentlemen during the whole trip, and I believe her.”
“You do? I mean, of course you do, because nothing…”
“Of course not. We’ve been married a long time, Martin. I know you’re not a lech: out to paw other women. You’re a nice safe man. Here. Eat your toast.”
Somehow, ‘a nice safe man’ sounded synonymous with ‘boring’, but he resisted the urge to argue the point. No good would come of that. Instead, he crunched on his toast. Martin did not realize how hungry he was. He knew he had done nothing untoward during his three-day trip, but still worried about wrong impressions. He remembered how Kevin quickly saw an implied seamy side of him and Susan traveling together.
Kevin. He might have been killed by those carjackers. That sobering thought pushed Martin out of his worry over Margaret’s feelings or his own reputation. There were more serious issues to face.
“This outage is something really different,” he said gravely. “We need to get ready…as ready as we can.”
Margaret’s impish smile faded. “Ready? Like what? We have the wood for heat, the hand pump on the well, plenty of oil for the lamps and the generator for the fridge and freezer. I even got it running myself. We’ll be fine until the power comes back on. What else were you thinking of?”
“I’m still thinking.” He sat up and gulped down some coffee. “This is going to be more than just a few days without cable TV and keeping the fridge door closed.”
Margaret nodded. “I was over at Lance and Miri’s yesterday. They’re worried about this lasting a long time too. They can’t take the cold all that well. They need to start using their old wood stove again. I’m worried about Jess and Nick, too. I’ve been hauling over five gallon jugs of water to them since Tuesday. Their well pump doesn’t work with Nick’s generator. They’re worried too.”
“Could be that people will be our biggest…”
“Good morning everyone,” said Susan with a yawn. “I wanted to sleep in more — I was soooo tired — but that room is so bright.” She stood in front of the wood stove, basking in the radiant heat. “Oh. Is that coffee?” She started to ask Martin, but quickly shifted her focus to Margaret. “Could I have some coffee, please?”
Margaret nodded, then went into the kitchen and returned with a mug and another slice of bread. “I see you found Lindsey’s old robe. It fits you pretty well. While your bread is toasting, you’d probably like to freshen up.”
“Oh yes, please. I only washed up a little last night.”
Margaret tested the water in one of the pots atop the stove. “Here’s some warm water. The basin is on the counter beside the sink. Mix in as much cold water as you like from the white bucket. I’ll show you where the wash cloths and towels are.” She looked over her shoulder at Martin. “We could use another bucket of water.”
While Margaret led Susan into the bathroom with the pot of hot water, Martin slipped on his boots and barn coat. He picked up the empty gray bucket, the jug of priming water and headed out the back door. His muscles were stiff and sore. The cold morning air bit his cheeks.
On his way around the chicken coop, the hens began to cluck and coo, expecting treats. “Not right now, girls,” he said to them. “But, I see your food hopper is almost empty. I’ll tend to that soon.” One of the hens was almost scolding with her loud buk-uk-uk call. “It’s not totally empty Red. You’ll be fine. Don’t be such a drama queen.”
Martin positioned the bucket beneath the pump spout and poured a few glugs of water from the jug into the top of the pump. After a few cycles of pumping, water surged out into the bucket with each stroke. He had to trade off pumping arms after awhile. Filling a five gallon bucket by hand was a bit of work, especially after just waking up.
He set the full bucket on the kitchen counter, next to the filter and the white bucket. Margaret placed a fresh pot of water on the wood stove to heat. “She’ll be awhile getting cleaned up. Come over here, finish your coffee and tell me more of what you meant by ‘get ready’. You had such a serious look on your face.”
Martin warmed his cold hands on his coffee mug. “As you said, we’ve got wood. We’ve got the well for water too. Other stuff, though, maybe not so much.”
“Like?”
“No one seems to know what’s going on out there, but it sounds like the power grid has failed all over the country — maybe even overseas. It could be down for several months. Traveling up here, I started to see what a widespread failure means. No power to pump fuel means no trucks delivering everything from gasoline to groceries. What we have right now, might be all we’ll ever have. When people start to lose hope that the trucks will refill the stores, they probably won’t take it well.”
“Surely people can rig up other ways to pump some fuel,” Margaret protested.
“They probably will, but it won’t be anywhere near the quantity it takes to keep all those trucks running seven days a week. Then there are the refineries behind the pumps. Those will likely be shut down for lack of power. Maybe they can rig up one or two to run on alternate sources, but again, nowhere near enough to sustain what we had.”
Margaret stared into her coffee cup, her brow deeply furrowed. “We have that ten gallons of gas in the shed. How long would that last in the generator?”
Martin worked through some mental math. One gallon gave them about ten hours of run time. That would be about a hundred hours of generator time. Four sets of half-hour runs a day: two hours of runtime per day. “We have about fifty days of generator fuel — assuming we didn’t use any of it for the chain saws or wood splitter, or anything else.”
Margaret did mental math while she flipped over the toast on top of the stove. “That would take us just past Thanksgiving or so.”
“True, but there aren’t fifty days worth of food in the fridge and freezer. We have more gas in the car and truck if we really needed it, but we’ll run out of fridge food long before we run out of gas to keep it cold.”
“Hmmm. Food,” Margaret mused to herself.
“Right. We’ve got what we’ve got, but how long will it last without getting more? You went shopping last Thursday, right? Coming up here, I saw stores picked clean. By the time we run low, there won’t be any more out there to go and get. On top of all that, running out of food might not be the most difficult problem. Almost everyone else is going to run out too — some sooner than others.”
Susan emerged from the bathroom, brushing her hair. “Boy, it’s amazing how getting cleaned up makes you feel better.” Margaret handed Susan her toast and refilled her coffee cup.
“We’ll talk later. My turn to get cleaned up now,” Martin said. “We need to take a trip into town as soon as we can.”
“Oh?” said Susan and Margaret in unison.
“Yesterday, Holly Baldwin was saying that the Market Basket in Londeville was going to re-open at 9 o’clock today. I was going to tell you about it last night, but apparently I just fell asleep. This might be our last shot at a grocery run for a long time. We’d better take advantage of it. The line will probably be long, like what we saw in Stoneham, so the sooner we get there, the better. Besides, we need to get my truck and it’s not far from Market Basket. You two get ready to go while I clean up and shave off this stubble.”
“Sounds good. I’ll make up a list.” Margaret strode into the kitchen. Susan was left alone, looking a little lost for lack of anything to do.
Martin emerged from the bathroom, patting his face dry. It felt good to be rid of his three-day stubble. “We’ll need some cash too. I’m sure no one will be taking credit cards. Might not take checks either since banks are closed.” He pulled a book from the bookcase and flipped it open. He pulled out three small envelopes, handing one to Margaret, one to Susan, and himself pocketing the third.
Susan looked in her envelope. “You keep this much money in a book? Aren’t you worried someone would find it?”
Martin held out the spine of the book for her to read. Strong’s Hebrew, Chaldee and Greek Dictionary. “I”m pretty sure I’m the only one who’s going to be opening this book.” He smiled.
Margaret handed Martin and Susan each a slip of paper. “From what you said about stores setting dollar limits, I figured we should each concentrate on part of the list. Above the line are things we need, in order of priority. Below the line are alternates in case you can’t get what’s above the line.”
“Okay, good. Let’s dress warm. We might be outside in a line for a long time,” Martin said. They each turned to get coats and gloves. Martin stepped into the extra bedroom and opened his gun safe. Having seen trouble several times, up close and personal, he thought he should be ready for trouble this time.
“What are you doing?” asked Margaret. She lowered her voice. “You’re going to bring a gun shopping?” Her tone implied absurdity.
“People have been acting crazy out there,” he said. He recalled the fights, the shootout and the carjackers.
“We’re just going shopping at Market Basket, Martin, not Chicago’s South Side. People aren’t like that up here. The worst thing that’s ever happened in Londeville was that stink over the school lunch program.”
Martin stared at the 9 mil for a moment. A crowded store did not seem like the place for an ambush. Outside of a few pockets in the bigger cities, New Hampshire was a pretty uneventful place. He put it back and closed the safe. Perhaps she was right. “Yeah. It’s not like Boston, or anything.”
—
“What’s with this traffic?” Margaret asked rhetorically. A steady stream of cars flowed down South Road, past the intersection that was “downtown” Cheshire. The trendy SUVs and crossovers had bundles and boxes lashed to their roof racks. Others, without roof racks, had back seats packed high, or trunks too full to close. Margaret spotted a gap in the traffic and chirped the Focus’s tires as she turned left onto South Road.
Martin leaned forward and fussed with the radio. “Maybe while we’re out, we can get some news.” The Seek feature on AM found nothing but static. Seek found a weak signal on FM.
“…massive breach of the road closure on 93, Mass State Police managed to re-close the highway as of 6:30 this morning. Dozens of cars out of the hundreds that had been stopped at the border since Tuesday rushed through the gap before troopers could regain control. Governor Baylach issued a statement this morning, promising to increase staffing at the checkpoints to speed up processing of eligible citizens. He urged travelers to remain calm during necessary emergency procedures, but tempers are flaring in the crowd at the border.”
“New Hampshire State Police officials are urging people not to attempt to drive south until the situation can be properly assessed and brought under control.”
“In other news: Governor Vincent’s spokesman tried to calm concerns that the Governor might follow actions taken in Massachusetts yesterday. Despite some isolated pockets of unrest in Concord, Manchester and Portsmouth, law enforcement officers from nearby towns will NOT be ordered to report to urban departments. Vincent remains confident that the cities can handle the recent increase in crime through other means.”
“WGIR will now go off the air until ten to the hour, in an effort to maximize the station’s generator fuel. Our reporters will continue to gather news while we’re off the air. We hope to have an update for you on that ongoing protest at the Willow Street Walmart when we return. Thank you for making WGIR-FM Manchester your news station.”
Martin tried to locate another station, but could only find stations too weak to be intelligible. “Sounds like a mess at the border, and in the cities too.”
Margaret nodded toward Susan in the back seat. “She mentioned angry crowds around gas stations and stores when you were walking. Think Nutfiled might be like that? Lots of gas stations. We could take the side roads and skip the town center. It’s a longer route, but maybe faster?”
“Definitely,” said Martin. “The center of Nutfield can be a quagmire on good days.”
While on the side streets, they could see vans and station wagons in driveways being packed up with boxes of clothes, bedding and toys. The parents looked somber. The children seemed to enjoy the adventure.
As they crossed over 93, they could see the southbound side was filled with cars, all inching along. The radio guy said the border was closed. I wonder how many of them will run out of gas down there? Martin wondered.
They arrived at Market Basket at 8:00, but the line was already hundreds of people long. “We’re an hour early and already there’s nowhere to park,” Margaret said. “How about I drop you off? You get in line and we’ll join you after I park…somewhere.”
“Sounds good.” Martin popped open the passenger door and stepped out. Susan stepped out of the back seat. Margaret did a double-take. She clearly did not intend for Martin and Susan to be waiting in line — together,— without her, yet she had no options. The car behind her honked.
Martin could tell that Susan was still uncomfortable with Margaret. He could see the conundrums for both of them.
“I’ll get a place in line,” he told Margaret, carefully avoiding the word ‘we’. “Get back as quick as you can.” The car honked again, so she drove off looking worried.
“I guess I shouldn’t have gotten out, huh?” said Susan. “She did not look very happy.”
“Yeah, that probably wasn’t the best idea,” said Martin.
“I wasn’t trying to make her angry with me, though I probably did. I just didn’t relish the idea of riding around with her and figured we’d end up parking far away and having to walk…I really wasn’t looking forward to a long walk with her, either.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think she likes me.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t read too much into things,” said Martin. “She’s only known you for less than a day. Besides, what’s not to like?”
Susan gave him a skeptical look with one raised eyebrow. “I can tell she’s not happy I’m here.”
“Well, she wasn’t expecting a house guest. It takes some getting used to. Just go easy around her for awhile. We’ve all got a lot to adjust to these days. Oh hey, there she is already,” said Martin. He waved to get Margaret’s attention. “Maybe don’t stand so close, by the way,” he said quietly out of the side of his mouth. Susan took a step sideways.
“Somebody pulled out in the third row,” Margaret said as she walked up. “So I got a good spot.” She looked from Martin to Susan and back, as if mentally measuring the distance between them. “The line has been moving pretty well, I see. You were near the corner when I dropped you off.”
“Yes, we should be inside the doors pretty soon.”
When they got inside the store, a large sign announced a fifty dollar limit per person. The aisles were Black Friday crowded and with that semi-frantic river of humanity typical of Black Fridays. Battery-powered work lights were perched on stacks of boxes so as to flood some light down each aisle. Nonetheless, the light was too feeble for the large space. It was still dark. Dressed in bulky coats and hats, the majority of the shoppers were little more than dark, lumpy shapes shuffling about. Their puffs of breath glowed, backlit from distant lanterns and waving flashlights.
“This is why I thought we should bring flashlights,” Martin said to Margaret.
“Okay, yes, it’s dark. Let’s split up,” Margaret said, with a glance at Susan. “What’s on our lists are in different aisles anyhow. It’ll be quicker that way.”
“Good idea,” said Martin. “Let’s meet up at the cart rack just outside of the doors when we’re done.”
Margaret clicked on her flashlight. Knowing the layout of the store, she quickly disappeared among the dark swirl of shoppers. Martin glanced at his list. He knew roughly where the canned meats would be and was about to dive in, but hesitated when he saw Susan’s lost look.
He looked at her list. “Dry beans, canned fruits or veggies. Alternates: soups, gravy: canned or mixes. Those will be down there, past that column.” He pointed into the dark void. She looked apprehensive. To lighten her mood a bit, he added, “And we’re not totally desperate yet. So, don’t go knocking people out for a box of Minute Rice, or anything.”
“Oh stop it.” She smacked his shoulder. The sparkle in her eye was better than her worried look. Susan turned on her flashlight and set off toward the center of the store.
(end Chapter 1: part 1)
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Post by headlesshorseman on Mar 3, 2016 15:58:45 GMT -6
Thanks, a great start.
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Post by kaijafon on Mar 5, 2016 8:24:50 GMT -6
ah man! I was so so disappointed.... when I got to the end of the chapter... cause I wanted moar! lol! thanks!
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Post by mic on Mar 5, 2016 20:05:47 GMT -6
Chapter 1: part 2: Food n’ Fuel
Martin took one of the plastic shopping baskets. His list said: Any kind of meat. Fresh? Canned meats. Cheeses. Alternates: powdered or canned milk. He pushed through the crowds toward the back of the store. The shelves were half empty and the store had only opened a half hour ago. This won’t last long, he thought.
The volume of shoppers was like a Black Friday, but the faces of the shoppers, occasionally illuminated in a flashlight beam, showed no holiday cheer. Worried looks, frustrated, confused: a few even looked fearful. People were grabbing things off of shelves without looking to see what they grabbed. Maybe they’re realizing this could be the last of it, Martin thought. Fifty dollars worth is not a winter’s supply of food.
The canned tuna was gone, except for two dented cans on the back of the shelf. He took those. A third can on the floor had no label. He took that too. It was probably tuna. There were some cans of Spam left. He started placing some in his basket. A young mother with a baby in a backpack was trying to take cans faster than he was. It was a competition. There was an animal fear in her eyes.
Martin paused. This was the second time he had seen that look. The young mother paused too and looked at him as if suspicious of some trick. He handed her a can, but she kept her cautious stare at him. He extended his arm a bit more to repeat his offer. He felt like he was coaxing a stray cat to take some food. She slowly took the can. When he handed her another, he saw a trace of a smile. Martin shook his head. He was such a softie.
He sighed when exploring another shelf. His flashlight beam revealed there were still several rows of Vienna sausages. Nonetheless, he raked in a dozen cans. Once he started taking some, others followed suit.
The fresh meats case was empty. No bacon, no ham, no frozen chickens. The deli case was empty too. No sliced anything. A crowd swarmed around the dairy cases. Martin pushed his way in to see what remained. Not much. People were scrambling for the yogurts in particular. In the random swipe of a flashlight beam, he spotted some packaged cheese bricks which had fallen into the bottom of the case. He reached between two jostling women and grabbed them. Two bricks of cheddar. Score!
After a bit of mental math to calculate his haul thus far, Martin guessed he could get a few more cans of Vienna sausages to round out his fifty dollars. When he returned to that aisle, however, the shelves were empty.
He looked up and down the crowded aisles, trying to spot either Margaret or Susan. He thought that he could take any over-quota items they might have to round out his fifty bucks worth. While in the pet food aisle, he saw that canned cat food had not been hit too hard. Pudge used to like the “tuna” flavor. Wonder if there’s actually any real tuna in there. There were several cans of “Tuna” cat food. The label said it contained “seafood products” — whatever that was. Could mean tuna. It seemed meat-ish enough, perhaps as the last resort, but protein nonetheless. Several cans went into the basket.
The checkout line was the bottleneck, even with all fifteen lanes open. Everything had to be done by hand. He saw Susan in lane seven, so deliberately chose a different one. He could see Margaret outside by the carts, looking in. The cashier had a three-ring notebook of the inventory, a handheld calculator and an open cash tray. Martin saw at least three assistant managers walking up and down the cashier stations with holsters on their hips. Maybe they expected trouble with open cash drawers. Maybe I should have brought mine too. Still, Margaret was right. Market Basket did not turn into the O.K. Corral.
Martin’s basket came in over the fifty dollar limit. He happily gave back a few cans of the cat food. $49.76. Close enough.
Martin saw that he and Susan were done at the same time. He exited by the other set of doors to avoid being seen walking out with her. Perhaps he was reading more into subtle looks than was there, but he thought Margaret looked relieved to see him and Susan arrive from different directions.
“How did you do?” Martin asked. “Not a lot of choices in there, but this was the most I’ve seen on store shelves since this whole thing started. At least I maxed out my limit.”
“There wasn’t much left for fresh fruits or veggies,” said Margaret. “Still, I got some. Got these big bags of rice too. Nobody was bothering the spice rack aisle, so I got lots of salt, another pepper, garlic powder and the like. I was over my limit, so had to put some of it back. Spices can be expensive.”
They turned to look at Susan. “There wasn’t much to choose from in the canned goods aisles,” she said. “Most of it was gone. People were pushing and grabbing just everything. It was crazy. I could only get these three cans: apricots, okra and hominy. I think that’s a vegetable. There were several bags of beans left, and some lentils. So, I got them too. I figured I still had money left, so I got these.” She opened her bag to reveal two big cans of shortening.
“What?” said Margaret with a scolding tone. “That wasn’t on your list.”
Susan looked contrite. “No, but everything else on my list was gone, even the alternates. I figured it was better to get something than nothing, and that lady Pat was talking about cooking oils so I…”
“You did good,” Martin said. Margaret shot him a disapproving frown for negating her scold. “Even if we don’t need the shortening,” he said to Margaret, “We might trade it for something we do need. Okay, which way to the car?”
Margaret subtly made a point of walking between Martin and Susan on the way to the car, but no one said anything. Martin peered over the many car roofs. The line to get into the store was longer than when they arrived.
“We got inside the store during the first hour and things were half gone. I’m afraid those people in line won’t even find an orphan can of Vienna sausages by the time they get in.”
—
Margaret dropped Martin off at his truck. The bus station parking lot was nearly empty. Martin urged Susan to sit in the front seat. She declined with a hint of don’t-make-me-go-in-there in her eyes. Martin insisted. He knew she certainly could not ride home with him and Margaret would not like playing chauffeur.
