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Post by headlesshorseman on Mar 21, 2016 19:50:06 GMT -6
Great story. Thanks.
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Post by kaijafon on Mar 21, 2016 21:14:16 GMT -6
I'm thinking it will eventually! lol! thanks for the moar!
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Post by mic on Mar 23, 2016 20:46:48 GMT -6
Chapter 6: part 1: Temper
“No ice on their water bucket this morning,” Martin said. “Got an early egg too.” He set the egg beside yesterday’s two eggs on the counter. “They’ve really slowed down with the shorter days and all.”
Susan and Margaret were sitting at the dining room table with a pile of dry bean pods heaped between them. They seemed to have been in the middle of a conversation, which Martin interrupted. While they sat at opposite ends of the table, their faces betrayed no tensions. If anything, Margaret looked disinterested. Susan looked focused on her bean pods.
Margaret was shelling the beans with her usual alacrity. With a paring knife in one hand and the pod in the other, she would cut a slit near the stem end of the pod, pinch the stem between thumb and knife, and pull. The pod would unzip with a long fiber. With her other thumbnail, she would scoop out the dry beans in one smooth motion.
Susan was watching, but trying not to look obvious about it. She was not finding the pods’ zip fiber. Her attempts merely broke the pods, which she then had to pry apart and dig within to extract the dry beans. Margaret’s pile of dry beans was four times the size of Susan’s. Rather than looking discouraged, Susan was focused intently on Margaret’s hands, trying to learn her ‘secret’.
Martin felt it best to leave the two women working together peacefully. He quietly walked past them to the smaller bedroom. He planned to go back out in the woods and scout for deer signs. He was pleased at trading some salsa for a salami the day before, but he doubted such trading would be a reliable resource. Whatever food supplies were cached in the homes of Cheshire, was a finite resource and dwindling as people ate it. If deer were in the backwoods, it would be a new input to the supply, not just a transfer.
He doubted he would see anything, but reasoned that if he did see a deer while scouting, it would be a tragic waste of opportunity to not have a gun ready. That meant installing the slug barrel on his shotgun. For that, he had to find it first.
While he rummaged through the safe and adjacent cabinet, the women at the table resumed the conversation he interrupted. Their voices carried down the hallway.
“Sounds really nice, to me,” Margaret said.
“Oh, it was, in some ways.” Susan’s voice lacked enthusiasm.
“I always dreamed of a life like that,” Margaret said. “Restaurants, live theater, museums. It must have been marvelous living right in the city.”
“Seems like you have it great right here,” Susan said.
“I guess.” Margaret lacked enthusiasm. “It was a nice safe place to raise the kids, and it’s quiet. Sometimes, I think it’s too quiet.”
Susan chuckled. “The city was never quiet. Even at 3 a.m. there were traffic noises, honking, rowdy college boys. I’m starting to appreciate quiet. You have a very nice home here.”
“Thanks. I try to keep it up nice. I must confess I wasn’t too thrilled when Martin showed me this place. We talked about moving, but I was picturing something closer to the city, not farther from it. We haven’t seen a live play or a concert since we moved here.”
During the awkward silence, Martin noticed that he was no long looking for his slug barrel. He was simply listening. Were Margaret and Susan ‘bonding’ (or whatever it is women do)? He had no idea what ‘bonding’ sounded like, but it was fascinating in its own right that the two of them were having a regular conversation.
“When I was a little girl,” Susan said. “I used to dream about living in a little cottage in a dark mossy woods.” She chuckled. “Maybe I’d seen too many Disney movies.”
“When I was a girl, I used to dream about living in a big city: lights, bustle, energy. So, this place wasn’t really on my dream radar. Still, Martin was right. It was a great place to raise the kids. We didn’t have to worry about them playing outside.”
“Such different dreams, huh?” Susan said.
“Yeah, so when Martin wanted to raise chickens, I was against the idea. ‘Next thing, you’ll be wanting cows!’ I said. He eventually persuaded me to do the chickens, but I told him the butchering and cleaning were all his job. I’m not doing that anymore. And I drew a firm line: no cows — ever!”
Susan chuckled. “He wanted a cow?”
“I don’t think he did, but I wasn’t going to leave the door open. The rule is: no cows.”
“Why no cows?”
“Oh, I’ve had my fill of them, let me tell you. I grew up on a farm. It wasn’t one of those fancy modern farms either. We milked by hand, hauled milk cans by hand. We had to herd them too — and cows can be so blasted stubborn sometimes. They just go where they want to go. A 60 pound girl doesn’t have a lot of clout with a thousand pound cow. While I was out in the meadow, keeping those stupid cows from running off into the woods, I used to dream about a nice clean life, with dresses that stayed white and didn’t smell like manure. Bright lights, good food, clean smells. So no. No cows. I’m not doing cows anymore.”
“Wow, I had no idea.”
Martin found the slug barrel and got it mounted. He lingered by the door, still curious what bonding sounded like, or just to hear more of Margaret’s thoughts. He recalled her refusal to have a cow — which he was never seriously entertaining anyhow. He knew she disliked her childhood on the farm, but had never heard about her dream of city life.
“I had the city life,” Susan began. “And I thought I liked it. But it turned out to be…well, not so much when it turns out that someone…and what you’ve got here…is…you’ve got something really special…”
Martin was not certain why, but he felt he needed to interrupt. Was he worried they were getting too personal? Was he afraid she was going to talk about him? Was he afraid Susan was going to talk about her ex-boyfriend? He still had a strong distaste for that Mark character and how he treated Susan. He certainly did not want him being discussed. Or, was it something else?
“Well, I’m all set,” he said, striding quickly down the hallway.
Margaret had the leftovers of a puzzled gaze at Susan, which he interrupted. “Where are you going with that?” she asked.
“Gonna go scout the woods some more. Maybe find something bigger than a squirrel.” The women did not talk while he pulled on his heavy coat, boots and cap.
Tramping down to follow the dry stream bed, he felt foolish with his interruption. What good did that one break do? They would simply resume talking after he left. He could not pinpoint what bothered him, so decided to put the thoughts away and concentrate on the task at hand.
Martin scanned the leaf litter for any kind of a sign that something had been there. He had no Indian tracker skills, but reasoned that even he could tell if the forest floor had been disturbed by something. He was not moving especially quietly. Even he knew deer would not be out and about in mid afternoon. It did not matter if his noise spooked a squirrel. He certainly could not bag a squirrel with shotgun slugs. There would be nothing left.
Climbing up the banks of little stream valley, he thought the noise he was making would be a good warning if there were any foraging college kids nearby. He certainly did not want any more heated encounters with Cupcake. If she got that angry over a .22, what would she do at the sight of a shotgun?
In a sandy patch of a clearing, he spotted a deer track. It was a smallish print, but proof nonetheless that he did have deer traveling through his backwoods. Judging from the crisp impression and direction of travel, he reasoned that it had recently come across Old Stockman Road from the Baldwin’s woods, followed his dry stream bed, then up through the little saddle to cross the fire trail.
He was about to follow the print to look for more when he heard his little generator fire up. He had run the generator only an hour earlier. The fridge and freezer were good for three more hours. Why are they running the generator? Part of him wanted to ignore the new sound and look for more deer trail, but the sound gnawed at him. Was something wrong? Had something happened that suddenly required power?
The deer trail would have to wait. He needed to get home and see what the problem was.
Martin started up the back walk, but could see Dustin and Judy in front of his car, and the generator at their feet. “What’s going on here?” Martin asked.
“Oh, Hi dad. The Beast’s battery was really low and I figured the generator would use less gas than running the engine.”
“What? Why?” This did not seem like an emergency to Martin.
“We’ve been listening to the radio a lot, you know, and charging up Judy’s iPod, so the battery…”
“You WHAT?” Martin shouted. He strode over to the generator and shut it down. “What’s the matter with you? Do you think we have unlimited gas? We need to save that for real emergencies — important uses.”
“But, Judy’s been…”
“Her entertainment addiction is NOT a real emergency!” Martin ripped the jumper cables off the battery and slammed the hood shut. “We need that gas to get us through the winter…AND, if we’re really careful, maybe have some for the chainsaws in the spring. What freakin’ good will it do any of us that she’s been happily listening to her music all winter but we’ve got nothing for the chainsaws? Oh for crying out loud, Dustin. Where’s your brain?”
Judy ran off to the back door.
“Dad!” Dustin scolded. He jogged after Judy. Martin grumbled to himself as he put the generator away.
“What did you say?” Margaret demanded as Martin came through the back door. Her tone had that what-have-you-done reprimand to it.
Martin was in no mood for a scolding. “I told them we’re not wasting our gas on something as stupid as keeping that girl’s iPod charged.”
“Well, if you said it like that….”
“What difference does it make how I said it? We’re not on vacation here. We’ve got serious problems. There may not be any more gas for a long time. We need it for the freezer… as long as the food holds out. And who knows what else we’ll need it for, or for how long. Two months? Three? A year? That girl’s happy-entertainment-coccoon is a luxury none of us can afford.”
“Martin,” Margaret scolded again. “Not so loud. She’ll hear you.”
“So what? She’s got to hear the truth sometime. There won’t be any TV to sit in front of for a long time. There won’t be any internet games or social media for her to waste hours with. The sooner she wakes up to the reality the rest of us are living in, the better for everyone!”
“You just stay up here and calm yourself. I’m going to go see if I can repair some of your damage.” Margaret marched down the stairs.
All the while, Susan sat at the table with the wide eyes of an uncomfortable spectator. When Martin saw her eyes, it took all the wind out of his sails. He felt like his sail looked when had been sailing his dad’s little sloop in fickle winds. Sometimes things were good. The sail full and stretched tight with a firm breeze. The boat heeled over tightly, surging eagerly ahead. But sometimes, the wind just died. The sail sagged limp. The boat flattened out and coasted to a stop. That was how Martin felt.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Susan. “You shouldn’t have had to hear all that.” He sat with his head in his hands.
“That’s okay,” she said very softly. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“Yes I do. That wasn’t the way to handle that. As you can see, I still have a knack for being a jerk.”
“We’ve been through all that,” she said gently. “Remember? We had a deal. You are not a jerk.”
“And you’re not a burden. I know. We had a deal.” He knew he could not look up at her or he would see her eyes. He could not look at her eyes at the moment. Superman does not enter a room he knows is full of Kryptonite.
“This has been a hard time for everyone,” she said. “You’ve been trying to take care of us. That has to be stressful.”
“That might be why I’m a jerk, but it doesn’t make it okay that I’m a jerk.”
“Tsk. Do I have to repeat myself? Why don’t you write it down on your invisible note pad. Not. A. Jerk.” There was a playful lilt to her soft tone.
He risked a peak between his fingers. She was smiling tenderly. He clamped his eye shut again. He knew he should not have looked. Kryptonite.
“Dustin has her calmed down,” Margaret said as he climbed the stairs. “At least she’s not crying anymore.” She sat in the chair beside Martin. “And it looks like you’ve calmed down too. That’s good.”
“I wasn’t out to make her cry,” Martin said. “It’s just that everything is more serious now.”