“I’ve got a couple stops I want to make on the way home,” he said. To Susan he said, “Help Margaret with the groceries, but let her put them away. She knows where everything goes.” Margaret nodded a little ‘darn right’ nod. Margaret’s Focus drove away with Susan looking back like a dog being taken to the pound. Martin shook his head and sighed. I sure hope this gets better soon.
On the way home, Martin stopped at the Tractor Supply store. He remembered Red’s scolding about the half-empty feeder. While he had a fair amount of feed on hand, there would be no more factory-made chicken feed for a long time too. He did not want to cull his flock to fit their food supply any sooner than he had to. Eggs were a recurring protein source.
There were so few vehicles in the parking lot, that he wondered if the store was open. Flashlights wavered inside, so he decided it must be. He peered through the glass door, into the darkened space. When he saw movement, he knocked and waved. The manager came up, cautiously. Martin recognized him, though did not know his name. From the the way the man’s face relaxed, Martin could see that he recognized Martin too.
“Hey,” said Martin. “Are you guys open?”
“I guess,” said the man. “Cash only, of course.”
“Of course. Um. What’s with the guns?” Martin pointed to the pistol tucked in the manager’s waistband. The woman further inside, perhaps his wife, had a deer rifle draped over her forearm. He questioned his assumption that carrying was unnecessary. Others clearly thought it was prudent.
“Oh, there was a bunch of kids came by yesterday saying they wanted to buy some guns. I told them we don’t sell guns, but they didn’t believe me. Said I sold gun safes, so I must sell guns too. Even if I did sell guns, I sure as heck wouldn’t sell any to punks like them. I told them to get lost. They said they’d be back.”
“Yipes. Well, I didn’t see any punk types when I drove up,” said Martin.
“Good. What do you need?”
“Layer pellets,” Martin said. “Got any bags left?”
“Not many. Lucy, take this guy back to Poultry?” The woman nodded and picked up a flashlight. She did not put down the rifle.
“Hmm. Only three left,” said Martin. “No more Crumble. Guess these will have to do.” He hefted the bags onto the flat metal cart. The shelf that usually held bags of scratch grains was empty. “No more Scratch?” The woman shook her head.
Martin’s flashlight shone on a pair of 50 lb. bags of feed corn on a pallet beneath the shelf. “Guess I could take these and make my own Scratch, eh?” The woman shrugged.
After paying the manager, Martin loaded the heavy bags into the back of his truck. Through his windshield, he could see several youths in hooded sweatshirts run from the corner of the auto parts store to behind the coffee shop. He pretended not to notice them as he hefted up the last bag and closed the tailgate. The youths peeked around the corner of the coffee shop, then scurried behind a parked van.
Martin rolled the cart back up to the store. The manager pushed open the door for him. “Just a heads up,” Martin said softly. “I saw four kids in hoodies sneaking up this way. They’re behind that green van over there. I couldn’t tell if they had anything with them.”
The manager glanced toward the van. “Thanks.” The manager pulled in the heavy cart, then tipped it up to make a barricade behind the door. He took out his pistol and racked the slide. His wife crouched down, propping her rifle on the counter. She racked the bolt. The manager gave a little wave as Martin turned back to his truck.
Martin drove out the other exit to the parking lot to avoid the youths hiding behind the van. That isn’t going to go well, he thought. He regretted leaving home without one of his pistols, but was not sure what he would have done with it in this situation. Stay and defend another man’s store? No. Maybe if the youths had attacked him. Better to just be gone than risk a fight. Carrying had never seemed important before. Very little ever happened in New Hampshire. He made a mental note make sure his guns were ready and magazines full, in case groups of hoodies became more common.
Once back on the road home, he passed several gas stations. Two had hastily spray-painted cardboard signs that said ‘No Power. No Gas’ or simply ‘No Gas’. The Shell station had two long lines of cars waiting. Martin could hear a good-sized generator running. The owners had rigged up something. Shell appeared to be the only gas in town and swamped with would-be customers. Wonder how long will that last?
His truck still had over a half a tank, so he did not feel like joining the blocks-long lines. If Market Basket was any model, the people at the end of the line may find the underground tanks dry before they get their turn. That would be a lot of waiting for nothing. He did not like waiting.
As he approached the Irving Oil station, he could see a handful of cars parked in a line and people standing around near the pumps. The end of the line was just out the driveway and onto the road. He glanced down at his gas gauge. Half is good, but more is better. Might be worth it, Martin thought. The fact that end of the line was at the curb cut meant he would not be hemmed in. If there turned out to be no gas, he could veer off and be on his way.
He pulled in behind a landscaper’s truck and shut off his engine. He joined the ring of spectators watching some people working on one of the pumps. Martin stood beside a large man in insulated coveralls. The logo on his back matched that on the door of the landscaper’s truck.
“Hey there,” Martin said to the large man. “What are they doing?” The question felt lame, but it was an attempt at conversation.
“Guy’s gonna try and run that one pump from his little generator. We’re all waiting to see if he can pull it off. Not much other gas in town. Lines at the Shell were too long.”
“I could use some more,” Martin said. “Hopefully, they don’t run out too quickly. I’m not too far back in line, so maybe I’ve got a shot at it. That’s my truck, parked behind yours.”
“Ah. We’ll see,” said the man. “So far, it doesn’t look like they know what they’re doing.”
Helpful bystanders were stepping up to offer advice, which was either contradictory or unwelcome. The manager waved off their various suggestions and continued directing his minions.
“Looks like show time,” said the large man. The manager started up the little generator and let it run for a minute. Then, with great ceremony, he clamped on the second spring clamp.
Sparks flew like fireworks gone wrong. A fire broke out beside the generator and quickly spread to the pump. One of the employees deployed a fire extinguisher, dousing the pump, manager and bystanders with foam. Someone from the crowd started spraying with a second extinguisher. The fire was out fairly quickly, but the tempers were not.
A rancorous argument flared up between the opinionated bystanders, the manager, and foam-drenched spectators. It nearly coming to blows. Others in the crowd took one side or the other.
“Well that stinks,” said the large man. “Looks like they won’t be getting any gas after all.” He turned to walk to his truck. Martin followed.
Martin studied the man’s truck. On the shallow flatbed, ahead of the mowers, was a red metal tank. Atop it sat a hose and nozzle. “Is that a gas tank in the back of your truck?” Martin asked.
“Yeah, but it’s empty. That’s what I was hoping to fill.”
“Is that a pump on top of it?”
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
“Oh, I was just thinking. They blew up their pump out there, and their generator, but what if you used your pump? You know, attach a hose to it, run that down into the underground tank through one of the filling ports? You could pump their gas. Probably even deal to get some for free in exchange.”
The large man stopped and stroked his short beard. “Hmm. That pump does have a good draw. Probably could draw up fifteen feet or more, but it’s 12 volt DC. Have to pull my truck up close.”
Martin walked back and pointed to one of the filling ports in the concrete paving. “Yeah. Pull up over here and set up. Might be slower than a regular gas pump, but it would be something.”
“I like that,” said the large man. He and Martin walked up to the roiling squabble, but the manager was too engrossed in his arguments to hear the large man or Martin trying to speak to him.
Angry at being ignored, the large man stomped back to grab one of the heavy steel port covers. He stomped back and spiked it onto the concrete near the epicenter of the arguments. Stunned by the loud clang, everyone stopped and stared.
“Everyone: Just. SHUT. UP.” A large and seething man was a good follow up to a loud clang for keeping the peace. “My little friend here has a suggestion. Shut up and listen.”
Martin related his idea to the manger, who dismissed it at first as impossible. The large man scowled at the manager who then tried to justify his objection with technicalities.
“But there’s no way to meter the amounts. How will I know how much anyone takes or how much to charge them? And besides, I don’t have that much change in the till…”
Not one to be put off by technicalities, Martin continued. “How’s this? Don’t pump it into cars directly. Have my large friend here pump the gas into a five gallon bucket, but marked for four gallons so it won’t spill as easily. Use a funnel to pour it into the cars. Yeah, like that long one that guy has over there. Everyone can get just four gallons. Four is better than nothing. You could charge, say, five dollars per gallon, so each customer pays twenty dollars. Easy math. Easy change. They get some gas. You get some profit.”
“Five dollars a gallon?” asked the large man. “That’s like double the real price.”
“True,” Martin said, “but if this was the last gas in town, would you pay five bucks per gallon to get some?”
The large man nodded thoughtfully. He addressed the crowd in a booming voice. “If we can get a pump running, who’s willing to pay five bucks a gallon to get some gas?” Some hands were raised. Others nodded their heads. Still others murmured agreement. Only a few grumbled about the price. “Well, if you don’t like, you can leave. Price is five bucks a gallon.”
The manager was warming to the idea too, since it meant a tidy profit. He agreed. The large man pulled his truck up to a port pointed out by the manager. A long rubber hose was attached to the end of the pump’s draw tube and lowered into the underground tank. Duct tape secured the pump to the truck’s bumper.
“Okay. We’re all set,” said the large man. He turned on the pump. After some gurgling and spurting, gasoline began to flow into the bucket. The crowd cheered.
“And, my little friend here gets his four gallons for free.” The manager was about to object. “Hey, it was his idea, without him, you’d still be over there arguing.” The manager acquiesced.
“Thanks guys,” said Martin.
One of the employees held a long-necked funnel up to Martin’s truck. Martin poured slowly, but still spilled a couple times from pouring too quickly. The needle on his gas gauge moved up a little. At least it’s something, Martin thought.
He waved to the large man as he drove away. The large man had both hands operating the pump, so could only nod in return. The next car in line pulled up to the makeshift filling station.
On the drive home Martin tried to calculate how much gas they had between their two vehicles and what he had stored in the shed. A few gallons should be kept in the Focus to use if we really needed to drive somewhere, he reasoned. The Focus got much better mileage than his truck, so could go farther. But, the Focus would not haul very much if they needed to haul anything or go somewhere that needed four wheel drive. A few gallons should be left in the truck too. The majority of their gas, however, could go toward the generator or the chainsaws. He still had a couple bottles of Sta-bil in the shed.
In the coming cold of winter, they could use ice for the freezer or set things outside at night to freeze. They would not need to run the generator every day. If they rationed their gas carefully, there might be enough left to run the chainsaws and splitter in the Spring for next winter’s wood. Chainsaws were a lot less work than his two-man saw, although he and Margaret had gotten pretty good with it. Martin felt a little better about their prospects. Life without gasoline would be very different, but hardly the end of the world.
Martin smiled, remembering how Hollywood writers of post-apocalyptic movies could not really imagine a world without plentiful fuel. Like infinite ammunition, fuel was presumed to always be there. Even in classics like Mad Max, in which fuel was supposedly so rare that it was worth killing for, the bad guys constantly drove around the desert in huge trucks and hotrod dune buggies as if fuel were no concern at all. Or, in some post-apocalyptic novels, evil biker gangs would continually maraud through the countryside with apparently limitless fuel for their Harleys.
Martin did not have Hollywood’s infinite supply of fuel, but it felt like a workable amount if they were very careful.
—
Martin found Margaret at the dining room table with several open books, a stack of papers and a calculator. He wondered where Susan was, but knew better than to have the first thing to ask his wife was where Susan was. Life in a minefield requires constant vigilance. “What are you doing?” He asked as he hung up his coat.
“Calculating.”
Martin waited for more, but it did not come. “Obviously, but what?”
“How long our food will last, assuming this is all we can get.”
“Oh?” Martin pulled up a chair.
“Yeah. Based on what we saw at Market Basket, there probably won’t be any more grocery runs for a long time. From what you were saying about how the power is out this time, it doesn’t sound like they’ll be fixing it soon. You said, maybe a few months?”
Martin shrugged. “At best, but that’s just a guess.”
“Well, let’s say you’re right and the power stays out for three months. Even if it comes back on around mid-January, how soon before fuel starts being produced, factories resume production, trucks start to roll and stores get re-stocked?”
Martin stared at the tablecloth as he calculated. A cold restart of such a complex economy would be spotty, at best. Some places might return to normal a couple months after the fuel flowed. Some areas might not see normal again for almost a year. “Could be a couple months or more after that,” he said.
“That’s what I was thinking too,” said Margaret. “Say they get the power back on in mid-January. A couple months after that would mean stores might have more food to buy around mid-March…optimistically?”
“Okay…” Martin gestured for her to continue.
Margaret leaned back and blew a breath through pursed lips. “I went through everything we have in the house now, including our new stuff from today, trying to figure out how long it would last if we couldn’t get more. This is just a quick estimate, mind you. I haven’t had time to figure out things like vitamins and nutrients yet: just the basics of carbs and proteins.”
Martin leaned forward. This was a crucial bit of information for future planning.
“On the plus side, we have far more than we need in the way of sugars: jams, jellies, things like that. Those aren’t carbs we could subsist on, however. Looking at just our basics, and a 2,000 calories-a-day diet, with normal intake, etc., we would have had enough to get us well beyond March, if it were just the two of us.” Martin gave her a stern look. “I know, I know,” she said. “Just saying ‘if’.”
Susan burst through the back door, making considerable noise. “Whew! It’s a lot of work pumping that water. It’s really heavy too!” She set down the two buckets and closed the door.
“Put one on the counter,” Margaret said. “And the other near the wood stove.” Susan took a deep breath and resumed hauling her buckets.
“But with three of us,” Margaret continued softly. “We’ve only got enough carbs from the wheat, pasta and rice to last into mid-January. Proteins might only make it to Christmas — if we stretch things. Plain and simple: if we can’t get more from someplace, we don’t have enough food for three people to last until March.”
(end chapter 1)
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Post by headlesshorseman on Mar 6, 2016 4:15:39 GMT -6
Those bags of feed corn just went up in value. Looks like the chickens may be eating acorns and hay this winter.
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Post by mic on Mar 7, 2016 18:37:11 GMT -6
Chapter 2: Part 1: The Lineman
“Aagh!” Susan let out a small yell as she ran around the corner of the garden. Close at her heels ran the flock of chickens.
“Throw some feed to one side,” Martin yelled from the wood piles. Susan expelled the handful of scratch grains as if casting out a demon. The chickens ran for the scattered seed.
“They were attacking me! You saw it!” Susan exclaimed.
Martin tried not to laugh. “That’s not ‘attacking’. That’s enthusiasm. Get ready to throw another handful. They’re almost done.”
Susan quickly grabbed and threw another handful, overhand, going for distance. The chickens ran further away to peck at the new prizes. “You didn’t tell me they would be so…aggressive.”
“They just love their breakfast. You’re carrying the magic orange bucket. That makes you the Official Bringer of Breakfast — and instantly their favorite person.”
“Bah. Favorite. I don’t know if I want to be that close to them. Their feet are so…” she shuddered. “…dirty.”
“Then maybe you should take the bucket inside before they start looking for more. They’ve had enough anyhow. I’ll be in shortly when I’m done with these tarps. I could go for another cup of coffee.”
As Martin sipped his coffee at the table, Margaret came upstairs with a tattered box in her arms. “I found it!” she said. “I knew I’d seen our old fireplace set somewhere out in the shed. It was behind Christmas decorations, but I found it.”
“Why were you looking for that?” Martin asked. “Is one of ours broken?”
“No. It’s for the Walkers. They haven’t used their wood stove for years and they think they gave away their tools. Lance is getting the stove back in shape, but they’ll need a poker and tongs and such. We weren’t using our old set, so I told Miri I’d bring it over. They need more kindling too.”
“That’s cool. Glad someone gets some use out of it,” said Martin. “I’ll help you carry over some kindling when we get home from the meeting. It’s up at town hall and starts at 9:00, remember? I’ve got some coffee in the thermos. Get your coat.”
“I can’t go to any meetings, Martin. I promised to bring Miri and Lance these tools and some kindling. They want to make a test fire this morning. Check for leaks. Then I have to go help Jess with her kids. She’s been feeling poorly lately and I figured I’d take her over a box of cereal and a couple jars of jam.”
“What? Yesterday, you were saying that we…” Martin was about to remind her that she said they would run out of food, but Susan was listening and he did not want her to feel like any more of a burden than she already did. “Do we have enough jam to be giving it away?” He tried to use emphasis to imply the problem they had both discussed without saying more.
Margaret understood. She glanced at Susan. “We can only eat so much jam, Martin. We have enough jam to last three years.”
“Okay, but still. Giving food away? You said…”
“Oh all right. How about I trade her for a can of tuna or something?”
“Yeah, that’s better, but jam can wait until after the meeting,” Martin insisted. “Come on. It’ll be like old times. We might learn more about what’s going on.”
“I still can’t go, Martin. I promised these other people I’d help them. I simply can not let them down. I told them I’d be over this morning.”
“Maybe I could go?” Susan asked reluctantly.
“What?” Margaret was startled.
“I mean, if it’s okay with you.” Susan faced Margaret. “I’ve filled up all the water buckets, put more on the stove to heat and hauled in some more wood.” Susan pointed at the full wood rack beside the stove. “I really don’t know what else to do around here.”
Margaret’s dilemma left her short for words.
“It’s just that,” continued Susan. “you’ll be gone helping the neighbors, so I’d be here all by myself and…well…I’ve never been to a real town meeting before,” Susan continued to plead her case before the judge. “Heck, I’ve never even voted for anything before. I mean, what’s the point in Massachusetts, right? I’d kinda like to see if, you know, a small-town meeting actually is ‘real democracy’ or what? I’ll sit way in the back and won’t make a sound. Honest.”
Inner struggled continued to play across Margaret’s face. She had painted herself into a corner. Martin knew she had little fondness for civic matters and felt much more fond of helping others. On the other hand, such meetings were typically husband-and-wife events on the social level.
“You sure you can’t come?” Martin coaxed Margaret. “I’d like it if you came.”
“But I promised to help Miri and Jess,” Margaret said with a bit of a whine in her voice.
“I understand,” Martin sighed. He had hoped she would adjust her schedule, but he knew how seriously she took her personal commitments.
“I could come and help you at the neighbors,” Susan said to Margaret. Her tone was less than enthused.
Margaret’s dilemma got more complicated. Martin recognized the little sideways glance of her eyes: a subtle gesture of impatience he had seen many times when their kids were young and wanted to ‘help’ with the baking or the sewing. Martin had also noticed that neither woman ever used each others’ names when they spoke to each other.
“No,” said Margaret. “That won’t be necessary. I can manage. I suppose you might as well go to the meeting.” The lesser of two evils.
Susan quickly stifled a smile. “Oh. Okay. I’ll sit way in the back,” she tried to reassure Margaret. “And I’ll take notes so you’ll know what they talked about.”
Margaret gave Martin a weary glance he knew to mean ‘oh brother.’ “That would be fine. You’d better get going if the meeting starts at 9:00. Martin? If you could get out the wagon first, I’d appreciate it.”
---
While Martin and Susan walked up the dirt road towards town, Susan tried not to walk too closely beside Martin. “I kind of did it again, didn’t I? I could tell she wasn’t happy about my coming to the meeting. But, I would just have been sitting around the house doing nothing,” she pled her case before a different judge.
“I know,” said Martin. “She might have come too, if she didn’t have her commitments.” To himself he muttered, “She always keeps her commitments.”
As they approached the electrical substation, there were coming up behind a bucket truck parked on the left side of the road and in front of the fence. Martin looked for workers inside the fence, but saw none. As they came alongside of the truck, Martin could see through the passenger window that there was no one sitting in the cab. The driver's door appeared to still be open.