“I know, Martin. I know.” Margaret patted his hand. “You just have to go a little easier on her. She’s lived a pretty sheltered life, don’t forget. Her parents made sure she had everything she needed. Even Dustin has kept her pretty sheltered. He means well, but I don’t think it’s necessarily been all that good for Judy. Now she’s trying to grapple with a world that isn’t secure, where her needs aren’t automatically taken care of by someone else. She’s been hiding from that in her music.”
“I know all that,” Martin said. “But it doesn’t change things. We can’t spend precious resources to keep her bubble inflated. She’s going to have to cope with reality like the rest of us.”
Dustin slowly climbed the stairs, his face apprehensive. Margaret gave him a little nod. “Um, Dad, look…I’m sorry about the generator and all…”
Martin held his hand up. “I want to say I’m sorry too, but I’m not there yet. These are very serious times. We can’t afford to indulge in luxuries anymore.”
“I know,” Dustin hung his head. “It’s just that Judy is used to…”
“Why is everyone so willing to make excuses for that girl?” Martin began a rant. Margaret patted his hand again. Martin leaned back in the chair. “Sorry I cut you off. Go on.”
“I was going to say that she’s used to being connected to the world. It’s not like she really cares what’s going on in London or South Africa or wherever, but news from out there is like…I don’t know…reassurance that the world is still turning. Life is going on. Facebook with friends, texting, games, it’s all like threads leading from her out to the whole world. She was a part of the world that way.”
“Now, without any of that, it’s like she’s lost…floating in space, or something. I think it scares her. I tried to get some news on my car radio to help her, but it didn’t seem to help. It was too limited and too local. She just wants to know what’s going on out there…in the world…beyond New Hampshire or Mass.”
“And what if the news from outside isn’t good?” Martin asked. “Is she only expecting happy news? Because it isn’t happy. Remember what I was telling you that Walter was…” Martin felt an inner drenching of ice water. An idea was forming. “What if the news wasn’t good?” he repeated. “What would she do with that?”
Dustin looked pensive for a long moment. “You know, I think she’d be okay with the news being bad. It was bad during the wild fires, or that jetliner crash, or the bombings. As long as she knew what was going on out there, she seemed fine — even if it was bad.”
“Then I have an idea.” Martin stood up.
“What?” Margaret asked.
“Get her some news,” Martin answered. “Walter spoke of ‘working the skips’ — listening to distant broadcasts, whether it was ham or AM or what. That’s where he gets his news from ‘out there’. I say we take Judy to Walter’s and let her listen in on ‘out there’. We can’t do this every day, but maybe if she knows there’s a way to know, she’ll be okay not knowing for awhile.”
“You’d do that for Judy?” Margaret’s voice betrayed a mix of surprise and disbelief.
“Yes, darn it all,” Martin grumbled. “I might be a jerk…” (Susan frowned at him disapprovingly) “…but I’m also a hopeless softie. Not a good combination.”
“Go tell her we’re going to get her some news,” Martin told Dustin. “Both of you dress warm. We’ll be coming back very late tonight and it’s going to be cold.”
“Late at night?” Margaret asked. “If you go now, you could listen for an hour or so and be back before dark.”
“No. I guess ‘the skips’ don’t happen until after sundown. It’s an atmosphere radio wave thing.”
“What makes you think this Walter will be listening to his radio tonight? He would have to be conserving his generator fuel too, wouldn’t he?” Margaret asked.
“Hmm,” Martin mused. “Good point. He did just give his report yesterday, so he might not be planning to go on the air tonight. Still, it seemed like he went on the air every day, at least a few times. Guess I’m gambling.”
“Judy has her coat on,” Dustin announced. “She wants to go now.”
“Well, it’s not quite time to go yet,” Martin called down the stairs.
“If you guys are coming too, you’d better dress warm,” Martin said to Margaret and Susan.
“I don’t think I should go,” Margaret said. “Ruby said she wasn’t feeling well, something about a tightness in her throat. I’d better stay in case she needs something.” Margaret looked at Susan with a raised eyebrow as if to ask, ‘well?’.
“I’ll stay and take care of Ruby too,” Susan said.
They’re staying here together? Martin was not sure if that was a good development or not. He decided it was better that he and Susan were not off on some adventure together…again. Perhaps their conversation over shell beans meant the two women were less uncomfortable with each other. That was what his optimistic side promoted. Martin eagerly bought it.
“What you two can do, is get out the bikes,” Martin hollered down the stairs. “Yours and mom’s are probably good to go, but my old road bike is in the back of the shed.
The tires are probably flat.” Martin muttered to Margaret. “I haven’t ridden that thing in ten years.”
Dustin pumped up the road bike’s tires with the little hand pump. It was slow work. Judy wiped off the dust and cobwebs, trying to avoid eye contact with Martin. Nonetheless, he could see her eyes were red and puffy. He shook his head. It was so quick and easy to be a jerk, but it took so long for others to recover from it.
Martin carefully poured some gasoline into one of the half-gallon milk jugs he had been saving.
“What’s that for?” Dustin asked.
“A fair trade for Walter. If I’m going to ask him to stay on the air longer than he planned to, I’d better be willing to pay for it.”
“But you said we had to conserve…”
“Yes I did, and we still do. But if a quart of gas will help Judy over her problem, it’ll be worth it.”
“I packed you each a little cold supper to take along.” Margaret held up Martin’s gray backpack. “We don’t want to impose on Walter and Sally: expecting them to provide you with a meal. That’s not nice these days.”
Martin, Dustin and Judy biked up Old Stockman Road, even though it was the long way around. It saved them trying to bike up Stockman Hill. Town Hill was no cakewalk, however. They had to walk their bikes up. There was a little activity around town hall, but by and large, few people were out.
At the curve to Haverhill road, Martin could see Jen working Jasmine in her paddock. She had Jasmine harnessed up to a delicate-looking four wheel buggy of some kind. The horse was getting more accustomed to her new duties as a driving horse. She made tight turns around the barrels without a step out of place.
The coast down Wilson Hill would have been more of a welcome relief from the work of going uphill, if were not for the windchill. It stung the cheeks and forehead to the point of causing a headache. Martin was feeling his lack of training on the bike during the long ride up Walnut Hill. Back in the day, hundred mile days were no big deal. Ten years off the bike had taken its toll. This five mile ride was tougher than he imagined. Nonetheless, he was not about to whine or complain, but kept up with the two youngsters despite his thighs aching. Windchill was no longer a problem: sweat was.
“This place on the left,” Martin hollered. He tried not to sound out of breath, which he was. “With the rock wall.” Dustin waved to acknowledge and turned into the driveway.
Martin tried some discrete rapid breathing before knocking at the door to raise is oxygen levels — hopefully above the panting-for-breath level. He did not want to appear as wiped out as he felt.
>
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Post by kaijafon on Mar 23, 2016 22:08:38 GMT -6
hehehe! I feel for Martin! I get winded just walking down the hallway! thanks!
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Post by mic on Mar 26, 2016 6:36:30 GMT -6
Chapter 6: part 2: Radio & Forgetting O-Hi-O
No one answered the door. Martin began to dread that they came all that way only to find out Walter and Sally were not home. All the windows were dark, but that was true of nearly every house — even if the people were home. With the rumor of trouble from passing beggars, having lit windows was a beacon for trouble.
Happily, Sally was home. The door opened a tiny crack, then wider. “Martin? Martin Simmons?” Sally asked.
Martin hoped she had trouble recognizing him right away because the daylight was fading, not because he was so wiped out from his ride that he looked like someone else — someone sweaty and ragged. “Yes. Hi. Um…I wondered if I might ask Walter a favor. Is he home?”
“Certainly!” Sally flung the door wide. “Come in, come in. And who is this with you?”
“This is my son Dustin and his wife Judy.”
“Is that lovely Susan with you too?” Sally peeked out into the darkening yard.
“Lovely Susan?” asked Dustin.
“Never mind. Um, no. Just us.”
“Pity. Oh well. So, you wanted Walter. Come sit at the table. I’ll fetch the kettle from the fire and make you all a nice hot cup of tea. You must be cold. Wal-ter!” Sally shouted as if calling hogs.
“What?” came the annoyed response from a back room.
“You’ve got company. Come in here.” Sally’s hostess smile quickly returned as she faced Martin. “He’ll be right along. I’ll go get that kettle.”
Walter’s approach could be tracked by the increasing volume of his grumbling. “Who in blazes goes calling these days? People don’t just ‘have company’ anymore, they…Oh. Martin. It’s you. What brings you way out here so late in the day?”
“Hi Walter. Actually, I came to ask you a favor.”
“Not sure what I could do for you, but ask away.” Walter sat down slowly, lowering himself into his dining room chair.
“Were you planning to go on the air this evening?”
“Sure, at 6:00. My usual three minute check-in.”
“Were you going to…” Martin felt awkward asking for favors. “…were you going to ‘work the skips’ tonight?”
“Hadn’t planned to. Just did that Sunday night. Trying to conserve my fuel, ya know. Why?”
“Well, we were hoping to hear some news of what’s going on out there, in the world. Judy here, my daughter-in-law, was a real fan of keeping up with the news before all this came down. She would really like to hear, first-hand, what was happening farther away than Mass.”
“Oh. News fan, eh?” Walter chuckled. “Atta girl.” Judy smiled nervously.
“But, I know how precious fuel is, so I brought you this.” Martin pulled the former milk jug out of this backpack. “How much air time would a quart of gas get us?”
“Aw, Martin, you didn’t have to do that. For a news fan, and a lovely young lady, I’d have done it for free.”
“Thanks Walter, but seriously, I want you to have this quart of gas. Would that get us an hour of air time?”
Walter frowned as he stared into space, calculating in his head. “Probably about an hour, if the rig is all I have running.”
“Great.” Martin was relieved. “We’ll take no more than an hour.”
“Sounds like a deal.” Walter leaned forward a couple times to build up momentum for standing up. “I’ll just take this quart and put it in the genny. Gonna go on air soon for my check-in. Oh hey. That reminds me. You got a message yesterday.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. yeah, now where did I put that?” Walter rummaged through his desk with one hand, still holding the gas in the other. “Here we go. I’ll spare you all the callsign code stuff. It’s from a Lindsey. Says, ‘married Jake. All ok on farm. Buckets’.”
“Married Jake?” Martin leaned back in the chair. It was momentous news coming out of the blue. Even though they hinted that their dating had marriage as a possible outcome, he had to sit awhile and digest it. Walter toddled out to start up his generator. It was nearly six o’clock.
“You okay, Dad?” Dustin asked.
“Yeah. It’s just big news…all of a sudden. But, I’m also really relieved to have heard from her. Wonder how she found out about the ham radio thing? Doesn’t matter. She did, and I’m glad. Married, huh? My little girl, a married woman.”
Martin stared into space, reflecting on the news. He had always imagined he would walk her down the aisle and put her hand in the groom’s hand, stare him in the eye and say ‘you’d better take good care of her.’ It was a fatherly dream of his. From the news Walter just handed him, he would not have that opportunity.