“I wonder if this is abandoned.” He was not sure why he whispered, but it seemed appropriate. He walked cautiously around the rear of the truck towards the open driver's door. The chain link gate was still wide open. That was very unusual. Inside the fence, he could see charred paint on two of the big transformers. The air still held the stink of burned rubber and the tart smell ozone. Whatever took down the grid, clearly included the little substation on Martin's road.
Susan gasped. Martin spun around. His eyes followed her stare. Two booted legs rested on the ground: heels dug into the dirt. The driver sat on the truck’s running board, leaning back against the door jamb. His arms hung limp at his sides, head back, mouth open wide. A scorched gray laptop and clipboard lay in his lap.
“Is he…?” Susan’s whisper was barely audible.
Martin shrugged. Had the man been electrocuted? Martin stepped a few inches further from the truck, in case it was still "hot." He scanned overhead for signs of dangling wires. There were none. He bent down to look under the truck. No wires there either. The power had been out for days, so there should not be any power in a downed line, but better safe than sorry.
He wondered when the man had been electrocuted. The blackened transformers and scorched laptop testified to great power at some point. Perhaps the man died days before. If he had, then why was he not dead on the ground inside the fence? Perhaps the man got a mortal jolt inside the fence and staggered to die at his truck.
Martin slowly circled closer to get a better look. The man's clothes weren't burned, nor were there any marks on his gloved hands. The laptop had smokey scorch marks around the ports on the side. Did the scorched laptop mean he died Monday when the power went out? The man did not look like he had been dead for days, although Martin realized he did not know what that would look like. Perhaps the cool weather and cold nights had preserved the body.
Martin leaned slowly closer, to see if there were burn marks on the man's face when the big man suddenly snorted and sat up. Martin let out a yelp and jumped back, only to whack his shoulder on the open truck door.
"Wha…What are you doin’?” the man asked, as he blinked and looked around.
“Nothing. Nothing. I was just checking on you. I thought you were…dead, or something,” Martin said.
The man looked around, then slumped against the door jamb again. "Oh man, I'm still in Cheshire? No, I ain't dead. Feel halfway there, though.” The big man pulled off his gloves, pushed off his hardhat and let out a long yawn. "What is today? Don’t tell me it’s Saturday.”
“It’s Friday,” said Martin. "Friday morning. How long have you been here?”
The big man let out another long shuddering yawn. “I got here last night. Been all over the state. Was in Milford yesterday. I’ve been up since Wednesday. Musta fallen asleep."
“I’ve got some coffee in my thermos," said Martin. "You want a cup?"
“Oh man, I'd give my first born for a cup of coffee about now."
Martin poured half a cup into the thermos top and handed it to the lineman.
“Jeez, thanks!” The lineman took a long, loud sip. “Ahhhh…”
Martin pointed to the scorched equipment inside the chain link fence. “So, is the damage pretty bad?”
The man looked at the substation for a moment, then resumed slurping. “Yeah. It’s bad. An overload took out your transformer here, and some relays, but that’s almost nothin’ compared to what else I’ve seen. I’ve been all over: Milton, Concord, Exeter. They sent us out right away Monday morning, to check out what might have been damaged, but it’s been the darnedest thing.”
“Lots of these substations got overloaded?” Martin asked.
“Oh yeah that, but weird stuff too,” said the lineman. He handed the empty cup back to Martin. “Thanks. Newington Station in Portsmouth had its burners crap out. Schiller lost a boiler due to overpressure. Valve issue. AES blew out a boiler too when both burners wouldn’t shut off. My buddy Jasper was up in Colebrook. Said their little hydro station didn’t blow up, but most of its links and transformers did. Bow Station is usually offline — just there for peak loads — so it wasn’t running when all this happened. But, when they tried to fire it up, one of their burners went crazy, so they shut it all down.”
“Things are going crazy? What about Seabrook?” Martin asked. He realized that he had never thought of a Plan B for if they were forced to evacuate because of reactor trouble at Seabrook. They could quickly pack a couple suitcases, gather some food and water, add their camping gear to the emergency bags in his truck in fifteen minutes and evacuate. The problem was, he had no pre-arranged place to travel to. They did not have enough gas to get to any relatives several states away.
“Nah. Seabrook’s fine. Since that Fukushima thing put a scare into them, they’ve added backup systems for backup systems to keep the core cool and shut her down proper. By noon Monday, they went into shut-down mode. Good thing they had their own generators for the pumps.”
Martin was relieved, but his lack of an evacuation plan nagged at him. He was ashamed to realize that it was rather late for trying to develop one. With the grid down and just about everything becoming scarce, they were committed to hunkering down at home.
“How long do you think it will take to get things fixed?” Martin asked. He tried to sound optimistic. “A couple months? Maybe three?”
The lineman shook his head gravely. “No way. Too much stuff fried. Nobody’s got that many spares. People could maybe cobble together some of the unbroken parts to get a small section back online. That’s what I’ve been doing for the past two days: not repairing anything, just assessing what we have left that’s workable — which ain’t much.”
As the lineman stood up, his clipboard and laptop clattered to the ground. Martin stooped over to pick up the laptop for him, but the man raised his hand. “Never mind. That thing’s toast. It was my old one anyway. I tried a diagnostic hookup to the panel in there last night, but thought there might be something hinky with the board. So I used my old one instead of my new one. Something was hinky, alright. The overages probably melted a cross to the batteries, I guess. Blew it out.” He kicked the scorched laptop, which skittered across the gravel parking lot and into the tall grass. “Got no time to haul dead junk around anymore.”
“We’re on our way to a meeting up at town hall,” Martin said. “This all sounds like something people should know. Think you could come by and tell them about the extent of the damage? ”
“No can do. Only official spokesmen make public statements. So, all that stuff I told you, didn’t come from me. Understand? At my age, I can’t afford to get fired for making public statements.” He climbed into his truck and turned on his radio. “Unit 34 to base. Unit 34 checking in.” The radio crackled some gibberish. “Roger base. Done at Cheshire-2507. I’m on my way now.” He started up his truck. “I’ve gotta go. Supposed to have been in Exeter by an hour ago. Thanks for the coffee, though. Take it easy.”
They waved and watched him drive slowly up the dirt road and out of sight.
—
At the century-old town hall, Martin and Susan fell in line with the column of people who shuffled up the wide wooden stairs to the second floor auditorium. The landing before the double doors was congested with chatting twosomes and threesomes. Some conversations were in hushed worried tones, some slightly angrier, judging from the staccato gesturing.
"Hmm. Not as cold in here as I expected,” said Martin. A pair of kerosene heaters sat in the front corners of the room. They took some of the chill off, but everyone still wore their coats and hats.
"It feels good just to be out of the wind," said Susan.
Several rows of wooden folding chairs were lined up on the hardwood floor. Half were filled with the less chatty residents who sat quietly with arms folded or hands in pockets. Many people were still standing and conversing around the periphery of the room. Most of the faces were new to Martin, except for a few he had gotten to know recently. Holly Baldwin and her husband sat in front. Jen, the owner of Jasmine, was seated beside them. Walter and Sally sat in the second row. The middle and back rows were filled with younger couples in down jackets and colorful ski-wear.
Martin spotted some open seats on the left side. He pointed them out to Susan.
Susan hesitated. “I told her I would sit in the back. What if she asks me where I sat?”
Martin smiled sympathetically. Life in a mine field. He could easily imagine Margaret quizzing him, too. He realized it was best for keeping the fragile peace that they did not sit together. “Yeah, probably best. I’m going over on the left side there, by the windows.”
In front of the old auditorium stage, stood two long folding tables, behind which sat two of Cheshire’s three Selectmen: Mike Wilder and Drew Haddock. Police Chief Burgh and Fire Chief Anton sat at opposite ends. The town clerk sat next to the Fire Chief, her yellow pad ready to take notes.
Jeff Landers, chairman of the board, made his way through the crowd. He looked like Santa in summer vacation mode: less round and white beard trimmed shorter. Landers took his seat in the middle of the table and rapped his gavel on the plastic table to call the meeting to order. The dull plastic thuds had none of the commanding dignity of loud whacks on a hardwood desk. It took several rappings to quiet down the myriad conversations.
“Everyone. Please. We’d like to get started,” began Landers. The buzz of conversations faded away. “ Thanks for coming, everyone. As some of you know, we postponed our regular weekly selectmen meeting due to the outage. There won’t be any meetings of the planning board, or conservation commission, zoning board or any other committees until further notice. In fact, most of town business is on hold for the time being. So, if you had a hearing or review before any of the boards, all business is currently tabled. Come see me later.”
“What are you going to do about all this, Jeff?” asked a woman seated in the front row. She was tall and slender, with long gray hair.
“We’ll get to that, Candice. Before we get started, I’d like to make a few ground rules understood, since I see quite a few new faces in the audience today. There’s no PA system, so anyone who wishes to speak, please address the chair. When recognized, stand, state your name and street, so everyone knows who you are, then make your statement. Speak loudly, so everyone can hear you. Now, you first, sir.” Landers pointed his gavel at a young bearded man in a middle row.
“Um. Justin Filson, Willow Lane? Can you tell us what’s going on? Why the power is out? There’s no real news on the radio. How long will this last? Our house is getting really cold.”
“Thank you Mr. Filson. We have not heard anything from the utilities, or from Concord, for that matter, so we don’t know anything for sure. We do know that power is out all across the New England and many other states, so it’s not just us. Other towns all seem to be in the same boat we are. Chief?” Landers gestured to the police chief.
“Thanks Jeff. Yes, we are in radio contact with neighboring departments. They are all pretty busy implementing emergency procedures and dealing with all the traffic and accidents and such. The significant development I’d like to make you all aware of, is that area 911 service, which was operating until yesterday. It is now offline.” This news caused a ripple of murmurs in the back rows.
A young man in a blue down jacket raised his hand. Landers nodded to him. “Adam Dunan, Peachtree Circle. If we can’t call 911, what do we do if something goes wrong?” His tone had an accusing edge to it. His wife nodded in support.
“I plan to have at least one man patrolling in a cruiser as long as our fuel holds out. We can cover every street and road in town at least twice a day. If you have a problem, you can flag him down when he comes by.”
“That’s it?” complained Dunan. “If my wife gets sick, or an intruder breaks into our home, we’re just supposed to stand out by the road and wait for a policeman?”
“Or come up to the police station. We will have someone in the office 24/7.”
“What?” Dunan was dumbfounded. His momentary silence was an opening for others.
“You might just have to take care of things for yourself,” said a middle-aged man in a plaid canvas coat. He sat a couple rows ahead of Dunan.
Landers rapped his gavel. “Pete, you just heard me repeat the rules.”
Pete stood. “Oh all right. Peter Conners, Harris Lake Road. Mr. Chairman, I would suggest that all residents be prepared to take care of themselves instead of waiting for someone else to come help them.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” complained Dunan. A few other young residents around him made supporting murmurs.
“Medical kit for injuries and buckshot for intruders,” said Pete. “That’s what I mean.” The rest of crowd burst into murmuring. Martin could see that some were shocked at the suggestion of do-it-yourself measures. Others nodded in agreement.
Landers rapped his gavel a few times. Candice stood to be recognized and interrupt the budding argument. Landers looked relieved and nodded to her.
“Mr. Chairman, what I think this young man was asking is: what will the town be doing to take care of its unfortunate citizens, who, through no fault of their own, find themselves in very difficult circumstances?” As she turned to speak to the audience, Martin got a better look at her. She was thin, her skin was deeply creased with many smile-lines from too many years in the sun. Her long gray hair was pulled back in flower-child style. Her broad smile straddled the line between compassion and condescension. She was playing to the crowd.
“Thank you Candice,” said Landers flatly. “There’s not much we can do about restoring power, or heating anyone’s home. We will, after this meeting, be opening up the school gym as a shelter. We have some cots and blankets, but realistically, the gym will only handle about thirty families. The school’s generator will supply power for the furnace, pump and water heater. Hopefully, we have enough propane to carry us through until things are fixed.”
Martin cringed. They were still thinking of the outage as just another temporary storm problem to be waited out. His latent Boy Scout wanted to voice his convictions that they all faced a long-term problem. The curmudgeon part of him wanted to keep quiet and avoid getting entangled with any new vipers. He intended to listen to his curmudgeon side until he glanced at Susan. She motioned with her eyes, as if to say, ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’
>
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Post by headlesshorseman on Mar 7, 2016 19:43:51 GMT -6
Thank you for the new chapter.
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Post by kaijafon on Mar 7, 2016 21:35:41 GMT -6
thank you for the moar! I see "panic" happening soon there... lol
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Post by mic on Mar 9, 2016 20:41:56 GMT -6
Chapter 2: part 2: Tough Meeting
Martin was certain he would regret it, but he raised his hand. As much as he loathed petty local politics, he did not want to disappoint Susan. He was not sure why. Landers pointed to him.
“Ahem. Martin Simmons, Old Stockman Road. I don’t think things will be getting fixed anytime soon. This outage could last months, or more.” This sent the crowd to buzzing.
“Are you with the utility company, Mr. Simmons?” Landers asked.
“No, but on my way here today, I met a utility worker at the substation on Old Stockman.” Martin relayed what the lineman told him with the upshot being that power would not be coming back for months. When he sat down, some people glared angrily at him. Messengers of bad news take the heat.
“So that’s just your opinion,” spouted Dunan. Others agreed angrily. Martin could feel a blush of embarrassment growing. Vipers. He was certain he should have listened to his inner curmudgeon. Those eyes of hers keep getting me in trouble, he thought.
“No. Not just his opinion,” said Walter as he stood. “Walter Novell, Haverhill Road. I’ve been monitoring ham radio since the lights went out and lots of other folks been saying the same thing he just did.” Walter reported about the nationwide outage.
Selectman Mike Wilder had been tapping on a little calculator and scribbling on a note pad while Walter spoke. “We don’t have months of fuel for the school generator,” he said. “Eastern Propane was scheduled to fill the tank next week, so it’s pretty low. If we run it two hours on, three hours off, we’ve got enough fuel for about a week. Maybe ten days.”
“That’s it? A week?” Dunan and others were upset. He had become the de facto spokesman for a group of youngish couples who sat in the middle rows. “And what happens after a week? You just let us freeze?”
“That’s up to you,” snorted Pete.
Candice interrupted. “Jeff, this town must do something to provide for it’s residents. What about old and the sick? What about the little children?” She held her arms outstretched as if to welcome the poor, the huddled masses.
“Never mind the old and sick. What about us?” complained Dunan. “We pay taxes to this town. We demand that you do something. You owe us…”
Pete stood up quickly and faced Dunan. “This town don’t owe you diddly squat, ya panty waist. This ain’t some resort hotel where you can demand clean towels or order up room service when yer hungry.”
Dunan stood and stabbed his finger at Pete. “Listen you. You can’t talk to me like that. I’ll sue the pants off of you!” Landers continued to try and restore order with his gavel, but few paid any attention.
“Pfft.” sniffed Pete. “You think this town is like your mama or something: owes you a warm bed, wash your clothes and maybe cut your meat for you, eh little boy?”
Dunan lunged over the intervening row of chairs. Pete had time to square up his stance to face the charging young man. Others stood up behind Dunan, shouting their support. Dunan tried to grab Pete’s clothes, but failed. He took a swing at Pete, but from so far back that there was no surprise to the attack at all.
Even though Pete was a foot shorter than Dunan and twenty years older, he easily parried the wide swing. Furious that his first swing did not deliver a Hollywood knockout, the younger man swung with his other arm, but Pete easily deflected that blow too. Dunan stumbled on a fallen folding chair. In that interruption, a few of Dunan’s cohorts and supporters succeeded in restraining him, but also hurled epithets at Pete. Residents caught in the middle had quickly scurried aside. A handful of older men took up positions behind Pete, more in a show of support and back-up, not to restrain him.
By this point, Chief Burgh had rushed around the end of the table and into the rows of chairs. “Alright! Alright everybody just back off. Settle down here.”
“I demand that you arrest this man,” shouted Dunan. “I intend to press charges.”
“For what?” asked the Chief as he moved aside some chairs to stand between the men. “Seems to me you were the one throwing punches.”
“Well…he was…disrespecting me. That’s it. He was bullying and disrespecting. I have my rights. Bullies should be in jail.”
“Nobody’s going to jail over a few words,” said the Chief. “Now, everyone sit down and cool off. I will, take away the next person that starts a fight. Understand me?” The chief’s gaze was firmly locked on Dunan.
Candice stood to act as peacemaker. “We should all respect each others’ rights, and always in kindness.” Her smile was gone briefly as she glowered at Pete, but it flickered back on again.
“Is this what we can expect from this stinkin’ town?” Dunan said to Landers. “This is your meeting? What are you going to do about this?”
“Mr. Dunan,” began Landers. “We appreciate your concerns. We are all in the same boat as you. But…”
“No you’re not!” snapped Dunan. “Some of you have wood stoves and wood. We don’t. Some of you have generators. We don’t. That’s not fair.”
“Bet you’ve got a honkin’ huge TV, though Sport. I don’t,” quipped Pete.
“That’s it! I don’t have to take this crap!” ranted Dunan. “If you’re not going to deal with this man, then I want nothing more to do with you…and your stupid meetings and your stupid town. Come on, Trish. We’re going to stay with my mother in Wellsley.”
Dunan’s young wife shot an indignant scowl at Landers and Pete just before the two of them pushed through the chairs and stomped out. Several other couples stood up too, mumbled angry inarticulate words and followed the Dunans out. Other young couples, still in their seats, looked at each other like bewildered orphans. They may have shared Dunan’s worries and sentiment, but not enough of his zeal to join in the walk-out.
Candice rose to speak, “Jeff.” She had to speak loudly to be heard over thunder of petulant stomping down the wooden stairs. “Jeff. This is no way to take care of our citizens. Pete. That was totally uncalled for.”
“Bah,” said Pete. “I just did you all a favor. You’ve got big enough challenges on your hands. You’ve gotta figure out how to get through the winter with what you’ve got. The fewer pampered panty-waists, the better. The sort of talk that young guy was spouting concerns me: people thinking everyone else ought to be taking care of them. I’m willing to bet you all are going to be scraping the bottom of your barrels just to get yourselves by this winter. A bunch of do-nothing mooches is the last thing you all need.”
“Wasn’t so long ago,” Pete looked over the crowd. “This town used to be mostly folks who knew how to take care of themselves and did so: farmers, lumbermen, tradesmen. The women were sturdy stock, too. They could butcher and cook a chicken, split firewood and make clothes for their family. They knew how to take care of themselves and families without demanding anyone else do it for them.”
“But,” Pete shook his head. “Every year, more and more of them helpless city folks have been moving into town cuz rural is ‘quaint’ — looks cute in a magazine. But they ain’t got what it takes to actually live rural. Young men nowadays couldn’t lay up a cord of firewood if their lives depended on it — and soon enough, it just might! Young women nowadays couldn’t cook a whole chicken. Heck, they’d run from a chicken for fear of germs. They think that heating up something in a microwave is cooking!”
Martin glanced back. Susan was cringing with her head down. Most of the younger couples in middle and back had downcast faces or worried looks. While he imagined Pete was right enough about city people, he did not like seeing Susan’s feelings hurt.