“Jake’s a cool guy, Dad. He’ll be good for her. They were talking about marriage stuff anyhow, so it’s no surprise. Besides, he was always into hunting and stuff. That’ll be really important nowadays. And, she’s on his folks’ farm. Couldn’t pick a better place to hole up through all this.” Dustin was painting as rosy a picture as he could.
“Excuse me,” Walter speed-shuffled past them to get to his radio set. “Don’t want to be late. I haven’t had to buy yet.” He flipped some switches and pulled the mic close. “CQ CQ K1NTZ at the top of the hour. CQ CQ K1NTZ.”
“N1WGF,” crackled the speaker with a woman’s voice. “Back at you, Walter.”
“KA1YRK, at the top of the hour,” crackled another voice.
“HA! At last! I wasn’t the last one this time!” exclaimed the woman. “I claim a double chocolate eclair! Woohoo. Double chocolate, Ray!”
“Yes, dear,” crackled the other voice wearily.
“Calm down, you two,” scolded Walter. “We’ve got business to cover and only three minutes for it.” Walter, Ray and Joyce swapped messages. Joyce conveyed messages that came from her area leader. Ray had a message to pass back. They then turned to local news.
“Sounds like the Mass orders are more than just hospitals now,” said Joyce. “From what I got from my contact out in the Berkshires, it sounds like they’re trying to convince people to leave their homes in the countryside and move into the cities. People out his way are being told that Springfield will be a safe place and how the countryside is a dangerous place these days.”
“What’s the danger?” asked Ray.
“He didn’t say. Actually, he didn’t know. Authorities just talked about dangers.”
“Well, times up, folks. We’d better sign off. 73s all. Talk to you tomorrow at the regular time. K1NTZ clear.”
“73s,” crackled Ray and Joyce. Walter shut off his radio equipment, then shuffled outside to shut down his generator.
“It will be awhile before he goes on to his skips,” said Sally. “Can I get you all some supper? I’ve been saving this can of tuna for a special occasion. Don’t get many visitors these days.”
“No, but thank you,” said Martin. “We brought some supper with us. How about we just eat ours with you and Walter?”
“That would be lovely. Let me get some more hot water for another cup of tea. I see your cup is empty.”
Martin, Dustin and Judy ate the flatbread, slice of cheese and apple wedges that Margaret had packed for them. Walter and Sally each had a slice of bread and a chicken broth soup with a few green beans floating in it. The Simmons household was not the only one conserving against an uncertain future.
No one seemed to notice the meager fare. They were too busy telling their stories. Dustin told his harrowing tale of the Georgia-New Jersey man and driving blind. Martin told of Cupcake and Andy, though he avoided the hotness details for Judy’s sake. Judy was mostly silent, but listened intently as Walter told some of the things he had heard on his radio.
“Seems like it might be late enough,” Walter glanced at the clock. He pushed back his chair. “You all gather ‘round the set there. Pull up some chairs. I’ll go fire up the genny again.”
Judy sat nearest Walter’s chair. She had an eager look.
“Lessee…” Walter sat down and turned some knobs. “I got something here the other night.” Nothing came through but static. “Okay…maybe this one.” Something buzzed through the static. He turned another knob. The sound improved but resembled someone speaking Spanish through a kazoo. Walter turned the big knob very slowly.
“Skips aren’t so good in the cooler weather,” Walter said apologetically. “So we won’t be getting Rio or Paris, or anything.” He resumed turning the big knob. After turning it all the way to the stop, he frowned at his equipment.
“I’m gonna try something unusual. Maybe I can get some skips on FM. Usually too much local clutter, but nowadays…” Walter put on a pair of headphones, flipped a couple switches and stared at a small meter as he slowly turned another knob. He would occasionally pause, but shake his head and resume turning the knob.
At one point, Walter tensed up. “Hey hey. I got something….hold on…” He fiddled with another piece of equipment that had not been turned on before. “Yeah. uh huh. Okay, how’s this?” Walter flipped a switch so everyone could hear.
“…most of their equipment was rescued from the arts center fire last week. In the best show business tradition, the directors have set up the available musicians in the old Orpheum Theater on North Broadway. KYWA wanted to bring to you this live performance of the Wichita Symphony Orchestra.
“While this might be the last performance for the foreseeable future, the musicians have called this is their one small act of defiance against this present crisis: proof that our city is not decaying into barbarism like so many others.
“Since the Orpheum is located near our broadcast studio, we were able to arrange this live feed. We must also thank all of those who donated fuel to run our generators. Thanks to your generosity, you have made this night possible for everyone in our radio audience tonight.
“As I sit here in the balcony, waiting for the orchestra to enter, I am struck by the timeless of this scene. The Orpheum is a 1920s-era theater and we are broadcasting live, like a 1930s radio show. The Orpheum seats a little over a thousand, and it is packed here tonight. The improvised oil lamp stands along the walls provide a warm, if marginal lighting. A line of camping lanterns line the edge of the stage — improvised footlights …Oh. The musicians are coming onto the stage.”
The sound of applause and enthusiastic cheering erupted.
“It looks like three quarters, or so, of the performers were able to make it for tonight’s performance.”
The sound of tuning up instruments mingled with the continued soft applause, created a chaotic din.
“And here comes the conductor, Hagen Daniels”
Loud cheers from the audience drowned out the vigorous applause.
“We now present the Wichita Symphony Orchestra playing Johannes Brahms’ Symphony Number Four in E minor.”
The cheers slowly died down. A long moment of silence was broken only by the occasional cough from the audience.
The music burst forth from Walter’s speakers with an unexpected richness. Everyone seated around the radio set stared intently. No one moved throughout the entire first movement. In the dim lamplight, Martin could see the wet track of a tear on Judy’s cheek.
Part way into the second movement, an intermittent skip grew into more obvious gaps of silence. They were easy to ignore at first, but became longer and more intrusive.
“Shoot,” Walter stood up and adjusted another knob. “I think we’re losing it.” Despite his efforts, the music finally stuttered out. Only soft static remained.
“Sorry, everyone. I’ll see if I can get something else.” Walter slipped on his headphones. He began flipping switches and twisting knobs like Oz behind his curtain.
“Are you okay?” Dustin asked Judy.
She nodded. “That was so…beautiful.”
“Really? You never liked classical music.”
“I didn’t, but that sounded… I don’t know.…it sounded kinda sad, somehow…and yet at the same time hopeful. I liked that. Can you get it back?”
“I don’t think so, miss. Sorry,” said Walter. “Let me see what else is floating around out there.” He turned a knob while looking in the distance at nothing, like safe-crackers do in the movies.
“Can I get you some more tea?” Sally asked. “Maybe a slice of bread?”
Martin was still quite hungry, but he declined the bread. Who knew how much food Walter and Sally had — or did not have. Nonetheless, the rules of hospitality dictated that she offer. “I’ll take another cup of tea, if that’s okay.”
Sally smile broadly. The rules of hospitality were satisfied. “Sure. I’m sure the kettle is hot by now.” She hurried out to the living room.
“I think I’ve picked up something else. Hold on.” Walter adjusted a small knob until a little red light flickered on. “No idea what it is, or where it is.” He pulled off his headphones.
“…have less than eight hours left to comply with the situation commander’s order to vacate the facility. Thus far, those behind the barricades have shown no sign of dismantling their barriers or preparing to withdraw. In the Army’s searchlights, I can see a yellow flag flying the workers hoisted below the American flag at the center of the Acre Fresh warehouse compound. We hope to stay on the air to give you live coverage of this tense situation.”
“Wonder what that’s all about?” mused Dustin.
“And where,” added Walter.
“This whole confrontation has escalated far out of proportion, if you ask me. It would not have come to this ultimatum by the Army’s situation commander if the Governor had simply ordered the state police to force the workers to comply with the President’s executive order. The Governor’s comments that state police are for public safety and not federal collections is clearly contradicted by the danger everyone is facing down there. This could be a public safety nightmare.”
“If the state police had been sent in earlier, all those other people would not have been able to join the workers inside the Acre Fresh compound, escalating the situation. It was only after units of 99th Regional Security Command set up roadblocks on Gilchrist Road by the overpass and south, where the train tracks cross, that the area was secured. Now, no one is being allowed near the site.”
“We have been in the Econolodge since Saturday morning, not far from the scene, covering the first encounter, so we were already in a good position to cover the unfolding events. Everyone else has evacuated voluntarily, but we stayed behind to bring you this exclusive WHLO coverage of the Showdown at Acre Fresh.”
“As we saw Sunday, before the Army moved in, many other people came and added their cars to the long barricade around the warehouse. They joined the workers. Estimates are that there are now over a hundred people inside. The new people were clearly armed — some of them with assault rifles. The rumors that other armed citizens have been streaming to the area from surrounding towns has only heightened the tensions. This whole ugly confrontation is a stain on the reputation of Ohio and, if any lives are lost, will clearly be laid at the feet of the Governor.”
“From our vantage point on the roof of the Econolodge, we could see the dozens of white FEMA semi trucks parked in the lot across Gilchrist Road since Saturday morning. Their drivers stymied by the plant workers’ refusal to comply with the President’s efforts to bring much-needed supplies to those cities wracked by food riots.”
“Since Monday’s tear gas assault failed to dislodge the workers, negotiations have stalled. The workers still refuse to leave or allow the trucks to enter or be loaded with food. Fears are that this standoff situation has slim prospects for a peaceful resolution.”
“Holy crap! What was that? Listeners: there was an explosion down near the scene. I can see the fire: across the street, among the parked FEMA trucks.”
“A shot! Someone fired a shot. Who was it? Holy crap, now the Army is firing into the barricade. The workers are firing back. Oh no, oh no. This is terrible. This all going horribly wrong. Someone is shouting something with a bullhorn. We can’t make out what, or even who. The firing continues. Both sides are…”
Whoa! A huge fire ball explosion on the barricade. Explosion on the barricade! The Army must have fired a cannon, or an RPG or something at the barricade. The truck and car in the middle of the driveway blew up and are now engulfed in flames. The fire is so bright, it lights up the parking lot and yard area. I can see men running back by the buildings.”
“Whoa mama! Another RPG. This one flipped the car over. The Army made a breech in the barricade. Lots of small arms fire now. Men up on the roof of the warehouse are firing on the soldiers. They have fortified positions up there.
“I can see two, no, three armored personnel carriers advancing on the breech in the barricade. They’re firing the guns mounted on their roofs. It looks like the Army is going to force their way in. They must be trying to isolate the office building from the warehouse. Men inside the barricade are running but…
“Oh. Oh my god! An explosion under one of the vehicles. Something blew up under the middle APC. It is engulfed in flames. It’s backing up: backing up quickly. Its tires are on fire. The other two are backing up too, providing covering fire.”
“Oh, On the right. Men are running out from behind the office building. They have torches. No, molotovs! One of them falls. Shot?. The others keep running forward. They throw. Another man falls. Trails of fire arc over the barricade. The APC nearest us has been hit twice. No, three, four molotovs hit it. It’s on fire. It’s backing away quickly now too. More men fall behind the barricade.”