Landers spoke up to fill the awkward silence. “Now Pete, you know I usually let people have their say, but I also expect them to stay on topic. I don’t want another one of your long rants about how things are going to hell in a hand basket, okay? Are you going to say something constructive about what’s going on now, or what?”
“Yessir, I am. What I was getting up to is this: You’ve got two basic problems. One, is how folks are going to get through this when there ain’t no stores to go buy stuff from. Two, is how you plan to handle all the helpless city folks, like that Dunan character, who will be coming out here looking for food and shelter. Back before all this, I’d hear city people say that if the Shinola ever hits the fan, they’ll head for the hills. Well, ladies and gentlemen, Cheshire is the hills.”
This caused a stir of murmurs and heads leaning together to whisper.
“What, Mr. Chairman sir, will the town do about that?” With a theatrically large nod as non-verbal punctuation, Pete sat down.
Chief Burgh stared into the distance with a furrowed brow. Martin could guess that he was wondering what his force of three men would do with an influx of helpless and hungry Dunan-types. Desperate people tend to be disorderly. His resources were just adequate when times were peaceful. An overcrowded shelter of citizens and refugees from the city with nowhere to go, would easily overwhelm his little police force. There would be no extra units to call in from neighboring towns either. They would likely be as overwhelmed as he was.
Candice looked pensive too. “Mr. Chairman,” she said with extra formality. “I propose that we establish an Aid Committee to gather up excess food and supplies and to distribute them to any needy people who find their way to Cheshire.” Her broad smile was on the compassion side of the line this time.
“I don’t got that much for myself,” said a voice from the right. “ Who decides what’s excess?” asked another. This touched off a wave of murmurs. “We barely have enough for our family,” said a third person. The murmurs grew louder.
“Now hold on,” said Wilder. “Before we go trying to figure out how to deal a hungry crowd that isn’t here…”
“Yet” interjected Pete.
“Yet,” conceded Wilder. “We need to deal with the people who already are here.”
“Oh. Oh, I see what you mean,” said Candice with a lilt in her voice. “You’re quite right. We have people in town right now who don’t have enough to eat or heat for their homes. The Aid Committee should collect excess supplies from the people who have more than they need…(This last part uttered with scolding tone and a glare at Pete) and distribute them to our neediest citizens…”
“Now, don’t go putting words in my mouth, Candice!” said Wilder. “We are NOT going to go around taking away people’s stuff so we can give to other people.”
Candice’s enthusiastic smile quickly turned to a deeply-wrinkled frown. “You can’t just let people freeze in their homes and their children go hungry. It’s not fair that some people in town…” She glared at Pete again. “…have enough food to feed twenty families, while others have none. Are you going to just let the fat cats feast while the poor starve? We’ve got to do something.”
While Candice and the selectmen argued over the pros and cons of charitable confiscation, Martin’s mind latched onto a phrase Candice used: ‘more than they need.’ That was how Margaret described their jam supply. She said she was going to trade Jess for a can of tuna. What if lots of people in town had similarly lopsided pantries? Maybe someone out there had a freezer full of venison, but little in the way of carbs. Another man might have a lot of bread, but no jam to put on it.
Martin ignored his inner curmudgeon and raised his hand. Landers was eager for some other business than the ongoing debate, so gaveled Candice and Mike to silence and pointed to Martin.
“Um. What if people sold or traded their excess with each other? Somebody with a lot of meat, but not much bread, could trade with someone with lots of bread, etc. I’ll bet most people have excesses and shortages. People could even out their own supplies and be better situated for the long haul.” Martin sat down. His face felt hot. Why was he messing with vipers?
“Go on,” said Drew Haddock, the quieter Selectman.
“Well, what if we held something like a market day? People bring in their extra stuff? It could be like a flea market for food. People buy, sell, trade, whatever, with each other.”
“How about Monday?” Someone in the audience asked.
“And,” added Walter. “If you held your swap meet every Monday, you could use the gathering to update folks on issues, town business, etc. since there ain’t no phones or cable TV.”
Haddock asked, “Walter, think you could give us a radio news update on Monday?” Walter nodded eagerly. Martin thought he saw Sally look down and shake her head.
“This is a much more positive approach,” Landers said. “But what do all of you have to say? It’s your town. Is there any interest out there in having a market day? Can we see a show of hands?” Quite a few hands went up.
“Okay. Could I have someone make a motion? Mr. Simmons? It was your idea.”
Martin stood, trying to remember his Robert’s Rules of Order. “Um…I move that the town hold a public meeting here this…um, each…Monday to serve as an informational meeting and where people can buy, sell and trade goods.”
Walter seconded the motion. When the vote was called, the clear majority voted yea. Candice and a few of the younger couples voiced the few nays. From her furrowed frown, Martin guessed she preferred centrally managed redistribution to the chaos of self-management.
“Okay everyone. Let’s plan to meet back here on Monday, 10 o’clock. Tell your neighbors that did not make it here today. The more people we have bringing in things to trade, the more likely everyone will be able to find things they need. Thanks again for coming everyone. Meeting adjourned.”
On the walk home, Martin chatted about some of the extra items he might bring on Monday. After awhile, he noticed it was a one-way conversation. Susan stared at the ground as she walked.
“I’ve been talking to myself, apparently,” Martin said. “Something wrong?”
Her frown deepened. “I’m one of those helpless city people.”
“Don’t start with that burden talk again…” Martin replied.
“Well it’s true,” she interrupted. “I am one of them, but I don’t want to be.”
(end chapter 2)
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Post by mnn2300 on Mar 9, 2016 21:05:46 GMT -6
Good story so far, thank you.
There's a lot more people like Dunan than there are like Martin.
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Post by pbbrown0 on Mar 11, 2016 1:40:45 GMT -6
I am so thrilled to see the continuation. Watch spell check on place names (Nutfiled then Nutfield in chapter 1 part 1). Haven't got past 1:1 yet but something really stood out to me. - - At the end of Book 1, that "stinky and bristly" would be an understandable reason for aborting a hug and a kiss if he had been working at home all day. However, she had been worried about where he was for three days, and he had been struggling to get home for several very uncertain days when she aborted the hug at the end of book 1. Martin had barely awakened the next morning after finally making it home through the get home ordeal, and he was "drinking in" the view of his wife. Okay, so he was still bristly and stinky, but even after a shave and a shower he still did not even give her a hug?! One or both members of this husband wife "team" has some SERIOUS intimacy issues! Is this your intended set up (Margaret is clearly uneasy about Susan.), or was this just your writing rush going down another rabbit path before the previous rabbit was caught?
I really love your style, your characters, and your story telling. I am just a little surprised at Martin's character on this point. He seemed more relaxed in his conversation with the chickens than with his wife.
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Post by mic on Mar 11, 2016 20:22:42 GMT -6
I am so thrilled to see the continuation. Watch spell check on place names (Nutfiled then Nutfield in chapter 1 part 1). Haven't got past 1:1 yet but something really stood out to me. - - ... One or both members of this husband wife "team" has some SERIOUS intimacy issues! Is this your intended set up (Margaret is clearly uneasy about Susan.), or was this just your writing rush going down another rabbit path before the previous rabbit was caught?... PB, I don't want to give away too much, too soon, but no, it wasn't a slip. You have correctly identified that all is not roses and clover in the marriage. Introducing "another woman" into a happy-strong married household wouldn't cause much trouble. But if things weren't all roses.... Thanks for the note about spellcheck. It underlines most of my place names, so it isn't a lot of help that way. I'll go fix the one you mentioned. Glad you're enjoying the story.
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Post by mic on Mar 11, 2016 20:38:05 GMT -6
Chapter Three: Part 1: The Pancakes of Damocles
After throwing the chickens some breakfast scratch, Martin set about harvesting the last of the pole beans and pulling up their poles. Most of the pods were dry enough to rattle as he dropped them in the basket hanging from the crook of his elbow. Doing chores before breakfast always sharpened his appetite.
When he set the basket inside the back door, the smell of something toasted almost set him to drooling. “Whatever that is sure smells good,” he said. “I’m going to take these poles down to the shed first. I’ll be back in a minute.”
As Martin neared the shed, he heard snapping and cracking behind the woodpiles. He quietly set down the poles and slowly pulled the revolver out of his coat pocket. He heard coyotes yipping before dawn, so approached cautiously.
Behind the last woodpile, Margaret was bent over a cardboard box. She was breaking small branches of windfall across her knee and putting them into a kindling box.
“It’s you? You’re not in the kitchen?” he said.
“No. I’m gathering more kindling for the Walkers. Lance’s test fire yesterday used up most of what I brought them, so I told them I’d get them another box of kindling and bring it over.”
“But, if you’re out here…” he pointed back up at the house.
“She insisted on making breakfast this morning. Said she wanted to pull her weight.”
“Oh. But, I don’t think she knows how to cook.”
“Pfft. Tell me about it. Couldn’t you have rescued someone a bit more capable?”
“I didn’t rescue anybody. She had no place to stay. We had a room. That’s all. It’s not a rescue!”
“That’s not how she sees it.”
“Oh never mind. It still wasn’t a rescue. But, you didn’t just set her loose in the kitchen did you?”
“No,” Margaret snorted. “And I’m not cleaning up after her, either. Whatever mess she makes, she’s cleaning up.”
“Of course, but then, what is she cooking?” Martin tried to identify the smell he caught from the back door, but could not.
“I showed her how to make pancakes.”
“That was pancakes?”
Margaret looked puzzled at his question. “It’s supposed to be. I have a few boxes of mix. Figured she couldn’t screw that up.”
“You have boxes of mix? When did that happen? You despise boxed mixes.”
“I do, but they were a gift from the Sunday School kids. They meant well. I couldn’t just throw them away, but had no idea what to do with them — until now. A box mix seemed safe enough for even her to try.”
Martin and Margaret stepped through the back door to see the table set: plates, forks, butter, syrup.
“Oh good,” said Susan brightly. “You’re just in time. Take off your things and have a seat. Breakfast is ready!” The last word had a singing tone to it.
They took off their coats and washed their hands in the kitchen sink. Margaret let out a little ‘hmm’ of surprise. The sink was not full of dirty bowls and spoons. Martin glanced around, half expecting to see a pile of dirty bowls in a corner. Other than one upside down mixing bowl, he saw nothing out of place. He had half expected a mess too.
After they took their seats, Susan set a platter of pancakes in the center of the table with a look of great accomplishment.
“Only six?” asked Margaret. “Those boxes make twelve to fifteen pancakes. Where are the rest?”
Susan’s look of pride fell away as she took her seat. “These are the good ones.”
“Oh.”
Martin quickly served up a pair of pancakes onto everyone’s plates to break the awkward silence. He drizzled some syrup, cut a wedge of pancake and was about to push it into his mouth when he noticed both Susan and Margaret were staring intently at him. He felt like a royal food taster. Was the king’s meal poisoned? He bit and chewed bravely.
“Well? What do you think?” Susan asked. Her face was a mix of enthusiasm and trepidation. Margaret was staring at him too. Her face had a hint of worry and trepidation. Both watched him intently.
Good lord, Martin thought. Forget the Sword of Damocles. These are The Pancakes of Damocles.
He realized that if he said they were good, Susan would be happy, but Margaret would feel threatened. Being a good cook was one of her sources of pride. No rookie cook with a box of mix should instantly make great food.
If he said the pancakes were not good, Margaret would feel fine, but Susan would feel bad. He knew she wanted to prove she was not a helpless city person. Her efforts to learn skills needed encouragement.
What do I say? There’s no way to win this. He felt like a soldier who had stepped on a land mine that did not blow up. Was it a dud, or would it explode when he stepped off of it?
Martin knew he could not keep chewing that bite of pancake indefinitely. They were both waiting for him to say something. He swallowed hard.
“Well?” Susan’s face was almost imploring. Margaret’s face had the start of a worried frown.
“They’re pretty good,” he said cautiously. Susan beamed. Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “They’re not as good as Margaret’s of course, but they’re okay.” Margaret’s semi-scowl softened into a small grin. She was still the benchmark. Susan’s smile remained: happy to have passed her first test. Both women were smiling!
Martin could feel himself slump and blow out a little sigh of relief. He had stepped off the mine and it had not exploded. Life in a minefield was not easy.
“Oh, I am so glad,” Susan said. “I really wanted them to turn out, but you don’t know how hard it was to cook on top of that wood stove.” Martin caught Margaret rolling her eyes. She stopped in mid roll when he gave her his “stern dad” look.
“First, it was too hot, then not hot enough, then too hot again. I mean, it was nearly impossible not to burn them. I had to watch them all the time!” They finished their breakfast with Susan recounting the ups and downs of her cooking experience.
After carrying the dishes in so Susan could wash up, Margaret went down to the garage for another box to hold more kindling. Martin poured a cup of coffee. “So, where are the other pancakes?” he asked Susan.
With a hint of shame, she pointed at the upside down bowl on the counter. Martin lifted the bowl and examined the dark disks. “What. These aren’t so bad.”
“Aren’t so bad? They’re totally ruined!”
“Bah,” said Martin. “You always hear in TV ads how the best baked-goods are ‘golden brown’, right?
Susan squinted at him skeptically. “Yeah?” she said slowly.
“Well, these are just Extra-Golden. That’s all.”
“What are you talking about? They’re burnt.”
“You keep saying that wrong. Extra. Golden. Don’t be so negative. We just pick off some of these crispier edges, and see? The middles are fine.” He tore off a bit and tossed it in his mouth. “Shee? deesh are jush fine. Extra golden. These will make a fine snack during the day. We’ll save the edges for the chickens. Nothing goes to waste.”
—
Martin was pulling up dead pumpkin vines from the front garden when the crunch of tires on dirt road caught his ear. There had been almost no traffic on Old Stockman Road since he had gotten home, so the sound was unusual. They were not driving very fast, whoever it was. People only drove slow on his road when they were looking for something. But, with the houses so far apart on Old Stockman, there was little to look for, unless, perhaps it was trouble.
He realized that if it might be trouble coming down the road, he should be ready. His pocket was empty. Pulling up dead vines did not seem to warrant being armed. There was no time to go inside and get the revolver. Whoever it was, would come into view in a few seconds. Perhaps he did not need a gun. Perhaps it was someone just driving by. He mentally traced his steps to the front door, should he need to run inside and get a gun. Martin watched to see whoever it was emerge from behind the trees before deciding whether to bolt inside or not.
An older Subaru wagon rolled down the gentle hill and into the Simmons’ driveway. Martin did not recognize it at first, but the ample amateur body repair with sheet aluminum and pop rivets could be none other than his son’s car, affectionately nicknamed The Beast.
“Dustin!” Martin strode up to the car, arms wide. “Oh, it’s so great to see you two!” He gave his son a fatherly hug, but got a longer hug back than he expected.
Margaret stepped out of the front door to see what the commotion was. She stood at the top of the stairs. “Dustin!” she said enthusiastically. Then, rather flatly she added, “Judith.”
“Mrs. Simmons,” said Judy in matching flatness from behind her car door.
“What brings you down from the mountains?” Martin asked. “From your last text, it sounded like you were all set to go Grizzly Adams up there.”
“Yeah, well, we were, but we ran into a pretty significant snag and I knew you and mom had some room, a wood stove and…so, well, I thought…”
“Of course, of course. You’re both welcome to stay. Come on in by the fire.” Martin led Dustin and Judy up the front steps. As passed Margaret he whispered out of the side of his mouth, “It’s bound to go better this time. We all know the boundaries.”
As they topped the stairs into the living room, Dustin stopped. Susan sat at the far end of the couch with an awkward smile. “Oh, hello,” said Dustin. He looked at Martin for an explanation.
“Dustin, this is Susan. It’s kind of a long story, but the bottom line is that she had no place to stay during this outage, so we’re letting her stay in Lindsey’s room. Susan, this is my son, Dustin and his lovely wife Judy.”
Margaret pulled in a couple of dining room chairs and set them near the wood stove. Martin brought a pair of mugs from the kitchen and poured coffee.
“Are you hungry?” Margaret asked. “I wasn’t going to start lunch until later, but I could…”
“No. But thanks, mom. We ate a bit in the car. What we are is really tired. We’ve been awake all night.”
“Well, sit and warm up.” Martin pointed to the chairs. “What made you leave the mountains? From the way you talked before all this, I figured you were all set to hunker down.”
“We thought we could make a go of it up there,” Dustin said as he sat down. “I mean, we were getting by, right?” Judy nodded on cue but with a worried look. “We ran into a problem, though, and I knew we needed to get out of town.”
“When the power went out, I was at work,” Dustin sipped his coffee. “Jeff kept the store open because were were doing a brisk business selling batteries. I snagged some packs of rechargeable AAs for myself. Good thing too. All the batteries were going fast. About 3:00, we sold our last battery, cannibalized from an RC car. Jeff sent me home and closed up.”
“I had to stay at the daycare until, like, 6:00,” said Judy. “Some parents came right away to get their kids. But a couple of kids looked like they were going to have to stay overnight. I guess that last couple of parents had a hard time getting in.”
“The first night at the cottage wasn’t so bad,” said Dustin. “We had our candles going when it got dark.”
“You had heat in the cottage, right?” asked Martin. “You said you had propane?”
“Yeah, we could cook and stuff, but without power, the heater’s blower didn’t run, so the burner wouldn’t stay running: an over-temp thermostat thing. We ran the oven for heat…”
“But I was worried about carbon monoxide,” interrupted Judy.
“Don’t want to mess with that,” added Martin with a glance at Susan.
“Yeah, so I got the idea to run the oven during the day, with the windows open a bit, but heat up our heavy skillet and pots of water. Then at night, shut it off and coasted on the leftover heat in the pots. It’s a little cottage, so it sorta worked.”
“But by morning,” added Judy, “It was down to 50 degrees in there.”
“The cottage isn’t strong on insulation. By the second night, we knew we had to sleep with socks and sweaters on. It was a manageable routine, if not very romantic.”
Judy blushed and quickly got back on topic. “But then the gas ran out.”
“Oh no,” said Margaret in that way that mothers do. “What did you do?” “I tried our landlord, since they live up the street,” said Dustin. “They have a wood stove, and plenty of wood, but his whole family had come to stay. There was no room for us too. He was all sorry and stuff, but couldn’t help since the cottage didn’t have a wood stove.”
“On the way back to the cottage,” he said. “I remembered that our landlord had a lot of bricks out behind the cottage, left over from his sidewalk project. I stacked them up to make a little rocket stove on our front walk. It worked great for heating up soup or hotdogs. I started cooking up stuff from the fridge that would spoil soonest. But the really cool part was that I heated up bricks on it. I figured we needed more mass for overnight.”
“I carried the bricks inside with oven mitts,” said Judy. “And stacked them on cookie sheets under the bed.”
“It was a little tedious,” Dustin said with a knowing sigh, “And the cottage was cool again by morning, but better: mid-50s. We were heating without any gas and getting by. I went up into the woods on the slope behind the cottage and gathered sticks. There were jillions of them. No way I could use up all the sticks on that mountain. I figured we could probably get by for a few weeks until they fixed the power: cooking and heating with sticks.”
“It got a little harder on Thursday,” interjected Judy, “That afternoon, the water started to give out.”
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Post by mic on Mar 13, 2016 15:59:26 GMT -6
Chapter 3: part 2: Driving Blind
Dustin nodded. “I figured the town’s storage tank on the hill had run dry.”
“It trickled for awhile, so I filled up whatever I could while Dustin was up gathering sticks. I had a few big soda bottles and a bucket filled before it just stopped altogether.”