“I can’t see the vehicles anymore. They went behind a low building. I’m guessing the fires are out because I don’t see glow over there.”
“How long can this go on? How many men inside the compound are going to die over this? Surely they can see that they are surrounded, cut off from everything. Why do they continue? The Army can afford to sit and wait.”
“Oh, hold on. I hear a helicopter coming.”
The low throb of a helicopter rotor grew louder in the background.
“This is a dark, overcast night, so we can’t see it. It’s showing no lights, of course. Oh! Up there. Above the restaurant. I think I saw it. Maybe the fires reflected in the windows or something. Oh my god. The helicopter is firing on the compound! It’s firing something big. A cannon or something. I don’t know. There are tracers. They seem to be concentrating on the corners of the roof where the workers constructed machine gun nests Sunday.”
“Wait! the compound is returning fire! I saw sparks up in the sky there. More gunfire. They’re firing on the helicopter. Where is that coming from? Oh wait. The chopper’s engine sounds different. I think it’s been hit. The chopper is pulling back. It’s headed away.”
“I don’t see any flames. Do you? No. No, but it’s getting lower, though. It’s going that way. God, I hope it doesn’t crash. Please don’t crash.”
“Ha! Way over there. It turned on its lights. See it? It set down okay. Oh thank god! It landed in the yard of one of those companies beyond the tracks. There’s smoke, but I don’t see any fire.”
“Okay listeners, I can report that the helicopter did not crash. Repeat: did not crash. I saw it set down safely, though apparently damaged by…”
“What the? Gunfire came from somewhere over there. You heard it, right? Randy, where did that come from? Behind us? Where? I don’t see…oh!”
“Okay everyone, we just heard more gunfire farther from the compound. I can see flashes from the embankment of the interstate. I don’t think these are soldiers. The muzzle flashes are strung out all along the interstate embankment from the river bridge to down behind the woods.”
“Holy crap! The Army is firing back at whoever that is. We’re between them! We’re in the crossfire! Get down everyone. Get down. Down down. Behind the walls.”
The rattle of gunfire grew much louder through the speaker, followed by smacks and clangs.
“Everyone get off the roof. Get off now! Get to the stairs! Stay low. Holy crap! No. Forget that stuff. Just get to the stairs. Holy crap. We have to….”
The sound stopped. Only soft static remained. Everyone sat motionless for a minute, as if afraid that by moving, they might jinx the radio wave fluke that brought them the signal in the first place and silence it permanently. Walter finally reached up to study his equipment and fine tune.
“No. I think it’s gone,” he said gravely.
“Do you think they were….” Sally began, but trailed off, as if she did not want her question answered.
“Could be just that his radio equipment got damaged,” offered Dustin. “They could have gotten away okay.” His tone tried to be optimistic.
“Or maybe the station cut the signal off,” added Martin. “After all, the sound just stopped all of a sudden. If they had been…um…but the equipment still working, we’d still hear something.” He needed to stop talking before grim details emerged.
“Oh.” Sally happily grasped the straw Dustin and Martin offered. “I sure hope you’re right.”
After Walter shut off the generator, the silence felt thick and oppressive. Everyone sat in silence for many minutes, each trying to process what they heard.
“That was awful,” Sally said. “Has it come to this?”
“Maybe not everywhere,” offered Judy softly. “Maybe not here.”
(end chapter 6)
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Post by headlesshorseman on Mar 26, 2016 13:00:57 GMT -6
The situation is beginning to deteriorate. thanks. HH
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Post by mic on Mar 28, 2016 11:22:07 GMT -6
Chapter 7: part 1: Temperamental Saviors
“The line isn’t too long,” Margaret said. “At least we won’t be out in the road.”
“Are you sure this is where they said?” asked Dustin.
Martin’s mind was still trying to run out the ramifications of what they heard on Walter’s radio the night before. The world seemed changed, yet it looked exactly the same as it did yesterday. Until last night, the biggest problem was how to stretch limited supplies, random beggars and maybe clueless squatters.
Would such force be applied in Cheshire? Did Cheshire have anything the power-that-be would want badly enough to take by force? Would the people of Cheshire be as determined — unto death — to refuse? Would Martin be that determined?
None of the other people approaching the line appeared to be armed. Everyone looked like the average folks they were. Perhaps they all had their arms hidden, like Martin did.
“Dad? Is this it?” Dustin repeated.
“Huh?
“We’re just supposed to stand outside in the cold and hope a truck comes by?”
“All they said was a truck would come to ‘your town center’,” replied Martin. “The general store sits at THE intersection in town. That seems about as ‘center’ as it gets. Looks like it’s not just me. All these other people thought so too. Maybe it’ll turn out to be a bust, or maybe we’ll get something. Worth a try.”
Martin and Margaret, followed by Dustin and Judy, took their place in the ragged line of people in the parking lot of the general store. It was more of a dotted line. Most of them had formed into conversational clusters. All were bundled up against the cold. Most of the faces looked concerned or worried or just uncomfortable.
“Hey, there’s Walter and Sally up ahead in line.” Martin pointed. “I want to go ask if he heard any more news about that Ohio thing. Be right back.”
“Hi Walter. Hi Sally. Sorry to interrupt.” Sally was too engaged in conversation with another woman to notice Martin.
“No problem, Martin,” said Walter. “We were done, just chewing it around some more. Thanks Frank.” The man Walter had been talking with turned and chatted with another man behind him.
“Oh, thanks. I was wondering if you heard anything more about that thing in Ohio last night. It has me kinda spooked that the feds might send the army up here, or something.”
“I got a bit more from Joyce on our noon check-in.” Walter said. “Details are still sketchy. But it don’t seem like they’ll be coming up here. Sounds like that thing in Ohio as upset just about everyone. Unofficial toll is three soldiers dead, nineteen wounded. No numbers on the folks in the compound. They’re still holed up in there. Army pulled way back. It’s still a siege sort of thing, but no more shooting. Word out of DC is that the President blew a gasket and ordered air strikes, but the Air Force refused. Army air units refused too. There’s some rumor the military types are holding a meeting today. Could just be a rumor.”
“Folks all around are mighty nervous this morning. Been some tough talk coming out of the Governor of Ohio about not letting the feds strip his state bare just to feed east coast cities. Sounds like some other midwest governors are siding with him. Things are sounding pretty tense out there, Martin. Pretty tense. If you ask me, there’s a bigger pot a brewin’. Kinda doubt that dinky little Cheshire’s gonna get much notice.”
“Hmm. I guess being insignificant has some advantages. Still, the prospect of the feds using the Army as muscle is kind of intimidating. Is that why people look so glum here today?”
“Could be they’re just cold and worried about getting by. I’ve been sharing the news. I’ll admit that hasn’t cheered anybody up. The Cauloff’s, way back there, are worried about their grandkids out in Texas. Ours are down in Florida. Seem to be doing okay. At least they’re not cold. What about that girl of yours, Susan. Her folks were in Ohio, right?”
Martin coughed. “You know, Susan isn’t a ‘girl of mine.’ She’s just someone who…” Martin stopped himself. None of the words he thought to use were going to sound any better. A change of approach seemed like a better plan.
“Actually, that’s my wife back there in the long black coat. See her? Right beside Dustin and Judy? That’s Margaret: my wife.” Martin hoped that settled the issue.
“Oh?” Walter’s face was twisted with confusion. “What happened to Susan?”
“Nothing. That’s her coming up the hill back there. See her? Helping that old lady in white? That’s Ruby, who’s also staying with us on account of the outage and all.”
“So you’ve got Susan and Margaret living in the same house with you?” The confusion was not going away. “How’s that work?”
Martin heaved a big sigh, as if it might clear the cobwebs. “Never mind. Susan is just a guest. My wife, Margaret, and I…Oh. That reminds me. Margaret gave me a message to give you for your next check-in with Joyce.” Martin fished in his pockets for the scrap of paper. “Ah. Here it is.”
Walter uncrumpled the note. “To: Lindsey I., Excalibur, Wisconsin. Congrats and buckets.” He looked up at Martin. “If it’s not too personal or anything, what’s that buckets thing all about?”
“Just a family-ism. Lindsey started it back in high school. ‘So much love you’ll need a bucket’, she used to say. That became buckets-of-love, then finally just buckets. Seemed like a good family code-word for us.”
“Ah,” Walter nodded, then kept reading. “ ‘Congrats and buckets. D and J with us. More too. We’re ok. ‘ Well, sir, I’ll get that one sent along at the next checkin…assuming we ever get home. We’ve been standing out here for over an hour and it still ain’t three o’clock.”
“Well, I’d better get back to Margaret,” Martin emphasized her name. “If I don’t see you before Monday’s meeting, you take care of yourself.” Walter nodded.
“What did he say, dad?”
“Doesn’t sound good. Sounds like the workers are still in the warehouse and the army pulled back. Lots of hot words flying between DC and the governors out there.”
“Cool! Well, sort of…I mean, I was kinda rooting for the guys in the warehouse. I’m glad they didn’t lose. I’m not sure if it’s good news that they’re still in there or not. That’s gotta be really tough.”
“Indeed. Kinda makes it hard to complain about only having to stand in line, in the cold, for a couple hours.”
Working his way up the line was Jeff Landers. He was chatting lightly with people he knew well and shaking hands or waving to those he did not. He was acting overly cheerful, perhaps trying to lighten the mood of his town’s residents — either against the gloomy news out of Ohio, or just against the cold and gray.
“Simmons!” Landers said enthusiastically as he shook Martin’s hand. “Glad to see you could make it. Quite the line already, eh? No idea what our generous Mr. Quinn will have in his truck — hopefully, it’s not full of snake bite kits! Landers laughed a hollow theatrical laugh. It must have been a line he had used too many times to find sincerely funny, but too good not to use.
“I’m curious too,” said Martin. He squared his shoulders. This was his opportunity to set the record straight. “Um…Landers…Jeff, I’d like to introduce you to my wife: Margaret.”
Landers had started to turn away to shake the next set of hands, so had to turn back. He extended his hand to Margaret, but stopped and stared at her. “This is your wife? But I thought…” He recovered his social composure with a couple of blinks of his eyes. “Oh. Glad to meet you Mrs. Simmons.” He shook her hand a bit too vigorously. “We really loved your jam. Excellent work. Excellent. Well, I have more people to greet. See you later. Hang in there.”
“Why did he say it like such a question? ’This is your wife’?” Margaret asked. Her voice had that do-we-have-a-problem-here tone to it.
Martin squirmed. He had felt chilled by the cool gray day, that is, up until that moment. He pulled at his collar. He and Susan had been at the last two meetings. Did he and Susan look like a couple? That was mere coincidence. Could they not simply look like neighbors or friends?
He did not want Margaret to think he was having some fling with Susan. She did not need the extra aggravation at a time like this. He had never given her cause to be angry or jealous in the past. In the midst of a crisis, was a bad time to allow strife at home. There was no fling. He prided himself on having successfully ‘locked the door’ years ago.