“What about that stream?” Martin asked. “Weren’t you were telling me there was a stream nearby.”
“Not all that nearby. Over the ridge, but yeah. That’s why I wasn’t too worried about the town water giving out. Things were getting a bit more rustic… (Martin glanced at Susan who broke a little smile at the word) …but I figured we still had shelter, a source of heat, a way to cook, plenty of food, and still had a source of water. It was a lot more work, but it was still do-able. I wasn’t worried.”
“We had some necessities,” Judy said, “but it was so freaky quiet. There was no TV, no internet and I couldn’t get anything on the car radio. At night, there were just no sounds at all — not even crickets! After a couple of days of the power being out, seems like almost everyone in town had packed up and gone south.”
“I could see the highway from up on the slope when I was gathering sticks. Stuff all bundled on their car roofs, trailers, etc.,” Dustin added. “It looked like refugees fleeing a war zone or something.”
“Of course,” resumed Judy, “most of the people in town this time of year were the tourists, leaf peepers, so no surprise that they all packed off. I mean, last winter it was really quiet in town with just the locals, but after the tourists left it was creepy quiet. I wondered if most of the locals left too. We hardly saw any other lights, or cars, and never heard any sounds of people anywhere.”
“Until yesterday,” Dustin said. “Yesterday, a little after sundown, I was cooking up some mac n’ cheese outside on my rocket stove. Judy was in the house filtering the water I boiled, otherwise she might have seen him coming.”
“I heard voices outside,” Judy said. “So I came out to see who it was. I’d never seen him before.”
“The guy said he and his friends were up on vacation from Georgia, you know, to see the foliage, but were stranded by the outage. He seemed really friendly and said he was out searching for food since they were running low and said how really hungry he was. I offered him a plate of mac n’ cheese. He sat and ate it, but kept asking questions about how we were getting by and were we okay or worried about anything. I tried asking some questions about his friends, like where they were staying, n’ stuff, but I noticed his answers were always vague. There were ‘just a couple of them’ and were ‘over beyond the highway.’ Stuff like that. It was setting off little alarm bells in my head.”
“For me,” Judy added, “It was how he spoke. He talked with a slow southern accent, which figured, since he said he was from Georgia. But every now and then, when he was talking faster, New Jersey would leak out. Gram and Gramps came from New Jersey, so I know the accent well. I asked him if he ever lived anywhere besides Georgia, thinking maybe he grew up in Jersey, but he said no: lived there all his life. I felt a shiver run down my back. Why would a guy lie about where he came from? I didn’t like it.” “I was creeped out too, but I offered him some more mac n’ cheese. He was playing all friendly like, so I thought I’d work that angle too. He sorta asked, but was really just telling us that he and his friends would be back for breakfast. I joked a little, asking how they liked their eggs cooked, but inside, I was all code-red.”
“Me too,” said Judy. “I saw Dustin playing along, so I did too. It took everything I had to smile and wave as he walked down the street.”
“Once he was out of sight, Judy and I ran in the house and started loading up boxes and bags. We knew we had to get out of there fast. All his questions: he was just sizing us up. Him and his friends might come back for breakfast, or they could come anytime that night. I had my shotgun, but what if there were lots of them and they rushed us? I figured we had just a little time while he walked back to his friends, told them about us, and planned whatever they were going to do. Maybe a half hour to an hour. I wanted to be gone before they came back.”
“We had our car bags all set and in the car already,” said Judy. “So I concentrated on filling up our laundry totes with our food and water. Dustin said we were coming down to your place and needed to bring supplies.”
“Glad you did,” said Martin with a glance at Margaret.
“I packed some winter clothes in the laundry duffle and got my shotgun. I only had six shells! Can you believe it? Another box of shells has been on my Walmart list for months, but just never did it. Anyhow, I kept lookout outside with my shotgun, staying out of sight behind The Beast. He made good cover out in the driveway. Judy loaded him up with the boxes and stuff. My eyes were pretty used to the dark, so I could see if anyone was coming up the street.”
“It was crazy, packing in a hurry with only that little red flashlight. It made everything slower. I was glad Dustin was watching out, so I could just concentrate on packing. We had the car loaded as full as we could get it, in about an hour.”
“We got in as quiet as we could and didn’t even snick the doors shut so we’d make no noise. I had no idea if they were going to come on foot, or what. I knew that the sound of the starter would carry a long way, so I had to get out of there fast. I had no idea if they had a car, would follow us, or had a roadblock on the highway or what, but I figured the sooner we were out of there, the less ready they would be.”
“I had the GPS ready,” said Judy, but I had to keep a towel over my head so the screen wouldn’t ruin Dustin’s night-eyes. Even on night-screen, it’s really bright.”
“The Beast didn’t give me any trouble starting up, for a change. Thank God for that. I hung a left and went the opposite way down the street from where the guy went. I didn’t turn on my lights and used my handbrake so I would’t light up my brake lights. I had to turn the dash lights off too, to keep a smidgeon of night vision. I could just make out the road as a darker patch between the slightly lighter yards.”
“I watched the GPS and told him when to slow down and turn.”
“It was nerve-wracking, let me tell ya. Kirkegaard’s ‘leap of faith’ has got nothin’ on night driving without lights and only your copilot’s verbal directions to go by.”
“We did pretty good though,” Judy comforted him with a pat on the arm. “We only hit that one mailbox…and that…other thing…”
“Yeah, I don’t know what that was. I hope it wasn’t a person.”
“We said we weren’t going to worry about that, remember? We got through. That’s what counts.”
“Wait. You left last night?” Margaret asked. “It’s not even a two hour drive.”
“Yeah, IF you use the main roads and IF you can use your lights,” Dustin countered. “I didn’t want to have taillights on in case they were following in a car. After I took the back roads around town, I decided it was probably best to stick to back roads.”
“We thought there would be less random traffic on back roads too,” added Judy.
“And there wasn’t anyone out driving. It was still slow going, though. Even driving at just a crawl felt really fast. I was surprised how much I could actually make out the road in the dark. No details, of course, but I could tell where the sides were.”
“We had quite a scare outside of Farmington. It was a much narrower road and harder to see. We came over this little rise and something didn’t look right. I mean, I could barely make out anything, but still, it just seemed like there was something in the road. I thought maybe it was a moose or a deer or something. Whatever it was, I sure didn’t want to hit it.”
“I hated to do it, but I turned on my headlights. It was a man in the middle of the road. Must’ve scared the crap out of him. Sorry mom. He dropped the armload of firewood he was carrying, then couldn’t decide which way to run. Finally, he ran to a pickup parked beside the road. I had to swerve around the logs he dropped in the road. The back of his truck was about a quarter full of logs. Across the road was a house. I could see the wood stack beside the garage. I’m guessing he was stealing firewood when we happened to come by.”
“Did he follow you?” Martin asked.
“I was worried about that too, but no. He turned and went the other way. I found a dirt driveway lined with spruce trees and turned in to stop. It took a good half an hour before my night vision returned enough to drive without lights again. It might have been a good time to catch a few winks, but my heart was pounding too fast for sleep.”
“When the first hints of dawn started, it was a ton easier to see. I could go faster than a walk. By 5:30, I was up to posted speeds. Even when it was light out, we saw almost no one on the roads.”
“I was glad to get out from under that towel too,” said Judy. “I tried getting something on the radio, since I didn’t have to navigate anymore, but I couldn’t get anything: no music, no news. I couldn’t get anything on the radio up at the cottage either. I would have happily listened to Swiss yodeling, just to hear something, but there wasn’t anything but static.”
“I’ve picked up a little news on our radio, now and then,” said Martin. “But the house has always been in a bit of a dead zone.”
“Have you heard what it is yet?” asked Dustin. “I mean, it’s kinda like Jericho or Walking Dead, but without zombies.”
“Nothing for certain. I’ve heard plenty of theories, but the bottom line is that random big pieces of the power grid all failed around the same time Monday morning. It’s all across the country, and apparently around the world.”
“Wow,” whispered Dustin. “So it’s not like a rogue nuke EMP thing, or even a coronal mass ejection.”
“I guess not,” said Martin. “We can try listening to the radio tonight and see if there’s any news. But, that’s after you’ve had some rest.”
“Yes.” Margaret stood up. “I’ll get some sheets and pillows and make up the hide-a-bed down in the family room.” She quickly retrieved a stack of sheets and a blanket — all neatly folded in thirds — and led Judy downstairs.
“We’ll unload the car while you two tend the bedding.” Martin and Dustin headed towards the door.
“Can I help too?” Susan followed them. “I want to help do something.”
It took several trips to unload the Subaru, even with three people. The clothes and personals went downstairs. The boxes of food were stacked on the kitchen floor. Margaret insisted on inventorying and putting away the food herself.
Martin leaned on the back deck railing, looking down at the wood piles, the shed and the road beyond the trees.
Susan stepped out the back door, but stood a safe distance away. “She doesn’t want me helping put the food away. Isn’t there something useful I could be doing?”
“Well, I was just sizing up a task that needs doing, but it’ll be a lot of work.”
“That’s okay. Country people aren’t afraid of hard work,” she said brightly.
Martin looked at her. “Country people?”
“Yes. I decided that I am no longer a helpless city person. From now on, I am a sturdy country person.”
Martin suppressed a chuckle. “You just decided, huh? Okay, ‘sturdy country person’, do you see that wood pile back there? The far one behind the line of the others?” Susan nodded. “Now do you see the empty pallet over here?” She nodded again. “The task is to move all the wood that’s stacked on that back pallet, to this empty one.”
“Um. This sounds like busy-work. I want to be useful, not just busy.”
“No. This is important work. I was about to do it myself. I noticed that that one pallet of wood back there can’t be seen very well from any window of the house. It would be pretty easy for somebody to park up the hill, walk down behind the shed and load up their arms with wood — all without being seen. Remember what Dustin was saying about surprising that guy stealing firewood? Don’t want that to be us.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You’ll find a pair of leather gloves in the bench by the door. Country people wear leather work gloves.” He winked.
“Pfft. I knew that.” She smiled and turned to get the gloves.
Relieved of firewood handling, Martin set himself to clearing out the scrub and brambles behind the shed. He cut down several small hemlock trees near the road that blocked the view. While he was thinking of visibility, he walked slowly around the house, taking out saplings and bushes that blocked the view from the house. The scrubby oak and beech would hang onto their leaves all winter. There were still unavoidable blind spots, like behind the chicken coop or the garden shed, but now, even the approaches to those blind spots would be exposed.
He stood on the deck and surveyed his progress. The property looked a bit naked after the trimming, but he could see a few dozen yards further into the woods than before. It would certainly not qualify as a military position’s kill zone, but it was better than it was before.
He stomped the mud off his boots before going inside. Margaret sat at the dining room table with her books and papers. “She’s almost halfway done moving the pallet of wood,” he said as he sat down. Martin thought it best to avoid calling Susan by name. “She is trying to be a worker.”
Margaret only responded with a hmmm.
“Dustin and Judy still sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“So what are you calculating now?” he asked.
Margaret pushed the pad of paper away and rubbed her eyes. “I’ve been re-figuring our food supply after adding in what Dustin and Judy brought.”
“That seemed like a lot, but how much was it really?
“Not as much as we might have liked,” she said with a sigh. “Dustin has always been fond of pasta, as you recall, and never been one for vegetables. He’s always had a sweet tooth too.”
“From your tone, I’m guessing his supplies didn’t add much to our timeline.”
“Not really. Figuring five mouths now, they brought enough carbs to keep us even. We’ll still run out sometime in mid-January. When it comes to proteins, however, we lost ground. We’ll run out of those a bit after Thanksgiving.”
—
At supper, all five were seated at the dining room table. A kerosene lamp sat in the center. Beside the lamp sat a big pot. Margaret took the cover off.
“Rice and beans?” Dustin said.
“Spanish rice and beans,” said Margaret. “With some of my own salsa, a little broccoli and canned corn.”
“Oh.” Dustin tried to conceal his disappointment, but was not successful enough to fool a mother’s ear.
“What?” Margaret asked.
“I mean, Spanish rice and beans is good too…It’s just that every time I came down to visit before, you’d make spaghetti or that hamburger-cabbage hot dish, or…”
“one of your other favorite dishes?” Martin finished his sentence.
“Yeah…I guess.”
“Well,” said Margaret as she scooped a serving onto his plate, “We’re going to have to get used to simple meals and probably smaller portions from now on.”
“But we just brought down a whole bunch of food.”
Margaret gave Martin a look he knew well. It was his job to deliver hard news, not hers.
“And you did real good,” said Martin. “Excellent thinking to bring supplies with you.” He almost added instead of showing up with nothing, but realized that was what Susan did, so cut his sentence short. He still felt protective of her feelings.
“But…” Dustin knew his father’s tones to recognize when there was more.
“But it’s not as much as it might seem. Since this outage is pretty much all over, there probably won’t be food in grocery stores again for a long time. Maybe months. This might be all there is.”
“So the sooner we start conserving,” added Margaret. “the longer it will last.”
The rest of the meal was spent in silence, except for the scrape of spoons on plates.
(end chapter 3)
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Post by motherhen on Mar 15, 2016 18:08:16 GMT -6
I read Book 1 and was so glad to see a second book in this series. I am really enjoying it! I wonder if Martin and his wife can pull closer together due to the crisis-lots of couples can become closer during adversity, if they are careful of each other's feelings and needs. That has been my experience, anyway :-)
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Post by mic on Mar 15, 2016 18:09:28 GMT -6
Chapter 4: part 1 — Ruby Arrives
The half hour was up. Martin stepped out onto the deck and shut off the little generator. it rumbled down to a stop, but had been loud enough to leave an echo in Martin’s ears. Trouble was, the echo didn’t fade away. It was another motor. A motorcycle was coming over the rise and down their road. Martin felt for the small revolver in his pocket, mostly to reassure himself that he had it with him. He took a few steps down the hill to get a better look at whoever it was driving by.
A big maroon Harley rolled into view, it’s big throaty engine mostly idling. As it turned into his driveway, he could see that it was pulling a trailer. The big man riding the Harley got off and pulled off his helmet.
“Pastor John?” Martin said, both surprised and relieved.
“Hey there, Martin. Fine morning, for the Lord’s Day, eh?”
“Yes it is, but what brings you way out here, and more importantly, what’s that?” Martin pointed to the homemade trailer. “A Harley with a trailer? There’s got to be something in the Bible prohibiting that.”
Pastor John laughed. “You might be thinking of Second Corinthians 6: ‘be ye not unequally yoked,’ but I’m pretty sure He didn’t mean Harleys and trailers.”
Martin laughed. “That’s good, but seriously: a trailer? And it’s made of plywood!”
“Yeah, well, the bike was a better way to make my pastoral rounds than in my truck. Better 50 miles per gallon than 15. But, not a lot of cargo capacity to the bike, so, my father-in-law got to thinking. You know how he is. ‘Ain’t nothing can’t be done with some plywood and drywall screws.’ Pastor John mimicked his father-in-law’s Canadian accent. “That and Kenny’s old bike donated the wheels.”
“Pretty sure that isn’t road legal, but I suppose no one’s too fussy these days. But what did you need cargo space for?” Martin peered under the canvas cover bungeed in place.
“Pastor John!” Margaret called from the front steps. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I was kinda getting to that. Since the power’s been out all over, pretty much everyone in the church as been homebound. I’ve been going around to see how everyone is and whether you needed anything, etc.” He flung back the canvas cover.
“I’ve been picking up some extras that some people have and letting others take what they needed. Canned goods, water, stuff like that: kind of a care package on wheels. How are you folks getting by out here?”
“We’re doing good,” said Martin. Margaret gave him a furrowed brow look. “Well, pretty good.”
Margaret rummaged through the plywood box, but quickly seized a small loaf of bread. “Is this one of Connie’s loaves?” she asked with a hint of Christmas morning in her voice.
“It is,” said John. “I just came from their place. She just got done baking a batch, so put one in.”
“Oh, this is so cool,” she said, clutching the loaf to her chest. “I just love her sourdough. I’ll go get some things to add to your supply.” She turned and rushed up the front walk.
“How are Connie and Rick getting on?” Martin asked. “We got a few calls from people on the land line until it finally gave out, but no word from Connie.”
“They’re doing okay, kinda like you and Margaret. Rick’s a little worried about the Indian Lakes area, though. People have been coming out of Manchester and setting up camps in the woods around the lakes. He’s had to chase off a few that came around begging or trying to take stuff. He keeps his 12 gauge with him all the time now. Have you guys had any trouble like that?” John dropped his voice. “Need any ammo or anything?”
“No, I think we’re good there,” said Martin. “Thanks, though. Actually we’ve not seen any beggars. Could be our road is too out of the way. Still, we try to be ready.” He pressed on his coat pocket to make the revolver print.
Margaret came out with a half dozen items in her arms. “Here’s a box of pasta, a couple of jars of my tomato sauce, some jam and some of my green beans. Who are you going to visit next?”
John cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Actually, I did come to ask you guys something else. I’m…um…going to visit Ruby next. I was at her place yesterday. A lot of the residents in her assisted living building are gone. The manager seems to be gone too. Heat’s out and I’m worried she won’t make it in there alone like that. So, I was wondering if you guys would…you know…take her in?”
Margaret’s smile faded. Her shoulders dropped too. Her look reflected how Martin felt inside. Another person consuming what supplies they had. Christian duty clashed with self-preservation instinct.
Martin’s conscience reminded him of his previous inner arguments for allowing Susan to stay with them. It would not take any more lamp oil to have Ruby there. It would not take any more fire wood, either. How were Susan and Ruby any different?
On a purely rational level, they should be the same, but they were not. He came within hailing distance of admitting that Susan might be more than just another surprise houseguest, but his mind veered off of that admission. Practical objections were a handy refuge. Ruby would not be able to help around the house. If anything, she would become a maintenance chore herself instead of helping with chores. Ruby also tended to be emotionally draining in longer exposure. Yes, he quickly decided. That was the difference.
“I know, at times, she can be a little…but she likes you guys. You give her rides to church every Sunday and to doctor appointments. I know she isn’t family, but you’re the closest thing she has to family.” John held a salesman’s smile while he looked back and forth from Martin to Margaret, hoping for a ‘yes’ look.
Driving Ruby to church was a charity-by-default, since no one else in the congregation drove past her building. Martin was sometimes amused by her repeated stories about her childhood in Maine. He knew them so well, he could repeat them with Ruby. She was like a story iPod set to Shuffle. Margaret was less amused, having spent more time with Ruby at doctors’ offices or helping her around her apartment. That is when she sometimes turned cranky.
Margaret heaved a big sigh. “Sure, we’d be happy to take her in.” Martin could hear the hollow sincerity in her word ‘happy.’ Margaret took her duty to Christian charity seriously, but sometimes the joy part was elusive.
“Great, great!” John looked visibly relieved. “I’ll bring her around in maybe an hour.” He secured the canvas cover and mounted his bike. “I really appreciate this guys.”
“Make sure to bring all the food in her cupboards and fridge with her,” said Margaret. “We’ll need anything we can get if we’re adding another mouth to feed.”
“Will do,” said John. The big Harley roared to life and made a wide circle turning around to accommodate the trailer.
“An hour?” Margaret said. She hurried into the house.
“We’re getting another guest,” Margaret told Susan. “I want her to have Lindsey’s room, so you’ll have to move your things into Dustin’s old room.”
“Um. Okay. There’s not much to move,” said Susan. She followed Margaret to the corner bedroom and began pulling her clothes out of the closet. Margaret pulled all the bedding off the bed with one mighty double-armed scoop. Martin tidied up the desk in the smaller bedroom, putting away his gun cleaning mess and open books.
“A new guest?” Susan asked him.
“Yes, Ruby: an older lady from church. Pastor John is going to bring her around in an hour. She’s always been kind of alone, but the way things are, she couldn’t stay by herself. I think Margaret wanted her to have Lindsey’s room since it’s bigger. Ruby’s not too good at mobility. Dustin’s old room is probably too cramped for her.”
“That’s okay. I kinda like the bookshelves and desk in here. It has sort of a library feel to it.”
“Heh, yeah. Since Dustin’s been on his own and married, his room morphed into the semi-office…with a twin bed.”
—
“I hear them coming,” shouted Martin from the front walk. “Are you ready?”
“No,” came the reply from within the house.
Martin chuckled and said to himself, “Well, they’re coming anyhow.”
Pastor John pulled in, with Ruby riding behind him. Wearing his helmet, she looked like a white polyester bobble-head. Martin stepped over to help John get Ruby dismounted.
“That was the most fun I’ve had in years,” Ruby said. “We were going so fast!”
“40,” said John out of the side of his mouth.
“I’ve always wanted to ride on a motorcycle ever since I was a little girl in Maine.”
Martin sensed the mailman-on-motorcycle story coming on, but standing in the cold driveway was not a good time for it. “Where’s your things, Ruby. I’ll carry them inside for you.
“Huh? Oh, My clothes are in that canvas bag there, and my bathroom things in that pink bag. You’re such a dear, Martin.”
Margaret came down the front steps. “Hello again, Pastor. Hello Ruby. How have you been?”
“Oh, you know,” Ruby began. My legs have been acting up again and I’m just sure my Coumadin isn’t right. Those doctors keep saying it’s fine but I keep telling them I can feel it in the back of my throat…”
“Dustin,” called Martin. “Would you take Ruby’s two bags up to Lindsey’s room? Thanks, and help her up the stairs there.”
“You’re all so kind for letting me visit.” Ruby patted Dustin’s arm as he helped her slowly navigate the front steps.
Margaret peered into the plywood trailer. “Where’s her groceries?”
John winced. “That’s it in that little plastic bag there.”
“Three cans of ginger ale and a pack of saltines?”
“That’s all she had,” said John. “She doesn’t usually have much in her cupboards, you know that. She liked to walk up to the corner market every couple days, just to get out. She said she hadn’t been out since the power went out. I was surprised she still had that much left.”
Margaret turned to Martin with a frown. “This isn’t helping our situation.”
“I know, I know,” said John. “Why don’t you take back the food you donated and the other cans in the trailer? I know It isn’t much, but it’ll help.”
Martin gathered up the jars and cans. One armful of food was not a solution to the problem.
“Thanks a lot, you two,” said John. “I know this will be a bit taxing, but she had no one else. You really are doing the Lord’s work.”
“I know,” said Martin, suppressing a sigh. “As we have opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith.”
“Galatians 6:10,” said John. “Exactly. Well, I’m off to check on the Hamiltons next. I’ll be praying for you all. If the power is still out next week, I hope to stop back in before Sunday to see how you’re doing.”
Martin and Margaret waved as the pastor’s motorcycle and bouncing trailer disappeared in the dust. “I’d better go recalculate,” said Margaret. “This won’t help our timeline.”
—
“Sit over here, Ruby.” Margaret pulled a chair out at one end of the dining room table. She glanced at the chair beside Ruby for Susan to take. “Martin, would you call in Dustin and Judy? They’re out in his car.”
“What did you make for lunch, dear?” Ruby asked.
“It’s nothing fancy,” Margaret lifted the cover off the pot. “Reheated Spanish rice and beans from last night. But, we have some of Connie’s sourdough bread to go with it.”
“Ah, rice and beans. That reminds me of when I was a little girl growing up in Maine. We were really poor, so my mother…”
“Sorry we’re late.” Dustin bursting through the back door. “We were listening to the radio in the car and charging up Judy’s iPod.” Judy sat down, with one earbud in, looking sullen.
“Could you get any stations?” Martin asked. He handed around the plate of sliced bread. “For some reason, we can’t get much on the handheld radio up here.”
“We got one,” Dustin stuffed a half a slice of bread in his mouth, but was stopped in mid-chew by a look from Martin. He slumped and bowed his head. Martin asked the blessing for the meal, for wisdom and especially patience. Dustin resumed chewing with a vengeance.
“We got one station out of Mass. I forget the call letters. They were talking about some program to move hospital patients from all the little hospitals to just a few big ones: Boston, Lowell, Worcester, and such. They’re trying to rig up temporary power for a few big hospitals. Sounds like they have a couple wind turbines and one solar farm that still work, but they’re afraid to connect them to anything.”
“No New Hampshire stations?” Margaret asked.
“I remember one time when I was in the hospital,” Ruby began. “The doctors said it was just a sinus infection, but I knew…”
Martin finished her sentence in his mind, in unison with Ruby. But it was my heart pills and my Coumadin that were out of balance. They thought an old woman couldn’t know such things…
“How did you know?” asked Susan as she scooped a spoonful of rice and beans onto Ruby’s plate.
Ruby lit up at the question. She had found a new best friend, even though she never asked Susan’s name or why she was there. None of that mattered. Susan was a new person to hear her stories.
With Ruby otherwise engaged, Martin returned to Dustin and a sidebar conversation. “Did you hear anything else on your radio?”
“Only a little.”
“It was so frustrating,” interjected Judy. “I just want to know what’s going on out there, but no one ever says. They blab about highways or they blab about hospitals, but what’s going on? Why don’t they say?”
“Like what?” Martin wondered.
“I don’t know, normal stuff. Real life stuff. Like when will the banks be open again and we can get money to buy stuff? When will the stores be open again? When will the internet be back? Are they still taping TV shows so when this is all over we can see our shows? You know: normal stuff.”
There was a hint of manic in her voice, so Martin thought it best to change the subject. “Are you two set up okay downstairs? Need anything?”
“Yeah.” Judy raised her voice. “Like when will the water will be on again so we don’t have to flush with that stupid bucket?”
Martin gave Dustin an expectant look. He seemed to understand. “I think we’re still pretty wiped from our all-nighter, dad. We’re gonna go catch a little nap, right Judy?”
There was a flash of a look that said, are-you-nuts? But then must have realized that in naps there was escape. “Yeah. That’s it. Tired.” She put in both earbuds and fussed with her iPod as the two of them headed down the stairs.
“…so that’s why I’ve never made rice and beans for myself,” continued Ruby. “It always reminds me of those days when we were so poor that my mother wouldn’t even buy us an ice cream cone on the hottest day of summer.”
“Oh, that must have been a hard life,” Susan said sympathetically. Margaret tried to conceal one of her ‘oh-brother’ looks.
“Why don’t you help Ruby get settled into her room,” Margaret said to Susan. “I’ll clear the table.”
“I’ll get the warm water from the stove for washing the dishes,” Martin said.
—
Martin knocked at the office-bedroom door and cleared his throat.
“Come in,” said Susan. She sat on the bed with a book in her lap.
“Hey, sorry to disturb you, but I needed to get something in here.”
“That’s okay. I was just reading one of your books.”
“I’ve…um…got to get something out of this black cabinet here. It’s the…gun safe.”
“Oh?” Susan sat up alert. She had clearly had not wondered why there was a black metal cabinet in the room, or what might be inside.
“So, maybe you want to look the other way?” Martin offered.
Susan hesitated, as if that sounded like a good idea, but she stopped. “No. That’s okay. If I’m going to be a Country Person, I guess I need to get used to seeing them.” Her last few words had a hesitancy to them.
“That’s true, you will.” Martin opened the safe and took out his .22 rifle. “It’s just a .22,” he tried to sound reassuring. He opened a box of bullets to put a few in his pocket. “It shoots little bullets like these. It’s what I use on the squirrels.”
“Oh.”
“That’s all. I’m done disturbing you now. You can get back to your book.” He turned to go, but stopped. Proudly displayed on the center of the nightstand was her jar of olives.
“In case you get hungry at night?” He pointed to the jar.
She chuckled a little, nervously. “Hehe, no. It’s just that…well…this whole outage thing is still a little freaky and I have trouble getting to sleep. So, I look at my little jar of olives and…well, it’s kinda hard to explain.” She looked away and began twirling her hair. Kinda crazy, huh?”
He wanted to make a joke to lighten the awkward mood, but no jokes came. Her sad-puzzled look shut him down again. Rather than figure out why that look of hers shuts him down, he stuffed that mystery into his already over-stacked mental inbox of things to think about later. He had things to do.
“Um. I guess if that works for you…well…I gotta go.”
“Okay. Bye,” she said softly, as if it were a secret.
>
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Post by headlesshorseman on Mar 16, 2016 7:35:31 GMT -6
Thank You. Ruby sounds like my mother in law.
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Post by pbbrown0 on Mar 17, 2016 1:14:16 GMT -6
I really love your writing style, mic.
"Good lord, Martin thought. Forget the Sword of Damocles. These are The Pancakes of Damocles."
I laughed so hard I was rolling on the floor. It is so funny, because it is so real.
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Post by mic on Mar 17, 2016 18:31:12 GMT -6
Chapter 4: part 2: Babe in the Woods
While Martin buttoned his coat over his heavy sweater, he had not quite let go of wondering what Susan’s sad-puzzled look was all about. He had thought that somehow, she was done with that. Apparently, he was wrong again.
Dustin came tiptoeing up the stairs. “Judy’s sleeping now. She’s just really really tired. Hey, where are you going with the .22?”
“Figured I’d go out in the backwoods and see if I can find anything for the pot. Your mother was saying how we need more protein sources.”
“Can I come?”
“Sure. Dress warm, though. I’ll meet you out by the steps.”
Martin did not have to wait long. Dustin closed the front door as quietly as he could. “She’ll feel better after some more rest. I think the whole creepy-guy thing has her more freaked out inside than she wants to let on.”
“Understandable.” They crunched through leaves, across the little wooden bridge which spanned the now-dry stream bed.
“We’ll need to get out to the tree line along the swamp, I think,” Martin said. “Won’t see much in these short pines.”
“Judy was better after I charged up her iPod,” Dustin said. “She really misses her tunes and being online. I don’t think I noticed before how much she watched TV and spent time on the ‘net. That is, until she couldn’t. Kinda seems like she feels lost.”
“Maybe if we get her involved in the day-to-day stuff. That might help.”
“It might. We were hearing on the radio, scratchy as it was, about FEMA trucks delivering food and blankets at distribution centers in Lowell and Worcester. Judy talked about how much she wanted to see a FEMA truck here, like it was a lifeline to the outside world, or something.”
“Okay.” Martin whispered and slowed his pace. “We need to start being quiet now.”
Martin stood very still, slowly scanning the line of birches and alders that marked the edge of the swamp just beyond his property line. He saw no movement other than what the gentle wind caused. He motioned for Dustin to follow him back around behind some fluffy white pine so they could re-emerge further down the tree line.
Moving quietly on carpet of pine needles was easy. Avoiding the brittle lower branches was not as easy. Their progress was slow, but Martin was okay with that. He wanted to surprise a squirrel or some other furry creature, so slow was good.
Dustin tapped Martin’s shoulder and pointed ahead and left. Martin did not see anything until it moved slightly. He caught a glimpse of something down in the brush between some tall beeches. He and Dustin shifted to the right to get a better look. There was certainly something dark in the brush. Every few seconds it would hump up and shift to one side. It was too big for a squirrel. A fox, perhaps? It seemed pretty big for a fox too. The scope on the .22 did not help. Too many scrubby beech leaves were in the way.
Martin moved slowly closer and to the right, his eye to the scope, safety off. His finger was still off the trigger, with the half-thought that it might be someone’s dog pawing around. It if was a dog, it was a big one. Martin moved closer, gingerly taking small steps.
“Whoa! Hey man!” A scruffy young man stood up suddenly amid the brush: eyes wide, hands in the air. “Hey, don’t shoot ’n stuff, man. Like, take it easy. Okay? Amigo? Buddy?”
Martin lowered the rifle. “What are you doing here? You could have gotten…it’s really a bad idea grubbing around in the woods when…in hunting season.” Martin could feel a little tremble in his arms at the realization that he might have shot the stranger thinking he was an animal.
“Oh hey, um…Andy’s the name and I wasn’t doing anything sketchy. Honest. I was just gathering beechnuts here. These are a couple of primo trees right here.” He waggled the little cloth bag in his hand.
“You can put your hands down, Andy. But for future reference, this isn’t public land. My property goes from the fire trail over there, back to the edge of the swamp and down this way.”
“Oh, yeah, hey, like I didn’t know, you know? We were just all out doing a little foraging and there weren’t any signs or anything, so I just kept…and then I found these great beeches here…”
“We?” asked Dustin.
“Yeah, we’ve got our camp all set up down that little dirt road.” Andy pointed over his shoulder. “There’s a cleared space past some big rocks: dirt piles beside a pond…”
“The old gravel pit?” asked Martin. “You and some others made a camp in the old gravel pit?”
“Guess so. Sure. Yeah. Gravel pit. Guess that’s what it was.”
“But why?” asked Dustin. “That’s a pretty desolate spot.”
“O contraire, it was just what we were looking for,” said Andy. “Way out of the way, far from the artificial constructs of capitalist tyranny.”
“The what?” Martin asked. “And who is ‘we’?”
“That would be the rest of our primal group, eh? Me, Ash, Brandon and some more. We always knew the materialist empire was gonna crumble someday. It had to, right? What with the over-leveraged ponzi financial scam and GMO toxins and all. So we all figured that when it did, there was no more point to going to classes anymore. We’d carpe the diem and free ourselves from being slaves to the system — survivors to start the New Age.”
“By setting up a camp in a gravel pit?” Dustin asked with evident sarcasm.
“Oh, you gotta look past that, dude. It’s the perfect spot for a cell of the Age of Primal Peace to flourish. There’s, like, lots of water and a ton of cattail, nut trees, everything that a free people need for a proper paleo life. We just live in peace with nature and nature takes care of us. Give peace a chance, like it says in the bible, or something. We’re free from all the oppression of patriarchal industrial imperialism.”
“What?” Martin had reached a saturation point for trendy buzzwords. “Just stay on the other side of the fire trail, okay?”
“Andy?” called a woman’s voice. “Who are you talking to?”
Andy half-whispered to Martin. “Oh hey, that’s Mara. She’s like our leader, except we really don’t have leaders cuz that would oppress the rest of us, cuz we’re all equal and free and stuff.” Andy called out, “Hey Mara. Over here!”
Out from the pines stepped a slender young woman with long dark hair. She had the smooth beauty of youth and curves beneath tight flannel which were definitely not politically correct. When her gaze landed on Martin’s .22, her eyes flashed with a palpable rage. “What are YOU doing here?” she demanded.
“I could ask you the same question, seeing as how you’re on my property.” Beautiful and annoying was not a combination Martin had encountered very often. His old-school mind was prone to link beauty with charm.
“Property.” She spat the word. “A white privilege tool of oppression is all that is. No one can own the earth.”
Annoying was beating out charm. “Yeah, well, I’m not talking about the whole earth.” Martin wanted to call her ‘cupcake’, just to annoy her in return. He opted for neutral diplomacy, instead.
“I’m just talking about this little piece of it,” said Martin. “I was just telling Andy, and I tell you too. My property extends from back that way, where my house is, over to the fire trail, and over that way to the edge of the swamp. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay on the other side.”
“And I suppose you plan to shoot us with your macho death tools if we don’t.” Her head waggle had a valley-girl sway to it.
“I don’t plan to shoot anyone. Just saying. This parcel here is mine. Stay on the other side of the fire trail and we can ignore each other all day long. How Mr. Bailey feels about you living in his woods is up to him.”
“Hmmph! Come on, Andy,” snipped Mara. “The stench of fascist oppressors is sucking the life out of this place.” Andy followed her dutifully, but looked back and shrugged his shoulders.
“What the heck was that all about? Talk about attitude.” Dustin’s mouth was hanging open. “What a waste of totally awesome hotness.”
“Dustin. You’re married.”
“I know, I know. Just appreciating, not doing anything.”
“Well, no one ‘does something’ without ‘appreciating’ first. Stop the first one and prevent the other.“
“But, you saw her,” Dustin protested. “I mean, she looked Photoshopped! How does a real girl — camping in a gravel pit — manage to look Photoshopped?”
“Dustin. You’re still ‘appreciating’. What good will come of that, hmmm? Now that you’re married, you have to learn to lock the door. How will your ‘appreciating’ help Judy?”
“Um…I guess it doesn’t. I might oughta leave out the hotness details when I’m telling Judy about all this.”
“Yeah. Probably wise. Now, while there’s still some afternoon left, let’s get back to finding a squirrel or something. We can scout that first spot again.”
Martin found mental comfort of having an empty woods behind him. Despite the departure of Andy and Mara, the woods were no longer felt empty. Now he had to keep an eye out for foraging college kids, at least one of whom had a bad attitude.
As they moved slowly through the low pines, Martin could hear some rustling of dry leaves. He looked back at Dustin, touched himself on the ear and pointed. Dustin nodded, touched his ear and pointed. They slowed their pace to be even quieter.
Approaching the hole in the pine boughs, a glimpse of movement caught Martin’s eye to the far right. He turned for a better look, but even after waiting what seemed like a long time, there was no other movement. He began to dismiss it as a false alarm, but another leaf moved slightly. It was not the way the wind sometimes rustles leaves on the ground, but an upward wiggle. He studied the spot intently, keeping his eyes moving around the leaf.
A gray squirrel’s tail flicked up, then disappeared. Then its head popped up. Little paws were feeding some morsel into its busy mouth. The squirrel disappeared again into the leaves.
Martin moved out of the pines to get into a better position. Dustin moved out beside him. The squirrel hopped over to a small oak, not in a hurry, as if it had seen them, but at a casual pace. Martin moved to follow, so the squirrel would not get further away. He timed his movements for when the squirrel was head-down in the leaves.
Despite his efforts to move silently, Martin snapped a bigger twig. The squirrel bounded over to a big maple, scrambled up and out of sight. Martin moved quicker, unconcerned any longer about making noise, to get closer to the maple. His eyes darted around, studying the bare branches. Where would the squirrel emerge? Which tree would it try leaping to?
Once in a good position, Martin waited. Dustin stood silently behind him. They waited for several long minutes.
“He must still be back there,” Martin whispered back to Dustin. “We’d have seen him jump to another tree, or heard him on the ground.”
“Maybe he has a nest in a hollow spot?” Dustin whispered back.
“Or maybe he’s just trying to wait us out on the far side. Tell you what. I’m going to get into position here. You slowly circle around the left. Keep kinda far from his tree, but keep moving slowly and be really obvious. If he is waiting us out, he might scoot around the tree to stay hidden from you.”
Dustin smiled. The game was on.
“Don’t go any further than that clump of birch over there,” Martin added. “Don’t want you near the shot angle.”
Martin settled down onto one knee and propped the .22 in kneeling position. Dustin moved sideways, then started curving out around the big maple. Martin got himself settled into position, sighting through the scope. There was nothing to see but tree bark. He tried to anticipate where along the right side of the tree the squirrel might appear. He slowly slid off the safety, so it would not make an obvious click.