Yet, to deny something out loud is to simultaneously create the category being denied. To say ‘I did not break your window’ automatically creates a broken window in peoples’ minds. The fact that ‘I did not break your window’ could also mean the window is unbroken, just does not seem to occur to people first. That was a conundrum he did not want to tackle while standing in the cold, with his son and dozens of other people nearby.
“I’m not sure,” Martin said. “At the meeting, Landers was saying how he had never met you, but heard about your homemade jam from Lance and Miri.” He held a broad smile. “He probably just had a different mental picture of you is all. You know how people do that, right?”
“Uh huh.” She did not sound convinced.
“Hey” shouted a man standing at the intersection. He pointed north. “I see someone coming. I think it might be the truck!”
All eyes turned to look north, even though the crest of Town Hill obscured the view of the lower highway beyond. The dozens of conversations buzzed up in volume briefly before quieting away. If people could not see the truck approach, they wanted to hear it, at least.
Emerging over the crest, looking like a slowly-breaching whale, rose a black Escalade. It was followed by a white whale: a Suburban. Laboring up the hill unseen, with deep diesel growls, was the long-awaited semi.
The black Escalade pulled into the store parking lot. People in line had to hurry out of its way, then reform into a line. The white Suburban stopped across the road. Jack Quinn stepped out of the Escalade. He waved to the crowd, as if expecting cheers. No one knew they were supposed to cheer. A few feeble ‘g’mornin’ calls did squeak out. Giving up on adulation, Quinn strode into the center of the intersection. With ground-crew arm gestures, he signaled to the approaching semi.
If the Escalade resembled a breaching whale, the white Freightliner was Atlantis rising from the deep — in a cloud of black smoke. Quinn signaled for the truck to pull onto the side of the highway, near the store.
Several men in black got out of the Suburban. Each wore tactical vests and curious little helmets. They busied themselves clipping AR-15s to mono-point slings. The people in line began pointing the men out to whoever had not yet noticed.
“They’re better armed than last time,” Martin said.
“Wonder if the news from Ohio has them freaked out,” Dustin said. “They came prepared for trouble.”
“You think there will be any?” Margaret whispered.
“Hard to say. Hope not.” Martin fingered the small revolver in his pocket. It was no match for six men with ARs. Were the FEMA men expecting trouble from the people in line, ala Ohio? Or were they expecting hoodlums to rush the truck in an effort to steal the supplies? Both prospects made Martin uncomfortable. If shooting did break out at the general store, would it matter who started it? The question was what to do about it.
He had no doubt that many of the people in line were quietly carrying something like he was with his little revolver. If trouble did break out, he and his family could quickly find themselves in a crossfire like that radio announcer did. He scanned the area, looking for the nearest available cover and exit routes. An empty parking lot was a very exposed position. He imagined that he would push Margaret towards the corner of the store at the first spark of trouble. The wooden clapboard building was not great cover, but better than nothing. He would try to quickly assess the size and direction of the threat. They could back away behind the red house. Which way from there would depend on the threats.
“Just keep a sharp eye open,” Martin said quietly to Dustin.
For now, everyone in the line was behaving. Quinn and his men were not menacing. Things in Ohio went wrong, but that did not mean the whole country was about to erupt into gunfire. Surely, cooler heads could prevail.
Quinn rode the lift gate up to the back of the trailer. With a bullhorn, he addressed the crowd. “Good citizens. We bring you help.” Quinn paused, to allow for cheering. Only Candice’s voice could be heard in the back, thanking him.
Quinn continued without the air of Santa. “Do not rush up to the truck. There is enough for everyone. We will not tolerate any unruliness. Stay in a single file line. Wait behind the yellow stanchion there until called over to the truck by Mr. Zachary here. Then come up to the lift gate where you will be given a box. One box per person. No exceptions. There will be no collecting of extra boxes for people not present. One box per person present.”
“Once you have your box, move away quickly to the right here. No one will be allowed to congregate around the vehicles. I trust I have made myself clear. Okay, let’s get started.” Quinn pointed to a slender man in black with a clipboard, evidently Mr. Zachary.
Zachary pointed to the man in the brown overcoat at the head of the line. The man walked up to the lift gate apprehensively, unsure that going first was necessarily a good thing.
Two black-clad arms thrust a box out from within the trailer. The FEMA man behind Quinn took it and held it out to drop to the man. The man in the brown overcoat caught the box, about the size that a pair of work boots would come in. He looked lost for where to go for a few steps, then walked briskly to the road. His wife got her box and followed him down the road. The process got faster after the first several people.
Satisfied that his supervisory presence was no longer necessary on the lift gate, Quinn had one of his men lower him to the ground. He paced a few steps along the line, arms behind his back, studying the people as a rancher might study cattle at an auction. He cut through the line to continue studying the people from the other side. He made his way across the highway to the town hall.
While he kept inching forward in line, Martin could see all three selectmen on the front steps. Quinn strode up to them with what appeared to be a friendly greeting. The four of them stood and talked.
It was Martin’s turn to step forward. The man on the lift gate dropped a box into his arms. It was not too heavy — perhaps less than ten pounds. Martin moved to the edge of the road to wait for Margaret, Dustin and Judy to get their boxes. Meanwhile, he could see that the discussion between Quinn and the selectmen was not going well.
Quinn pointed in various directions, stabbing the air with his finger, pounding his fist in his hand. Landers shook his head. No discernible words made it across the highway, but Quinn’s raised voice was clearly angry. Wilder was getting visibly angry too. He was making stabbing motions of his own. Landers and Haddock acted as reluctant peacemakers, but Landers kept shaking his head.
“I wonder what’s in these boxes?” Margaret turned her box over and over as she joined him beside the road. “There’s no printed contents. I’m half-tempted to open it up now and see.”
“Can’t be too much in here,” said Dustin. He tossed his box up a few inches. “At least it won’t get too heavy in the arms for the walk home.”
“What do we do now?” asked Judy. “Are we waiting for Ruby?” Susan and Ruby were still twenty yards back in line and yet the line extended for a hundred yards after them.
“Don’t wait for us,” Martin said. “I’d rather you got home as soon as possible. Keep the fire stoked and keep an eye on things. We’ll be along later. Oh, and Dustin, you did bring the…tool…with you, right?”
Dustin looked confused for a moment, then deciphered Martin’s code word. He smiled and patted his coat pocket.
“Good. Good. Don’t want to take any chances with hungry hooligans while you’re carrying boxes of food.”
The scene on the steps of town hall had gotten hotter. Landers and Haddock were physically restraining Wilder. Quinn’s voice was raised. His gestures were that of body-slamming an invisible wrestling foe. Quinn finally stomped back toward the truck. He barked a few orders to his men, who looked puzzled and unsure what to do.
Quinn climbed the lift gate, pulled the man out of the trailer, then yanked down the trailer’s overhead door. He ordered his men back to their Suburban. He hopped down, ordering Zachary and another man into the Escalade.
People in the line called out to ask what was going on, but Quinn did not answer. Their questions became shouts, but Quinn was inside, behind black glass. The Escalade backed out of the parking lot with no regard to the people standing in line. They all scattered. The driver gunned the engine as he pulled around the truck and down the hill. The Suburban followed. The big Freightliner rumbled to a start, bleached a big ball of black smoke. With that, Atlantis sank back into the sea.
“What was that all about?” Red Cauloff asked Landers. “Why did they up and leave? Someone said the truck wasn’t even half empty. The big man said there’d be one for everyone.”
Martin stood nearby waiting for Susan and Ruby.
“It’s a long story, Red, and this isn’t really the place for it.”
“Oh cummon, Jeff. Just give me a clue. We stood in this dang line for over an hour and didn’t get one of them boxes for it. Certainly you can give me something.”
“Okay. Suffice it to say that we did not make Mr. Quinn very happy. He expected that we would have done a bunch of stuff, which we didn’t do. So, as you can see, he decided to take his ball and go home.”
“What did he ask you to do?” asked Barbara.
“It’s complicated, and I really shouldn’t be talking about just yet. We need some time to figure things out.”
“And Wilder needs some time to cool off,” quipped Red. “He still looks hoppin’ mad.”
“Yeah, we’re all a little upset.” Landers turned to the line of people. In a loud voice he addressed the gathering crowd. “I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen, but it seems the FEMA people have decided to stop handing out supply boxes a bit sooner than we would have liked.”
A dozen questions all burst out at once. Landers tried to abate the storm with his arms. “We’ll explain what we can later, but this isn’t the time or the place. I’m sorry everyone. Please just return to your home. Don’t stay out here in the cold.”
As Landers walked past Martin, Martin asked quietly, “Did this have something to do with that instruction pack Quinn dropped off on Monday?” Landers only nodded as he continued on his way back to town hall.
“What’s going on?” asked Ruby. “Where’s the truck? I saw it there awhile back.”
“They decided to leave,” Martin said.
“Before everyone got a box? I didn’t get a box.”
“A lot of people didn’t get boxes, Ruby,” said Susan.
“Well, it’s just not fair, I tell you.” Ruby shook her fist. “I walked a long ways — longer than I’ve walked in a long time. My feet are tired and so are my legs. They made an old woman walk all that way just to leave her with nothing? Ruby was building a head of steam.
“Come on, Ruby, we’ll all walk you home” Martin handed Margaret his box and took Ruby by the arm. “Doesn’t this remind you of that time you walked all the way up to Walmart because they sold you the wrong shampoo?”
“I don’t know what they were thinking. They weren’t thinking, that’s what. My therapeutics always comes in a blue bottle. Always has. I clearly asked for my usual therapeutics…”
Out of the side of his mouth, Martin whispered to Margaret. “This story always gets her going. She might not even notice the walk back home.” He smiled.
“You’re a stinker,” Margaret said with a little smile.
“Didn’t you look in the bag before you left the store?” asked Susan, holding Ruby’s other arm.
“I’ve never had to look in the bag before,” ranted Ruby. “It’s always been the blue bottle. No need to look…”
>
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Post by headlesshorseman on Mar 28, 2016 15:25:25 GMT -6
Thank you, great story.
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Post by kaijafon on Mar 28, 2016 18:00:57 GMT -6
awe man! they cheated poor Ruby out of a box of crackers. lol! or whatever is in them boxes.
thanks!
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Post by pbbrown0 on Mar 28, 2016 20:51:01 GMT -6
Things are "fixin' ta git intersting".
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Post by mic on Mar 30, 2016 5:15:12 GMT -6
Chapter 7: part 2: Troubled Waters
“Supper will be ready soon,” Margaret announced. “Dustin, I’ll give you a roll-up you can eat while you’re on your watch. Martin, you’re going to have to clear your project off the table now.”
“Yeah, okay. Almost done with this stage.” Martin did not look up. His attention was focused on small wires held near the oil lamp for better light. He took his soldering iron from the pan of glowing coals and touched it to the twisted wires. A thin line of smoke curled up. “There. I can tack these to a board or something tomorrow.” He began gathering up his mess.
“Think it’ll work?” Dustin asked. He pulled the sweatshirt hood over his stocking cap.
“Hope so. These were the ones that tested okay, and were built to charge two double-As. I figure eight of them should give us enough milliamps to charge four batteries a day, even if it’s a gray sky. At least, that’s the plan, anyhow. Guess we’ll see, eh?”
“See mom? Being a packrat isn’t always a bad thing,” Dustin teased.
Margaret rolled her eyes. “I would have thrown away those old sidewalk lights long ago, but your father kept moving the box. Here go you, Dustin. I rolled up last night’s beans and rice — with cheese this time — into a flatbread rollup. I put it in this dishtowel so it will stay warmer. Sorry about the flatbread. I’m so disappointed my yeast has gone flat.”
“That’s okay, mom.” Dustin took the rolled up towel in his gloved hand. The .22 was slung over his shoulder. “I’ll let Judy know that supper’s ready. She’s probably really cold by now.” Dustin carefully slipped behind the dark blanket over the back door and let himself out.
Margaret nodded to Susan, who had been watching Martin solder. “Go get Ruby. Tell her it’s time for supper.”
Judy came in quietly and hurried over to warm her hands near the wood stove. “Brrr. It’s cold and damp out there this evening.”
“I do wish you would take something with you,” Martin said diplomatically. He knew she was skittish around guns. Her parents had been Massachusetts residents for many years — long enough to have absorbed that state’s gun-phobia. While Judy was born and raised in New Hampshire, the ‘black magic’ attitude of her parents had left a deep mark.
“That’s okay,” Judy said. “I had the walkie-talkie. There’s nothing going on out there anyhow.”
“I’d still feel better if you had something,” Martin said. “The Walker’s place isn’t that far up the road and they had trouble with some beggars this morning.” Martin decided not to remind Judy that it was Lance brandishing his old carbine that sent the beggars back to the highway. He was certain she would only see that as overselling his point.
Judy turned back to warming her hands, as if by breaking eye contact she had hung the phone on the topic. Martin let it go, for the time being.
Susan helped Ruby to the table. Ruby continued to mutter about the color of shampoo bottles. Margaret gave Martin a look that said, ‘see what you started?.’
“This is what you guys missed for supper last night,” said Margaret. She scooped a big spoonful of yellow-tinted rice and beans onto a disk of flatbread, sprinkled on some grated cheese and rolled it up.” She handed the first one to Judy.
“We had that last night,” complained Ruby. “You just got all those boxes of new food. Why can’t we have some of that?”
“Actually, Ruby, about half of those were bean and rice meals anyhow. Besides, we’re trying to make our supplies last.”
“Well, I told you last night that I don’t like rice and beans.” Ruby pushed her chair back from the table. “Think I’ll go fix myself up something else.”
“Ruby,” Margaret said sternly. “We can’t all go fixing up our own meals. Our supplies won’t last long that way.”
“Nonsense,” Ruby quipped back. “I’ll just open a can of soup and pop it in the microwave.”
“Ruby, the microwave hasn’t worked for a week.” Martin tried to get Ruby seated again. “The power’s been out. Remember? That’s why we have the oil lamp here?”
“I don’t care. I’m not eating rice and beans again. I told you I don’t like it. I want something else!” She raised her voice and resisted Martin’s efforts to get her seated.
“It doesn’t matter if you like it or not,” Margaret raised her voice to match. “This is just how it is. Now you can either eat your supper or go to bed without. The choice is yours.” Margaret had her hands on her hips: a mother that shall not be moved.
“You can’t talk to me like a child!” shouted Ruby. “I’m not eating your stinking rice and beans!”
Ruby threw the roll-up at Margaret. It hit her in the shoulder spattering rice up on Margaret’s face. Martin cringed. Margaret had few emotional triggers, but having something spatter on her face was one of them. Dustin and Lindsey had learned that early on in the highchair. Food thrown at mom brought on a rage that no one wanted to see twice. After a momentary shock, Margaret’s eyes flared with a fury Martin was glad he seldom saw.
“That’s it! Just get out of here. I’ve had all I can take of you. I’ve had enough you, old woman.”
Martin and Susan tried to help Ruby, but she flailed off their attempts. She stomped down the hallway and slammed her door. Margaret stood silent, face red, still in a scowl. She might have been the last combatant standing, but she did not look victorious.
Martin slid Susan’s plate over toward her. “Might be a good thing to have your supper in your room,” he said quietly. Susan’s eyes darted between Margaret and Martin. She took the plate slowly, then hurried down the hall.
Judy sat still, with wide eyes. “Think I’ll take mine downstairs. G’nite.” She was gone in a flash.
Dustin pushed through the back door. “Hey, what’s all the noise in here?” After looking at Margaret’s face, he let out a small ‘oh’ and melted back outside.
Martin could see Margaret’s arms trembling as she held her white fists on her hips. The rush of emotion was catching up with the rest of her body. “I’ll…um…get a rag and clean this up,” he said.
“We can’t all go fixing our own meals!” Margaret announced to no one in particular. “We’ll run out of everything faster. People almost always eat more protein than their body requires.” She faced Martin, as if he still needed convincing. “We have to portion those things out. We have to. We can’t just eat whatever we want. We’d run out in a month.”
“I know. You’re right. We can’t.” He gathered the plates.
She followed him into the kitchen with the oil lamp. “Those boxes we just got, they only add two days to our supplies. Just two days! Half of it was cheap filler meals like rice and pasta anyhow. They cheaped-out on the proteins as it is. Cookies and brownies: empty carbs. I don’t know that it was worth standing in line all afternoon for.”
Martin poured some warm water in the dish pan. “Maybe not, but it’s better than not getting a box.”
“Whatever.” Margaret snatched the dish rag from Martin’s hands. “I’ll wash up. You go get some sleep. Your watch is coming up in a few hours.”
Martin quietly stepped out of the kitchen. From the overly-zealous scrubbing the dishes were getting, it was clear she wanted to be left alone for awhile.
Martin awoke with a cold nose. The bedroom air was chilly. Margaret was huddled at the other side of the bed, the fluffy comforter pulled up over her ear. She was feeling cold too. 1:30. He realized he had not properly stoked the stove before going to bed. The thrown food incident and the yelling certainly disrupted whatever passed for a ‘normal’ routine these days. He wrapped his robe around himself to go re-stoke the stove. His turn for watch was coming up soon anyhow.
With unsteady legs, Martin wobbled down the hallway to the living room. There was no soft orange glow from the wood stove. The living room was solid blackness. The fire had burned down to practically nothing. Working in the dark, more by memory and habit than sight, Martin gathered some kindling from the bucket. He raked around the ashes to find a half-dozen embers. While insufficient to heat the house, he had revived a fire with less.
The teepee of thin kindling over the coals began to smoke. Martin fished in the wood rack, feeling for thinner splits, or lighter ones. Pine caught a flame eagerly, even if it did not last long. Blowing on the coals a few times had them glowing brightly. The smokey kindling burst into flame. He quickly positioned his lighter sticks on either side. In the faint yellow glow, he could see enough to pick out a couple medium-sized splits.
Carefully building up his stack, he continued to push and prod with the poker to keep the burning sticks just the right distance apart. The larger logs were too triangular in section to lay nicely. They kept falling together, choking off the air flow passages Martin was trying to build. “No. Not like that,” he said out loud. “I put you over there for a reason. Now stay there. No falling over. And you too. No twisting.”
“You talk to logs?” came a soft voice behind him.
“Wha?!” Martin spun around, still on is knees. His heart raced.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Susan quickly. In the faint yellow glow, he could see her at the far end of the couch, knees up, under a blanket. Martin had not seen her there in the darkness.
“Whoa.” Martin tried to control his rapid breathing. “You did give me quite a start. I didn’t see you there. Why are you out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and my room was really cold.”
“Ah, well, I’ll have the fire hot pretty soon. You’ll be fine then.”
“Okay,” she said softly, as if agreeing to a promise. “So, as I was saying. You talk to logs?”
“Oh, hehe, yeah, I guess I do,” Martin turned back to managing his fire. “I like to arrange them carefully. You know, to make sure there’s enough air flow between the pieces and get a good long burn. But, they like to fall together sometimes. It chokes off the airflow. Combustion needs the oxygen, of course, but the pieces can’t be too far away from each other either or they don’t stay burning. Being close together keeps them going. They share heat with each other. Sustained slow combustion needs just the right mix of fuel, heat and air. Too much air and they burn too fast. Not enough air and they mostly just cook off their combustable gasses and…”
Martin stopped. Combustable gasses? Who, in their right mind, makes midnight conversation — with a woman — using words like ‘combustable gasses’?
“Sorry,” he said. “I was rambling.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I thought it was fascinating.”
He stared at her skeptically. “No it’s not. It’s boring nerd-speak.”
“Not the way you tell it,” she said softly.
Martin felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. That was not the reaction he usually got when he rambled. People usually said, ‘that’s okay, I wasn’t really listening.’ On the one hand, he was pleased that his nerd-speak had not turned another person into stone. He was even more pleased that it was Susan who had not turned to stone. Yet, on the other hand he felt he had no business being pleased. The door was locked. It should not matter. He sat in his chair and pulled his feet up. The space between couch and chair seemed a safe distance.
A change of topic was in order. “So why couldn’t you sleep?” he asked. “You have your jar of olives.” As soon as he said, he regretted it. The implications steered him right back to his cold wave.
“They didn’t help this time,” she said quietly. “But this is much better.”
“Ahem, well, still. Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“Supper,” she said. “I’ve never been around when someone got so upset that they threw food, or yelled, or anything.”
“Really? You fell asleep during a shootout,” Martin gently teased.
“That was different.” She looked down and twirled her hair. “I mean, this was different. I’ve been sort of like Ruby’s caretaker the last few days. Sure, she’s a bit fussy sometimes, but deep down she’s okay. And, it’s been kind of nice to have someone to take care of. It’s made me feel useful.”
“It has helped Margaret that you’ve been taking care of Ruby.”
The fire had grown bright. Radiant heat began to fill the room. “There,” Martin said with his palms toward the stove. “It’s kicking out the heat again.”
“Mmm. It does feel better now.” Susan stretched, extending her bare legs out from under her blanket. She stretched her arms high over her head to revel in the warmth. The blanket fell to one side. She wore only a long T-shirt as pajamas.
Martin was momentarily shocked. He had no business looking at her slender legs, but he also realized he was staring at them. “What are you doing?” he gasped.
“Stretching?” Her eyes were shut tight. Her arms quivered at the apex of her stretch.
Martin jumped up and threw the blanket back over her legs. “You can’t do that!” His voice had a hint of desperation.
“Do what?” She sat up, startled.
“Go around like…like that!” he said in a hoarse whisper. He pointed at her legs — safely back under the blanket again.
“But, this is what I always wear to bed.” She looked down at her T-shirt, sincerely confused.
Martin’s shoulders slumped as he stepped back. He did not need to know that. He shook his head to deny entry to the information. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t…you can’t…what I mean is…I’m sure there’s some of Lindsey’s old pajama pants in the dresser: nice flannel pajama pants.”
Susan pulled her knees back up onto the couch. “You want me to wear pajama pants?”