Dustin walked, like a casual hiker, in a wide arc around the maple. The squirrel did shift around, keeping the tree between himself and Dustin, but he was higher than Martin anticipated. He had to adjust his support arm higher and squat down lower.
The squirrel must have seen Martin’s subtle movement and froze. Dustin must have seen Martin’s movement as well and realized what it meant. He froze too. For several long moments, Martin slowly moved the crosshairs up the tree, along the squirrel’s tail and back, finally stopping on it’s head. A wary black eye seemed to be staring directly at Martin.
It was hard to keep the crosshairs still on the squirrel’s head. The extended position was not as stable as it needed to be. Martin tried to steady his aim with a slow deep breath. The squirrel twitched its tail. It was about to bolt.
Martin held the rifle a little tighter to steady his aim and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot echoed briefly in the late autumn woods. The squirrel reeled to one side, hung on for a moment, clutching the bark, then fell.
Dustin rushed over to the tree. Martin tried to keep his eye on the spot the squirrel fell, but stumbled getting up.
“Did you get it?” Dustin asked. “I didn’t see it fall.”
“I think I got it. It fell over this way…I think.” They rummaged through the deep leaf litter.
“Here he is!” announced Dustin, pulling the squirrel up by the tail.
“Darn. Shoulder shot,” said Martin. I was aiming for his head. Kinda tore up that quarter. Oh well, it’s something for the pot, anyhow.”
The two walked back to the trail that led to the little wooden bridge. Dustin was the proud trophy bearer. Martin had to admit to a little ‘mighty-hunter’ glow. The euphoria could not grow too large, however. It was still just a single gray squirrel.
There is barely enough meat on one squirrel to make a day’s portion of protein for two people. Never mind it being enough for six. He had enough .22 rounds for a thousand squirrels. His backwoods, however, was not going to supply three squirrels a day for months to come. Even if he had all of old man Bailey’s woods, three squirrels a day might occasionally be possible, but for how long? There were not a thousand squirrels in Bailey’s woods.
If he brought home a deer, that could be protein for six for a couple months. He would not have the luxury of driving to some remote deer-rich patch to hunt. Were there deer in his backwoods? He had not seen one for over a year, nor was he a deer hunter. Who had time for that? Commute to Boston in the dark. Commute home in the dark. No abundant free time to sit in the woods.
Still, he did have slugs for his shotgun. Every deer hunter starts as a rookie, he reasoned. He could scout out old man Bailey’s woods too. That promised better odds of finding a deer. That is, if some ideological college kids have not run them all off. He could, at least, look. They would need a better, more sustainable solution to their protein problem than squirrels. It was unsettling to admit that he did not have a better idea. He shook off the disquiet by telling himself, One day at a time.
“Hey mom! Lookee what we got!” Dustin held the squirrel high as he walked up the stairs.
“Oh!” said Margaret admiringly, followed quickly by another ‘oh’ an octave lower. The house rule has always been: no dead animals in the house. Animals have to be skinned and cleaned outside before they can come into the kitchen.
“I know, I know,” said Martin. “We’ll go out back to deal with it.”
“Good. But now that I see you have something, I think I’ll change my supper plans. I was going to thaw out a quarter of a chicken for the soup tonight,” Margaret added. “If you don’t take too long, I’ll save that quarter for another day and we’ll have squirrel soup instead.”
“One squirrel would make a rather meatless soup for one of your usual big pots,” Martin said.
“True. I’ll still thaw a couple drumsticks.”
—
At supper that evening, Susan looked at Martin, then the pot of soup skeptically. “This is chicken soup, right? You said chicken earlier.” Margaret scooped a ladle full. Susan studied the little chunks of meat as they fell into her bowl.
“Yes,” said Margaret.
“Mostly,” added Martin. Susan glanced back at him with narrowed eyes.
“I used to have a pet chicken when I was a girl back in Maine,” began Ruby. “But one day it was gone. Mother said it ran away…”
(end chapter 4)
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Post by motherhen on Mar 18, 2016 17:08:51 GMT -6
I am really enjoying this story, thank you!
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Post by mic on Mar 19, 2016 18:15:02 GMT -6
Chapter 5: Part 1: Sobering News“Here’s a box with a dozen half-pints of jam — a mix of kinds.” Margaret pushed a thin cardboard box into Martin’s arms. “Hold it carefully. It’s kind of flimsy for holding jars. All my sturdy boxes went to carrying kindling.” She turned to pick up a second box. “This box has six pints of salsa. Not the hot kind, be sure to tell people that.” “Me?” Martin asked. “You can tell them. You know what’s in them better than I do.” “I can’t go, Martin. I just got the fire going in the cinderblock fire pit thing you made. “Why would you start the fire now? You knew the meeting started at 10:00.” “Because I have to can up those beets before they go soft.” Martin sighed in protest. They just dug up those beets two weeks ago. They were in no danger of going soft that day. He could recognize a smoke screen excuse when he heard one, but knew there was no point in arguing. A canning process will not be aborted once it’s begun. “Now, you’ll have to carry these boxes very carefully,” she pushed and pulled at the boxes, but could not get them arranged in Martin’s arms to her satisfaction. “I don’t want you dropping anything. Can’t trade broken jars. No no no. You can’t hold them like that. The sides will bend out…” “Okay, okay,” Martin said with restrained exasperation. “Maybe I shouldn’t carry both boxes at the same time. I’ll have Dustin carry the other one.” “No,” Margaret said. “I sent him and Judy up on Baldwin’s meadow to gather the last of the autumnberries before we get a hard frost.” “Oh. Then, I’ll use the wagon. I could put down a layer of towels to cushion the…” Margaret’s shoulders slumped. “I left it at the Walkers. It’s full of kindling.” Ruby slowly made her way from the hallway to a dining room chair taking small shuffling steps. Clearly, Ruby was not a solution. Susan sat at the far end of the couch, trying to look as if she was engrossed in watching the birds at the feeder and completely detached from the dilemma of the flimsy boxes. “Maybe I should just take the jam,” Martin offered. Margaret shook her head. “I don’t think that many people will want the sweets, but some might. The salsa might appeal to others. Better to have more to offer.” She looked at Susan for what seemed forever. Susan, for her part, continued a fixed fascination with the bird feeder. Margaret deflated with a heavy sigh. “Fine. She can carry the other box,” she said gravely. “Oh. I know.” Margaret’s voice perked up. “Maybe she should set up at a different table. It might increase trading potential.” She was digging for a silver lining. Martin could not see how two separate tables would make any difference for trading, but did not want to disparage the straw she was grasping at. It was expedient to stay silent. “Here. Take this up to the trade meeting,” Margaret held out the box of jam to Susan. Susan stood up, blinking her eyes. “Huh? I was just watching the birds. What’s going on?” Margaret put the box of jam in her arms. “These are half pint jars of different flavors of jam. Trade for protein foods: meats, if you can, beans, things like that.” “And Martin, tell people how salsa will make plain food more interesting. Might help. Remember: meats are best. Beans are okay if no one is trading meats. Don’t be too long. Hurry back home when the meeting is done. There’s things to do around the house, you know.” — Susan walked on the other side of the road from Martin until they had crested the rise and the house no longer in view. She then moved alongside him. “I can’t believe she actually wanted me to come. And it was her idea!” Martin chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. It was more a case of having cooked her own goose.” “It’s like she didn’t want to come.” “She didn’t.” “Why? I didn’t think the meeting on Friday was all that terrible,” Susan said. “Except for that fight, of course, and realizing I was a helpless city person. That wan’t much fun, but I’m fixing that. Still, what’s the big deal? Why doesn’t she like going to town meetings?” “Oh, that goes back to the town we used to live in. We tried to get involved, you know, responsible citizens and all. Volunteered for committees, served on panels, stuff like that. She wanted to get things done. Make things better. That’s how she is. But, it really frustrated her. The powers-that-be were more interested in the appearance of action, than actually doing anything. Reports that she pained over were just bookshelf filler for the councilmen.” Martin chuckled at the memory. “One time, she really blew up during a council meeting. What a fireball she was too. Started telling them all off. It was all true, of course, and everyone knew it, but you can’t actually say all those things out loud and hold any committee positions.” “Really? She blew up at them? Did you guys get kicked out of town? Susan asked, as if it were a dark family secret. “Hehe, no. This little house came on the market and was kind of my dream house. Woods, a stream, a shallow well I could put a hand pump on. All it lacked was a wood stove, which I had put in. So, we happily left the old town politics behind. We’ve just been living the quiet life, minding our own business. So, long story short, Margaret really doesn’t want to get involved in town matters ever again.” — As Martin and Susan got nearer to town hall, other people could be seen carrying boxes. A few of them pulled kiddie wagons. Martin took some comfort in knowing his revolver rode in his coat pocket, but realized he could not react to anything quickly with his arms full of salsa jars. A defense tool could be handy during the trading portion of the meeting, in case some crazed have-not tried to cash in. Yet, were four jars of salsa worth shooting over? The rows of wooden folding chairs in the auditorium were more filled than there were Friday. Folded tables rested against the back wall. Boxes and bags were lined up along the two long walls. Martin gestured toward a gap in the boxes. Susan set her box in the gap. Martin laid his box on top. “Not many open seats this time,” said Martin. “Looks like we’re on our own again.” Susan pointed to a pair of seats near the center. “Aren’t you worried Margaret will ask you where you sat?” “She didn’t last time,” Susan said with an embarrassed smile. “All she said was something about separate tables.” “True.” He motioned for her to precede him down the row. A flash of guilt tingled Martin’s shoulders. He was looking forward to her sitting beside him. He told himself it was just the comfort of a known face versus strangers. He never was much for crowds. He could honestly tell Margaret that the hall was almost full: there were very few seats to chose from — if she asked. Martin spotted the same familiar faces, sitting in roughly the same places. People do have their favorite spots, he thought. Candice sat in the front row again. In the back row sat Dunan and his wife, heads down, arms folded. Apparently they did not get down to Wellsley — perhaps stopped at the border. Pete was in his previous spot too. Jeff Landers walked in carrying a couple file folders and a pad of paper. His somewhat generous frame was more evident than usual, enclosed in a thick sweater composed of large triangles in all 16 crayon colors. "Whew, Jeff,” called a man near the door. "What's with the sweater?" Landers blushed a bit, but kept walking briskly. Now all eyes followed him. "Yeah, that's a mighty bright sweater for such a…important, guy like you," quipped a tall thin man in a corduroy ear-flap cap. Martin recognized the cap and the man from his visits to the General Store. It seemed he was always there, telling jokes to the cashier girl or long stories to the owner as he tried to sweep the pine-board floor. They called him Mr. Hooper. Landers side-stepped behind the others seated at the table, to get to the center seat. “This is a really warm sweater, okay?" His tone had a hint of defensiveness to it. "There's no heat in the building yet, so I dressed warm. Besides, my wife says bright colors make you feel warmer." “She’s right," added Hooper. "I feel warmer just lookin’ at it…even way back here." He covered his eyes with his arms. A few soft chuckles rose and faded. "My wife tells me it's a psychological thing," added Landers. “I’ll be sure and tell her it worked on some of you, too.” He shot a quick glance and a hint of a wink at Hooper. More laughter rippled through the seated crowd. Landers took his seat. “Okay, okay, that's enough humor. Let's get started," Chuckles merged into a wave of creaks as people settled into the wooden chairs. Susan settled in her chair beside Martin, like a hen settles into her nest. She had a satisfied little smile. "First off, thanks everyone for getting the word out about our meeting today. This is a pretty good turnout, considering there's no phones and all. As you all know, we've got a bit of a situation on our hands with the power being down." “Mike? Give us a quick report on the shelter in the school gym?” “Sure. As of last night, we have twenty three families staying in the gym. Sixty one people. It’s a bit crowded but we can fit in a few more. Food is okay, since most families brought some with them. The fuel for the generator is going about like we expected. Assuming a delivery won’t be coming, my guess is there’s about another week’s worth in the tank.” This caused a minor wave of murmurs in the crowd. Some hands went up. “Thanks Mike.” Landers faced the crowd with some papers in his hand. “Before we take questions, a little bit ago, a courier delivered some communications from Concord. It’s not much, but it’s some word from the capitol. Let me read it to you.” - “From Governor Vincent’s office, to the towns and citizens of the State of New Hampshire. The ongoing power outage continues to be a challenge for us all. Representatives from our state’s utilities tell us that crews are working around the clock, but that a resolution will not be as quick as needed for many of you.
Recognizing the needs of our most vulnerable citizens, I have authorized state emergency measurers. The local FEMA director has assured me that federal aid will be rolling out soon. There are no plans to transfer local law enforcement personnel. I have not yet activated the New Hampshire National Guard, though I may request their activation for local aid efforts if needed.
I urge all of you, the good citizens of New Hampshire, to reach out and help your neighbors. Together we can get through this situation."
Landers put down the papers. “I told you it wasn’t much. There were some other notices about state departments and such, but you can see me later if you’re interested.” “There was another paper,” Landers held it up. “…that basically said state departments will stop writing paper checks too, since the postal service has pretty much shut down. There won’t be any paychecks, pension checks or whatever. The bottom line seems to be that there is no ‘business as usual’. The Feds might send some aid, but if Concord can’t wire funds or mail checks, the Feds probably can’t either.” “I got a pension check Wednesday,” said an older man. “Hasn’t done me any good anyhow. No bank to put it in.” “Right.” Continued Landers. “We’ve got to focus on what we have right now. The governor asked us to do pretty much what we do anyhow, which is take care of things at home ourselves.” Drew Haddock spoke up. "Some of us are a bit better situated in this outage than others: generators, wood heat, etc. The shelter at the school can't take in everyone, and maybe not anyone for too much longer. One thing we can do is consider taking in one or two of your neighbors if you have some spare rooms.” Martin glanced at Susan. She glanced back with a hint of a grateful smile. "That brings up a related point,” Landers said. “Empty houses. With people staying in the shelter, or with each other, or people who left town to go stay elsewhere. Lots of people left town. That means we have a lot of empty houses around town. That presents a new problem. Chief Burgh?” Landers nodded to the police chief who stood, arms folded in a brook-no-nonsense pose. "Yes. Thanks." The police chief addressed the crowd in his public-address voice. “Unoccupied homes may become targets for thieves, vandals or squatters. Please notify myself, one of the selectmen, or at least tell a neighbor who can tell one of us. Our ability to do routine patrols will be reduced, so it will help a lot to know which houses are occupied and which are not…or aren't supposed to be." His last words had a slightly ominous tone. “We have had reports of people walking the highways: mostly Longmeadow Road and South Road. Most of them mind their own business and move on through. Reports are a few have been more, assertive, shall we say, about requesting help. Use your discretion, of course. Best practice is to not open your door and be armed. We don’t have the manpower to monitor every road and house.” “That brings me to the topic of communications. Can I see a show of hands? How many of you here have a pair of walkie-talkies or other kind of radio equipment at home?" Several hands went up slowly. "Hmm." Chief Burgh frowned, unimpressed with the meager response. "They don't have to be big fancy units. Even a pair of kids' talkies or a little set you use when hunting." A few more hands went up. "Well, it's a start. Could I have you folks come see me after the meeting? I'd like to coordinate a radio alert network, as best we can." Chief Burgh resumed his sentinel pose at the end of the table. “That’s all I have for now, Jeff.” Martin stared at the chair back ahead of him trying to remember what became of the little pair of walkie-talkies he got for Dustin when he was in high school. He would have to go digging for those when he got home. "Thanks Chief," said Landers. "Chief Anton?” Anton stood and cleared his throat. "I said this on Friday, but I'll repeat it for those of you who weren't here then. I can't stress enough to you all, the potential fire dangers these days. Between candles for light or trying to heat your homes with fireplaces you haven't used since…well, maybe never, the risk of fire in your homes is huge. As Chief Burgh said Friday, there is no 911 anymore and no fast way to call us at the fire department. We'll make every effort to get there as quick as we can, but if you get careless with candles or fireplaces, we might not be able to help you in time. Don't assume we're just three minutes away anymore." “If you plan to heat with wood, but you’re not accustomed to it, come see me later. I'm going to hold a little fireplace safety briefing after this meeting. I strongly advise you to come and listen if you have the slightest reservations. A few basic precautions can keep you from burning your house down." With that, Chief Anton sat back down. People murmured to each other in serious tones. “Walter?” asked Landers. “Do you have some news for us from the outside world?” “Yessir, I do.” Walter shuffled up front with a handful of papers. He turned to face the crowd. “I’m gonna summarize, on account of time. Feel free to ask me for details later, if you want and I can show you the notes.” He cleared his throat like someone avoiding bad news. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a mess out there. Seems like the big riots have tapered off, but lots of smaller fights have taken their place. Nobody talks about containing them anymore. The fires in Chicago and Baltimore have burned themselves out for the most part.” “Federal aid has been flowing, but that itself has become an issue. States in the middle of the country have been complaining that the lion’s share of federal aid has been going to the big cities on the coasts. The Feds say they’re just addressing the most urgent needs first. Others have been quick to note that states friendliest to the president have been getting aid, while those historically critical of the president have been getting excuses.” “To make matters worse, the Feds have been demanding that the midwest states send additional supplies to help the coastal cities. There’s talk of impounding things by executive order, which has some governors seeing red.” “To summarize, it doesn’t sound like folks are playing nicely out there, so it doesn’t sound like they’re in any hurry help us out.” Walter slowly sat back down. An awkward silence hung in the room for a long moment. Martin tried to picture the tensions ‘out there’, but it was too abstract. The bottom line seemed to be that bigger powers were fighting over aid, so a small town like Cheshire was probably not on anyone’s radar. Martin did not think he expected that Federal aid was a possible way to solve his household’s food shortage. He knew he must have had such a secret hope, however, because he felt it die. “Thank you, Walter,” said Landers. “That was a bit sobering. Not much we can do about what’s going on out there in the rest of the country. What we can do, is try to work together right here.” Landers bumped up the cheerful tone in his voice. “From the stacks along the walls, I can see that many of you have brought in things to trade. Unless anyone objects, I’d like to call this portion of the meeting to adjournment and start setting up for our swap meet. What do you say?” The crowd burst into a buzz of enthusiastic comments, as if the sour news from the outside world could be dispelled by positive talk. “Okay. Meeting adjourned!” Landers rapped on the table. “Everybody fold up your chair and set them against the back all over there. Could we get some volunteers to set up the tables?” Everyone rose at the same time, like a flock of city pigeons scared up by a running child. The roar of scraping chair legs rivaled the burst of loud conversations. People scattering in all directions. People folded up the old wooden chairs and carried them to the back. Pairs of people carried out folding tables into the middle of the room. Others maneuvered through the bustle to retrieve boxes of barter goods left along the outside walls. Someone dropped one of the long folding tables. It landed on the hardwood floor with a loud slap. A couple of ladies nearest the table let out reflexive screams. A couple of stressed-out men took to shouting accusations. Over the roar of screams, shouting and clatter came a booming voice. "Relax Everyone! Remain Calm!" As if it were a huge game of Redlight-Greenlight, everyone froze in the middle of whatever they were doing and looked at the doorway. Through the double doors strode a big-boned man dressed all in black. The white letters: FEMA, were printed above his jacket pocket. He pushed through the crowd, an impatient Moses. >
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Post by kaijafon on Mar 19, 2016 19:51:57 GMT -6
for some reason, I'm thinking FEMA wants those goods.... will call them "excess" or whatever. thanks for so much more of the story! finally got all caught up!