Martin nodded. “Yes.” He suddenly realized what his request sounded like. “But it’s nothing like that Mark guy,” he added hurriedly, “Telling you to wear socks all the time. No. Nothing like that. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with your legs at all. You have very nice legs…Whoa. That didn’t sound right. Never mind that part. Forget I said that. What I mean is, winter’s coming and the house is going to get colder. I don’t want you to get cold.”
She studied his eyes for a long pause. “Okay. If you want me to,” she whispered.
“I do.” Martin collapsed back into his chair. He felt exhausted. The day had too many stresses. The fire flared brighter as a log fell against the stove door window. “The house will be warming up soon. You should go back and get some sleep,” he said.
“Okay.” She began to toss the blanket off so she could stand up.
Martin quickly sat up. “No no no. Wrap the blanket around you…um…so you don’t get cold.”
Susan smiled. “Okay. I don’t want to get cold.” She wrapped the blanket around herself, a velour sarong.
“Thank you.” Martin flopped back into his chair. Susan floated down the hallway, a silent shadow. Martin rubbed his eyes with his palms. Why does life have to get so complicated — in the middle of the night?
“What was she doing up?” Margaret stood near the wood stove.
Martin’s eyes flashed open. “What? Oh man. Is everyone out to startle me?”
“Huh?”
“I woke up because the house was cold. I came out to throw on a couple more logs, and she was out here because her room was cold, but I didn’t see her in the dark. Startled the snot out of me.”
“You guys’ talking woke me up,” Margaret said. “What were you talking about?”
Martin sank in his chair. He knew that bare legs was the last topic to mention — if ever. After all, it was now just water under the bridge. Susan would be wearing nice, safe, conservative pajama pants from now on. No need to even bring it up.
“She said she couldn’t sleep because of…well, when Ruby got all upset. I think it upset her.”
“Me too,” said Margaret as she sat on the couch. “I really shouldn’t have yelled at Ruby. I just lost it for a moment. But we can’t just eat whatever we want.”
“I already agreed with you. It’s not like I can talk about not losing our cool. I just did that with Judy. But, we’re all under stress, having to adapt to each other, a full house and having to do without a lot of things we’re used to. That said, we can’t let this turn us into angry brawlers. We need each other.”
Margaret’s face showed skepticism. “Even Ruby?”
“I know, I know. She hasn’t been much help for anything right now, but maybe she will. After all, she grew up poor in Maine all those years. She probably knows tips and tricks we could use. We just have to keep her focused on those memories and not her usual story cycle of catching-frogs-for-toys, shampoo bottles, or never-got-ice-cream, and such.”
Margaret resigned with a sigh. “I know you’re right, but I just don’t know if I have it in me.”
“Tomorrow’s a new day, as they say. Let’s try to all start over tomorrow.”
Margaret sighed again. “Oh, okay. I’ll try. Are you coming back to bed?”
“No. My turn is coming up soon. I’m sure Dustin is cold and tired.”
Margaret walked back down the dark hallway. Martin set the 9mm on the table and started pulling on his insulated coveralls.
(end chapter 7)
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Post by pbbrown0 on Mar 30, 2016 12:01:15 GMT -6
I have great admiration for skills as a writer and insights into real people. Keep at it Mic. You have a gift.
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Post by mic on Apr 1, 2016 6:09:49 GMT -6
Chapter 8: part 1: Dark Day
The day dawned slowly through a heavy overcast. The few birds that stayed for the winter were awake and chattering. That was the only sound Martin heard all night. He imagined that he could have heard a mouse fart, if one had, but there was nothing.
The world had become very quiet after the power went out. The regular hiss and hum of tire noise from the highway over the hill used to be so regular that it was easy to ignore. The absence of highway noise meant that even a leaf rustle sounded like a drum solo.
Martin tossed back the heavy blanket. It was time for the next watch. Susan was up next. He preferred to have the women take day watches. There would be less surprise and more backup available. They were not expected to fight off threats, just spot them and alert the others.
After one last look around from the front porch, Martin stepped inside. Susan and Margaret were standing side-by-side at the dining room table. Both their eyes were wide, their faces pale.
"What?" he said.
Margaret said quietly, "It's Ruby. She's cold."
"So? I'm cold too." Martin pulled off his gloves.
"No. I mean. She's cold...in there." Margaret pointed down the hallway.
Martin's heart sank. "Oh no." He ran down the hall and into the bedroom. The air was stale and acrid with the smell of urine. One of the women had pulled the sheet over Ruby's head earlier. Martin pulled it back. Ruby lay on her side, face away from the door. Martin felt her neck for a pulse, but from her cold, clammy skin, there was little point.
He tried to turn her on her back, but she had grown stiff. Her body was stuck in an open fetal position. She felt light and frail, like she was made of coat-hangers and paper mache. One eye was stuck shut, but the other eye was open halfway. Martin tried to close it, but would not close. He did not want to press too firmly.
The sheet beneath her was wet. The pillow case stuck to the side of her face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Margaret and Susan in the doorway, as if they dared not enter the room.
"She must have died in her sleep hours ago," Martin said. He finally got that one eye to stay shut.
"But why?" Susan said with a catch in her voice.
"I don't know. I'm no doctor. She has been on blood thinners and heart pills for years. You know how she was always talking about her Coumadin levels and all." He slowly peeled the pillow case off her cheek. "If I had to guess, I'd say she died of a stroke while she slept. She looks kind of relaxed and peaceful, don't you think?"
He turned to the two women for agreement, but neither nodded or said anything. Both had tears welling up in their eyes.
"Well, that's my guess, anyhow. I prefer to think she went quietly in her sleep."
"But what do we do now?" Margaret asked in a hoarse whisper.
Martin straightened up. What DO they do now? He had never had to deal with someone dying in his home. That might have been more commonplace a hundred years ago, but the 'progress' of the twentieth century was to remove death from peoples' lives. People were sequestered away in hospitals or nursing homes to die: surrounded by cool professional caretakers and easy-to-clean surfaces, out of sight.
All those tidy solutions were no longer available. The hospitals were operating on minimal systems, if at all. They could not help with the dead. Would funeral homes even be in business? They could not even call for an ambulance to take Ruby away.
"I think we'll have to do some things ourselves," Martin said gravely.
"Like what?" Margaret asked.
"Well, like clean her up. Regardless of whoever we get ahold of, for what we should do, we can't leave her like this."
Dustin and Judy peeked between Margaret and Susan. "What's going on?" Dustin asked.
Margaret started to explain, but choked up. Susan took over. "Ruby died last night."
Judy gasped and quickly looked away.
"What do we do?" Dustin asked.
"I don't know," answered Martin. "I'll ride the bike up to Town Hall and ask them."
The four in the hallway stared at Martin, expecting more. "Dustin, go fill up two of the buckets from the well. Judy, we'll need those two big pots for on top of the stove. Go make sure they're empty and clean. Susan, there's a dishpan under the kitchen sink. Fetch that, some soap and some old washcloths from the cabinet downstairs."
One by one, they peeled away to tend to their tasks. Margaret remained. "What about me?" She barely got out the words.
Martin took her by the hand and led her into their bedroom. He closed the door behind them and hugged her. She burst into silent sobs and clutched him in her arms as if afraid she would fall off a cliff. Her tears ran down his neck.
"I have the pots cleaned out," came Judy's voice from behind the door.
"Fill them half way with Dustin's water and put them on the stove," said Martin, without letting go of Margaret.
"I yelled at her," Margaret sobbed. "That's the last thing she heard from me. I was just upset. I don't...I didn't hate her. Why did that have to be the last thing she heard?"
Martin pulled her head gently back down onto his shoulder. "Ruby knew you cared for her. You've shown it for years by what you did for her. You took her to all those doctor appointments. You helped her move -- twice, and clean. She always thanked you profusely, remember?" Margaret nodded but sobbed deeper. "Lots of people say they care, but you showed her that you cared by spending all those hours with her. She knew."
"But she said..." Margaret started.
"Pfft. Don't put too much into that. She had been out of sorts all day: tired from walking, miffed about not getting a box. It could have been her meds imbalanced. She wasn't feeling well. I'm sure she didn't mean..."
"But I can never take that back!" Margaret squeaked. "I'll never get a chance to tell her that I..." She returned to sobs. "I can never apologize. Why did I yell at her? It was just a stupid supper. I don't know why I yelled at her."
Martin stroked her hair and held her tight. "Don't dwell on it. A few harsh words don't cancel years of service. She knew you cared." He pushed her back off his shoulder so he could see her face. Even with puffy red eyes and tear-matted hair, she had a vulnerable beauty: a lost little girl. He kissed her forehead.
"You've been trying so hard to be the brave pioneer woman through all this," he said tenderly. "All stoic and strong, keeping your household running. We'll need that bravery if things keep going like they are, but for right now, it's okay to not be so brave."
She buried her face in his shoulder again and resumed sobbing. He held her tight, happy (if that is the word for it) to be needed by her.
He stood with her for a long time, until she seemed all cried out. She pulled back slowly, sniffing long wet snuffles. Martin pulled a paper towel from his pocket. It took several blows to clear her nose up.
"What now?" She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
"I'm going to ride up to Town Hall and ask. Why don't you three girls get Ruby cleaned up. Maybe put her in her favorite outfit. You know, that light green pantsuit that you said made her look like a dinner mint?"
Margaret chuckled at the memory, but started to well up again. She shook it off. "Yeah. She always did like that pantsuit."
Margaret slowly opened the bedroom door. Judy and Susan stood in the hallway. "We need to get Ruby cleaned up," she said to them. "Judy, would you bring in one of the pots of water? Susan, please bring in the soap and cloths." Both went to their tasks.
"I'll be okay now, Martin. You should get up to Town Hall."
Martin started to walk past her, but she snatched him in a sudden tight hug. "Thank you," she whispered. She kissed his ear.
It was early to be expecting anyone to be at Town Hall. Martin knocked at the doors. He peered between cupped hands to see if there was any movement inside. There was. The town clerk scuffed up to the door in her slippers and bathrobe.
"What brings you here so early?" she asked. From Martin's curious look, she explained her appearance. "Been sleeping in my office. Got no heat at home, but they rigged up a wood stove in the basement. It ain't Florida, but it's better than my house."
"Well, I was wondering..." Martin was reluctant to blurt out 'what do you do with dead bodies?' That sounded too crass. "I had someone in my home die last night."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Was it someone close?"
"Not immediate family or anything: an older lady from our church. The thing is, what do we do now?"
"I see. Well, come on inside. Landers will be along shortly. He just went over to the school to check on the shelter people. Have a seat over here."
Martin sat on the creaky wooden chair. The air inside Town Hall was a bit warmer than outside, but not by much. The smell of wood smoke was faint, but unmistakable. The clerk returned with a clipboard.
"This is our new death form." She handed Martin the clipboard. "We've been having people fill this out. It's not much for paperwork, but at least we'll have a record of who died, when and where -- if anyone is concerned about that later." She scuffed back around the partition.