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Post by headlesshorseman on Mar 20, 2016 18:35:33 GMT -6
What would a big boned man in a FEMA suit dress out?
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Post by mic on Mar 21, 2016 16:34:44 GMT -6
Chapter 5: part 2 – Keeping Calm & Trading
Behind the big FEMA man shuffled a smaller man, also in black, carrying a black box the size of a milk crate. Behind them, several more FEMA men stepped in, but stood on either side of the doorway. The little man put down his black box on the selectmen's table. The bigger man strode to the front of the room and held his arms high.
"Calm down! Calm down. There's no need to panic, good citizens. We are from FEMA, and we're here to help."
“Oh thank goodness!” Candice clapped her hands together with joy.
The roomful of people had put down their boxes and tables, but continued to stare at the big man in black.
“I just knew you’d come and help us,” said Candice with a dramatic flourish.
Martin studied the half dozen FEMA men still at the doorway. They all had side arms in hip holsters. Martin had always pictured relief aid workers as grandmotherly types with stacks of blankets and trays of cookies, not a semi-SWAT team.
"You will all. Be. Okaaay," said the big man slowly and deliberately, as if addressing children. "There is NO reason to panic.”
Who's panicking? thought Martin.
"My name is Jack Quinn,” announced the big man. "I am the FEMA Deputy Branch Director for ALL of southern New Hampshire." He held his arms out and pronounced his title succinctly, then paused so its importance could fully register with the frightened masses. "We have everything under control. There is no cause for fear. We will be trucking in relief supplies soon.”
“I told you so,” Candice said to Landers. “I knew they wouldn’t let us down.”
“But,” continued Quinn. “There are a couple of important points I must make you all aware of."
He held up a clipboard. "The Department cannot yet prohibit civilian travel on state roads…”
Yet? Martin said to himself.
“…but we do strongly advise you to just sit tight. We will bring the aid to YOU. We WILL take care of you. Rest assured and remain calm. Do not drive around looking for supplies. You will only impede emergency vehicles or Department officials trying to do their jobs.”
Candice nodded her head and muttered, “We will be safe in our homes.”
“For your own safety,” bellowed Quinn, “You should all Shelter In Place, until further notice."
Quinn continued in a broad, sympathetic tone. "The Department knows, that in this time of crisis, you are facing dire hardships beyond your capacity to cope. The Department knows this. But never lose hope: FEMA is on the scene. We have things under control and will supply your needs." He motioned to his squad at the back of the room. They ducked out to the stairway.
Quinn looked at his clipboard. "A FEMA truck will arrive at your city center on…Wednesday at…3:00 p.m. At that time, we will disperse individual supply packages — food, water, medicines — intended to get you through the next several days. Everyone will form into one orderly line for the dispersal. No unruliness will be tolerated.”
Quinn motioned for his men to re-enter the room. “To reassure you that help is, indeed, on the way, my men are distributing some much-needed supplies to comfort you, and tide you over until our truck arrives."
His men returned, each with an armful of small brown paper bundles. The men worked their way through the crowd, handing out the bundles to random citizens. Roughly one in four received a package.
A second supply truck is scheduled to arrive Friday. This will be for your local distribution node, which is covered in the procedure documents. I want to leave these follow-up instructions with you, to guide you through these difficult times. Are any members of your former civil authority structure present?"
No one in the crowd seemed to know what Quinn was asking. "Ah, that is sad,” he said without sincerity. “Expected, but nonetheless…”
Landers raised his hand like a school boy unsure of his quiz answer. “Did you mean members of the town government? I’m the chair of the board of Selectmen. I'm Jeff Lan…"
“What? Oh. That's fine.” Quinn did not sound especially pleased. “Glad to see some remnant of local governance has survived. That may be useful to us," said Quinn. He motioned to his assistant. The little man took a fat manila envelope out of the box and handed it to Landers.
"These are updated documents which supersede any prior emergency plans you may have received, They outline the next steps to be taken in preparation at the local level for the longer-term management of this crisis. I am in charge of this sector.” Quinn said with evident pride.
“I will be your conduit for contact with the State FEMA Director. All of your concerns will be routed through me. Understand? I will come back through on Wednesday to check on compliance…or shall we say, progress.”
Quinn crossed the room towards the doorway. The Red Sea parted for Moses more easily this time. In passing, he gave a man's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He patted Mrs. Cauloff on the head as he walked by. Candice shook his hand vigorously, thanking him in gushes as if he had cured her of cancer.
The other FEMA men formed up behind Quinn in two lines and followed him down the stairs. Everyone in the room watched, silently, like children watching the last of the bathwater swirl down the drain. When the bathwater was gone, people looked at each other.
Wilder broke the silence. "What the heck was THAT all about?"
“Don’t know, but I'm pretty sure he wants us to remain calm," said Hooper.
"Who is this Quinn?” asked Drew. “FEMA, I know, but I’ve never heard of him. Have you?”
“I don’t think so,” said Landers. “Some FEMA honcho, apparently. “He’s got himself a squad of men with guns n' all, so I guess that means he's somebody really important.”
“He certainly thinks so,” said Hooper as he peered out the window. "And he's got himself a fancy black Escalade too. Never seen one with all the chrome blacked out before. And lots of little antennee on the roof."
Others pushed up to the window for a look. Martin could get only glimpses between them. “His squad of men got a boring ol' white Suburban. Looks kinda dumpy next to Quinn’s ninja-mobile.”
“Look in the back there.” A woman pointed to the back of the Suburban. “It’s full of those little packages."
“That’s right! Hey, what's in those things they handed out?" asked a man beside Hooper. The lucky recipients began tearing away the brown paper.
"I got a box of…snake bite kits?"
"Mine is some bottles of official FEMA water."
"I got two food pack things. ‘Meal Ready to Eat’,” the man read. “Ooo. Beef Enchilada! That sounds pretty good.”
"A dozen nylon sandbag bags? We need sandbags?"
"I got a lousy box of radiation detection badges," said Red Cauloff.
A lady nearby gasped. "There's a problem at Seabrook? Does this mean there's a problem at Seabrook?" Her eyes darted from one person to another, looking for a wave of panic she might join.
"Don't get all spooked, Nancy," said Landers. “Chief Burgh would have gotten something on his radio if there was a problem at Seabrook. Keep in mind they also gave out snake bite kits, and we don't have a plague of snakes either.”
"And," Martin spoke up, "That lineman I spoke to on Friday said that Seabrook was fine, and went into shutdown mode right away."
"Darn,” said a man near Martin as he peeled back the brown paper. “Two bottles of FEMA water. I’ve got a well.“
"Hey, I got some MREs too,” said a man near the stage. “Veggie burger. Really? Veggie Burger? Anyone want to trade? Veggie burger is more healthy for you than enchiladas. Whaddaya say?”
"No way."
"Uh oh," said Hooper with melodrama. "Better cover up them radiation badges, Red. Jeff’s sweater is gonna set off the whole box of 'em like firecrackers!“ Hooper got into a long chuckle, obviously taken with his own joke. Others laughed lightly too, though more at him than with him.
“Very funny, Hooper." Landers rolled his eyes as he walked to the center of the room.
"Okay everyone. Everyone? Can I have your attention for a moment?" The din began to fade, except for a little knot of women in intense chat mode. "Ahem. Nancy?" The ladies looked up sheepishly.
“Thank you. Before we resume setting up tables for our first Town Market, this Quinn fellow said that a supply truck will be here on Wednesday at 3:00 and another one Friday. Make sure to tell your neighbors about this, since not everyone is here today. If FEMA is handing out supplies…"
"Like snake bite kits and sandbags?"
“Whatever. We may as well get whatever resources they’re handing out."
"Besides," said an older man by the door. “I’ll bet we've already bought ‘em, three times over. Might as well get something back for our already-spent-tax-dollars.”
"Yeah.” said another. “What we don’t need, we can trade. If Nutfield gets overrun with snakes and we could trade with them for their MREs or something. Who knows?"
Landers resumed. "Yes, well, remember to tell your neighbors about trucks coming on Wednesday and Friday. Okay, carry on setting up." The pre-Quinn bustle and chaos resumed. Folding tables blossomed like umbrellas at a sudden shower.
Martin set his box of salsa on one end of a table. Susan hesitated to set her box down beside his.
“She said to do different tables.”
Martin took her box and set it on the end of the table next to his. “There. Separate tables.” He smiled.
“That almost seems like lying.” She furrowed her brow.
“Would you rather go to another table?” he asked.
“Well…no, but…”
“We’ll just be two separate citizens trading different things. No big deal.”
“Hi Simmons,” said Landers. “Great idea to have a swap meet. Really a good turn out too. Oh, is this some of your wife’s jam?” He pulled out a jar and held it up to the light. “We’re friends with Lance and Miriam Walker on your road.” He turned to Susan. “They talk very highly of your jam.”
Susan glanced at Martin with a worried smile. His plan for ‘separate citizens’ did not last thirty seconds.
“I’d better trade for one of these gems or my wife will slug me. What are you looking to trade for Mrs. Sim…”
“Meat!” Susan interrupted. “We’re…I mean…I’m…hoping to trade for some meat. Canned tuna, something like that?” Her nervous smile widened.
“Shoot. I didn’t bring any meat things. What about peaches? My wife has lots of canned peaches.”
Susan shook her head. “No, sorry. Maybe some beans?”
“Hmm,” mused Landers. “I didn’t bring beans either, but I think I saw some at another table. Maybe I can trade some peaches for beans and come back.” Rapid little nods made her curls bounce. Landers waved and melted into the crowd slowly flowing by the tables.
“He thought I was your wife.” There was a trace of shock in her hoarse whisper.
“So?” Martin said. He pulled out a few jars to make a more attractive display. “That happened on the way up here too. Why the freak-out now?”
“That was down there, with people who didn’t know us…I don’t mean us. It’s not like there’s an ‘us’, so much. That sounds…” She blushed. “I mean, it’s different up here where people know you and…her. You were just saying how she was a fireball at that town meeting that got you kicked out of town.”
“We weren’t kicked out of town.”
“Okay. Whatever. My point is, I can’t afford to have her go fireball on me and kick me out. Where would I go?”
“You won’t get kicked out,” Martin reassured with a dismissive wave. He had seen many years of Margaret’s steadfast duty to Christian hospitality. He could not picture her tossing Susan out in the snow. There could be some icy days that were incredibly fine, but no actual eviction.
“Just be careful,” he said. “Know what I mean?”
Susan looked him in the eye for a long moment — longer than he felt comfortable with. A small, wry smile erased her worried look. “Yeah. I think I know what you mean.”
Her smile derailed his train of thought. Now Martin was not quite sure he knew what he meant, but at least she was smiling again. That seemed like progress in a vague way. He also felt that he needed to not see her eyes for awhile. They were trouble. “How about I walk around and see what else is here? You stay here and trade.”
The long tables held a wide assortment of food items, though few of them enticing. Some old canned goods had clearly been forgotten in the back of a pantry for many years. One man had frozen venison in a cooler. He wanted twenty dollars for a small steak. Martin declined with a shrug. Some folks from Carrolton Orchards had bags of apples. A lady with ‘Spring Pond Farm’ on her ball cap was offering pumpkins, some quite large.
A man in dirty Carhartt coveralls had an armload of firewood on his table. That was his marketing sampler. He was negotiating with a pair of men over the delivery of a cord or two. Mr. Carhartt was accepting cash only. From the head shaking and arm flailing, Martin guessed the men did not have several hundred dollars in cash. Bartering for large value items was a challenge.
In the back corner of the room sat a woman with an array of metal nick-knacks on her little card table. No one was showing any interest in her craft items. She looked both hopeful and worried.
Some people were striking bargains. They walked up and down the rows of tables with a mix of goods in their arms. Martin returned to his boxes, thinking he should carry around a couple jars of salsa for quick bargaining.
“Lookit!” Susan beamed. “I traded two jars of jam for this one can of kidney beans. That’s a good bargain, right? Isn’t it?”
“I guess so. I’m going to take a couple jars of salsa and walk the floor. You stay here and keep up the bargaining.” She nodded enthusiastically.
Martin ran into Landers in the middle of a long row. “Simmons! Got any of your wife’s jam left?” Martin nodded. “Good good. You know, Lance told me awhile back that you had a very pretty wife. He sure was right.”
Martin could feel his face getting hot. Margaret would not be amused at the mistaken identities. “Actually, she’s not my…”
“Oh wait!” Landers blurted out. “That woman just set out cans of beans! Hot dog! That woman don’t know it yet, but she needs some peaches. Hope to be talking to you and the missus really soon. See ya later.” Landers wove his way through the slow lines of traders in the aisle.
Martin sighed. Holes get dug incredibly fast. He vowed to correct the misunderstanding when Landers came to trade for the jam. He continued walking the aisles. At a table near the stairs for the stage, a man with a straggly beard had tub of ice water on his table. In the tub were jugs of milk. Beside the tub was a little pyramid of wax-paper-wrapped squares. It was the first non-bean protein he had seen, aside from the gold-plated venison.
Index cards propped against the tub and pyramid had ‘$20’ scrawled on them. Gold-plated milk too? Since the banks and ATMs were closed indefinitely, Martin was inclined to carefully marshal whatever cash they had. Who knew what they might need to buy later? Medicines? Ammo? Over-priced foods would use up that limited resource quickly. Still, Martin reasoned, perhaps there were haggling opportunities.
“What do you have here?” Martin asked.
“Goat’s milk,” said the bearded man. The man seemed delighted that someone was asking. “And some goat cheese. Interested? It tastes pretty much like cow’s milk but it’s much more healthy for you and a great source of protein, vitamins and pro-biotics.”
The bearded man’s pitch sounded like salesmancode for ‘this is technically food, but it tastes bad’. He held an imploring smile, with drooping eyebrows that seemed to say ‘please don’t run away.’
“Been having trouble selling them?” Martin asked. He noted that the tub was still full of milk jugs and the pyramid complete. The man looked like he needed cheered up. A little conversation would not cost anything.
“You have no idea. I thought people would be hungry, or at least less fussy. The older folks don’t seem all that hungry and the younger ones, well, as soon as I say it’s goats milk, I can see their noses wrinkle. The stuff tastes fine! They have no idea. I mean, what do they think it tastes like? Licking a buck? Cumon!” The man was clearly exasperated. “No point in my setting out my goat salami if people can’t even handle the idea of the milk.”
“Salami?”
‘Yeah.” The man scooted a cardboard box out from under this table with his foot. It contained a half dozen loops of dark sausage. He kicked the box back under the table. “My ice is pretty much melted. I might as well start packing up.”
“Hold on,” Martin said. “Maybe you just need an ice-breaker.” He was intrigued by the goat salami idea. He recalled how no one at Market Basket was taking the Vienna sausages until he started taking some. Someone just has to go first. That might work again. It was time to strike a bargain.
“What do you mean, ice-breaker?”
“Well, I don’t have twenty bucks,” Martin said, which was a lie. He had forty, but skirted the edges of lying by mentally finishing his sentence with …that I would spend on goat’s milk. “But I do have these two jars of salsa my wife made. What if I trade you these two jars for one of the salami loops and one block of cheese?”
The man started to shake his head. “Sorry. I need to get…”
“Hold on. I’m not done. I’m thinking that what you might need is someone to go first. What I’ll do is walk around the aisles, holding them up so people can see them. Maybe sniffing them and going ‘ahhh’ and stuff like that. Okay, no. That’s too corny. But, I’d bet that if people see that someone else bought them, they wouldn’t be as spooked.”
Martin could see the wheels turning, but no light bulb was coming on.
“Now, I can agree that a couple jars of salsa aren’t really an even trade for a salami. They’re a lot of work. This would be for the marketing labor too. Tell you what. If, after I’ve gone around admiring the salami, you haven’t sold anything, the deal’s off and you’re not out anything. I take my salsa back and we go our separate ways.”
The man stroked his scraggly chin. “Hmm. Nothin’ to lose. Okay. Go for it.” They shook hands.
Martin meandered up and down the aisles, looking at people’s goods, but making sure he carried the loop of salami prominently, like a new fiancée wears her ring. People did notice.
“Where did you get that?” Susan asked.
“I got this really nice salami over there.” Martin said. “The bearded man by the stage has these, some cheese and milk too!
“Why are you talking so loud?”
“Long story. This isn’t actually mine yet, though. Kind of a loaner.”
“A loaner sausage? Whatever.” Susan shook off his obtuseness. “Never mind that. I traded for another can of beans: baked beans this time. Pretty cool, huh? I’ve only got two jars left. It was that Mr. Landers. He came back.”
“Oh. Did you…say anything about…”
“No.” She frowned. “He called me Mrs. Simmons again and I was about to correct him, but he just kept talking and then someone else came up and he went off with them, still talking.”
“I see. Well, maybe it won’t matter. I have to go see if this salami is mine or not. Be back in a minute.” Martin ambled over toward the stage.
The bearded man was busy talking to an older woman in a long gray coat and a young man in a down jacket. The young man handed over some money and walked away with a square of cheese. The woman haggled over how many jars of green beans were equal to a half gallon of goat’s milk. The exchange rate settled on four.
“Things are looking up?” Martin asked.
“Oh yeah. Hey thanks a ton for helping. Jerry’s the name, by the way.”
“Martin.”
“I’m new in Cheshire, but been doing goats for years. Moved in this past Spring. Most of my produce goes to suppliers. Never really tried local retail. Today, I figured local retail was a total fail. Now? Maybe not. I sold or traded all my other salamis. Half my cheese is gone too. Looks like a deal’s a deal. Enjoy your salami! Maybe see you next week.”
Martin and Susan boxed their un-traded jars and their new treasures. During the walk home, Susan mused aloud about how cumbersome a process the trade and bartering were. People had too limited of supplies for trading and too narrow of needs: a poor combination for fluid commerce. Many tried to use cash, but there seemed to be a shortage of paper money to use for exchange. She wondered what would happen in later swap meets when people had traded away their excess. Cheshire had, essentially, a fixed money supply to work with, and a small one at that.
—
“How did it go?” Margaret asked. “Did the separate tables work out well?”
Martin could feel Susan glance at him, but he kept his eyes on Margaret’s eyes. “Actually, I was walking the aisles, so I wasn’t really at a table.”
Margaret smiled a bit at this news. “Let’s see what you got,” she said. “What’s this? A sausage?”
“A salami, technically, but yeah. There was a guy there who has a goat farm.”
“Goat?” Susan said with a worried look. “You didn’t say it was goat sausage?”
“Oh, you won’t be able to tell,” Martin said. “It’s all spiced up, smoked and dried.”
“Sure! This will make us quite a few nice meals. It’ll go well with your sauerkraut,” Margaret said with a smile.
She turned to Susan with a flat expression. “And what did you get?” she asked in that tone schoolteachers use to ask for late homework.
“Um. Two cans of beans?” After the warm reception the salami got, two cans of beans seemed a feeble prize.
Margaret hefted them in her hands a few times. They were the larger sized cans. “Well, these are nice. There’s a couple of good meals here as well. Looks like you did pretty good too.”
The corners of Susan’s mouth twitched up into a hint of a smile. She might have taken one step back from the precipice of being thrown out in the snow. But, would it be enough if the mistaken identity got back to Margaret?
(end Chapter 5)
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