The form asked for the deceased's full name, date of birth, and place of birth. Martin had to think hard. He never had much of a memory for such personal details. In his mind, he replayed some of Ruby's stories. Belfast. That was it. She was a little girl in Belfast, Maine. He had no idea if she had actually been born there or not, but it was something. Date of birth? He had to resort to mental math. They celebrated her 80th birthday awhile back. Was it two years ago? Longer? He decided it was three years ago. Ruby was 83. Subtract that from this year and...
There. He had line one complete. Date of death and location were easy. Next of kin? That was not so easy. She had a daughter somewhere, but she seldom came to visit Ruby. When she did, it was usually to ask for money, which Ruby always gave her, even if it meant she had no grocery money for the week. Ruby was a sucker that way. Margaret would always take Ruby grocery shopping afterward, to make up for the shortfall. Martin had no idea where the daughter was. At least he knew her name: Crystal. He never heard her last name, but he thought she was married, or divorced or something. He wrote all he knew: Daughter: Crystal.
In the Cause of Death box, he wrote what he guessed was the cause. In the Remarks box, he added that she died peacefully in her sleep. If anyone in the future was trying to find out about Ruby, and read the form, it might be a comforting nugget to find.
The front doors clattered open. A rush of cold air swept down the wide corridor. "Simmons?" asked Landers. He was so bundled in coat, cap and scarf that only his voice betrayed his identity.
"Yeah. That's me," Martin stood.
"What are you up here for so early in the morning?"
"Well, we had someone die in our house last night."
"Aww," Landers sounded sincerely sad to hear the news. "That makes three new ones, counting yesterday's. Was it someone close?"
"Maybe not all that close. She was an older lady, a member of our church. She needed someplace to stay because her building had no heat. We put her up in my daughter's old bedroom. But what I came to ask was: what do we do now? What do we do with her body?"
Landers took off his cap and shook his head. "Not a lot we can do nowadays."
"Do we dig a grave on our property and bury her there, take her somewhere? I've never had to deal with this before. I don't know what to do."
"Lessee," Landers stroked his beard. "How long has she been dead?"
"We don't know exactly: maybe six hours? She's all stiff and stuck in the position she was sleeping in."
"Yeah. Rigor mortis. You might want to get the body into a body bag. I've heard that dead bodies can start to ooze fluids after awhile. There won't be any morticians doing their things, so it's just the harsh physical reality now."
"Okay, plastic bag, but then what?"
"Oh, well, after you've got the body ready for burial, bring it up to..."
"She," Martin interrupted. "She's a she,not an it."
Landers smiled sympathetically. "Sorry, I meant to say her. Bring her up to the village cemetery on top of Stockman Hill. We have a grave already dug up there. Bring her up there whenever you're ready. There won't be anyone to perform any kind of service for her, so you're on your own there. Oh, and bring your own shovels, too. Sorry to sound so cold about it all, but your lady is the eighth since this began. I've been around this barn a few times already. You understand."
Martin nodded. He left the clipboard on the wooden counter. "Yeah. I understand. Thanks." Martin pulled his stocking cap over his ears and pulled his collar up before opening the door.
"We have her cleaned up and dressed," Margaret announced as Martin came through the door. He could see the puffy eyes of Susan and Judy. "It was a very hard thing to do, but they helped a lot. What did they say?"
"I guess they have graves already dug up in the cemetery. Landers said we could take her up there whenever we were ready."
"Okay. We'll get ourselves cleaned up and ready to go."
While the women scrubbed their hands vigorously, as if death were a contagion, Martin brought up two heavy black trash bags from the garage. Ruby looked awkward, as if frozen while climbing a ladder: a dinner mint climbing a ladder. Martin pulled one bag down over her head and shoulders, though it kept snagging on her curled hand. The bottom bag slipped up to her waist much more quickly. With duct tape, he sealed the two bags together.
"What are you doing?" demanded Margaret.
"Landers said that bodies might start to ooze fluids and stuff. He said to put her in a body bag. All we have are trash bags."
"We can't bury Ruby like that! It looks like we're taking her to the dump!"
Susan came along side Margaret and gasped. "What? You're going to throw her away? That's awful!"
"He said to put the body in plastic bags, so that's what I did. I'm sorry it looks bad, but what else do we do?" Martin felt flustered for lack of a clear alternate plan to suggest.
"We have to do something else," insisted Margaret. "That just won't do. There's no dignity in that."
"What if we wrap her in a sheet?" Susan asked. "Kinda like a burial shroud. No one will see the plastic."
Margaret's face lit up at the idea. "I know just the one." She trotted down the hall.
"I saw some silk flowers downstairs," added Judy hesitantly.
"Oh, that's good," said Susan. "Can you find some pins too? We could pin them on." Judy nodded and ran down the hallway.
"I just did what Landers said," Martin apologized. "He said plastic bags."
"I know, Martin." Susan squeezed his arm. "You're doing what you can. Let us get her a bit more dressed up for her final trip."
Martin's shoulders slumped. Final trip. How were they going to get Ruby up Stockman Hill to the cemetery? If trash bags set everyone off, he certainly could not suggest putting Ruby in the wheelbarrow, or tied to a pole between him and Dustin, like a deer.
"When you have her ready, let me know," he said. "I have to go get the truck ready."
Martin could not help but give a sad smile when he saw the ladies' handiwork. Margaret had found a sheet from Lindsey's childhood memories box. It had minty green ponies printed on it. It was the perfect color for Ruby. Susan and Judy had dressed up the tied-off ends of the sheet with light green ribbon. Near Ruby's shoulder was a small bouquet of silk flowers and more light green ribbon.
"You guys did real good. That's got some dignity," he said. They carried her down to the truck in another sheet.
Dustin had cobbled together a bier of two-by-fours and a scrap of plywood. "I figure four of us can each carry an end to take her from the truck to the grave." Dustin started to climb into the back of the truck.
"I want you to stay here, son," said Martin. "I don't want to leave the house empty. Are you three ladies up to carrying an end?" All three nodded solemnly. "Ruby isn't heavy, son. We'll be fine. Keep an eye out. Have one in the chamber and two magazines in your pocket. I don't know how long we'll be." Dustin nodded with his head down.
Martin tried to balance a stately processional speed and his desire to not waste precious gasoline. He turned into the cemetery to see a gray minivan and an older Buick already parked on the narrow cemetery road. Two separate groups of people stood near the end of a long pile of dirt.
Martin tugged on the bier to get it halfway out of the pickup bed. He and Margaret took the front board-ends. Susan and Judy took the tail end. They walked carefully around the dirt pile, trying to keep the bier level, lest Ruby roll off onto the ground.
They stopped and stared. Before them stretched a long trench, six feet wide and maybe fifty feet long. The town had dug a mass grave with a backhoe, before the ground froze. It could accommodate dozens more dead.
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Post by headlesshorseman on Apr 1, 2016 20:56:11 GMT -6
On a personal level it is a little creepy but on a realistic level it is an efficient use of resources.
Thanks for the story.
HH
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Post by mic on Apr 7, 2016 4:49:48 GMT -6
Chapter 8: part 2: Difficult Words
Martin climbed down into the trench. The sloping end-wall was where he guessed the eighth body had been recently been buried. Number nine, Ruby, was probably supposed to go up next to that. With his shovel, he scooped out a hollow in the slope. He signaled to Margaret. She and Susan lowered the tied-up sheet into his arms. It still surprised him how little Ruby weighed. He settled her into the depression he had dug. He climbed out and stuck his shovel in the long dirt pile behind them.
"You should say a few words," Margaret prompted.
Martin knew she would say that. He also knew she was right. He was no more a pastor than he was a doctor, but for his little household, he was all they had. During the drive to the cemetery, he tried to think of what to say. What does one say? He could remember attending graveside services at his parents' funerals. He young then, and not paying attention to what the men said.
He opened his Bible to no page in particular. He hoped that if he just started talking, the right words would flow. It was a stupid plan, and he knew it. But, it was all he had. They were grieving. That word triggered a memory.
"Paul told the Thessalonians not to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. For much of the world, death is seen as the ultimate end, and dismal one at that. Whether rich or poor, powerful or strong, everyone dies and that's all there is. Paul said, in Romans, I think, that if we believed like that, we would be men most miserable."
"But we're not, because we have hope. Not a sort of wishing hope, like kids before Christmas, but the confident hope that someone will deliver on a promise. Jesus told his disciples, 'I go to prepare a place for you. If I've prepared a place for you, I will come back and get you and you will live with me.' "
"Ruby had that hope. She accepted Christ as her savior, before I was even born. She had seen Him work in her life all those years. She talked about the little miracles along the way. That gave her hope that He will keep his promise to her, that most important promise, to take her up to be with Him."
"So, while we who are left still grieve, it should not be like the rest of men who have no hope. We, too, have the same promise, that He has Ruby with Him now. The end of this life is not really the end at all. For her, it is a new beginning. She has no more aches and pains, doesn't have to take any more pills. She has a new body, and an eternal life."
"We lay to rest here, her mortal shell. We will miss her...and all her stories about Maine...but, we who are also saved will see her again. We have His promise on that."
Martin closed his Bible and looked at the rest of his group. All heads were bowed. Was there something else he was supposed to do? That was all he could think of. He turned and plucked his shovel from the pile of dirt. Someone had to be the first to drop dirt on the minty ponies. He guessed that it was his job to go first.
After his shovel full scattered on the sheet, Margaret took the other shovel and dropped a scoop of earth on Ruby. Susan asked for Martin's shovel with her eyes and an outstretched hand. She added a scoop to the grave. Judy followed, eyes welled up.
Each took a turn shoveling the sandy clay until the last traces of the green and white sheet were gone. The three women stood back, as if the task was done, but Martin knew she had to be buried deeper than that. He put his back into it. He shoveled deep and threw hard, as if by physical work he could erase death itself.
After a while, Margaret touched his arm, startling him. "That's enough," she said gently. She pointed with her eyes. He had piled dirt high in the trench over Ruby. The excess was simply cascading down beside her into the open trench. He felt like he might have refilled the whole trench if she had not stopped him.
Martin's arms dropped to his side. He was exhausted. With a hand still stiff in a shovel-grip, he reached inside his coat and pulled out the crude grave marker he made. On the five by eight inch scrap of pressure-treated wood, he had carved: 'Ruby Gibson, a child of Maine and a child of God,' and her dates. He stuck the little board in the fresh earth. He straightened up, adjusted his coat and turned to go.
"Um, excuse me?" came a voice behind him. It was a small woman. Points of white hair extended below her black furry cap. She looked as if she were struggling to frame her question. Martin waited. A graveside is no place for a rush.
"We don't have a minster. Ours drove south to be with his family. I heard you... what you were saying over your...person. Would you please say a few words for us?"
Martin sank inside. He felt he had no strength left. He barely had enough words for Ruby, and he knew her. This was a total stranger. What words could he find for someone he never knew? The little lady in the furry hat had, despite her wrinkles, the same lost little girl look that Margaret had. He was too exhausted to resist.
"Okay," he said. "Can you tell me something about your..."
"Husband. His name is..." she choked. "Eugene. How did yours die?" she asked conversationally. Martin guessed that she wanted to talk to someone…anyone.
"Oh...um...we think she had a stroke. Died quietly in her sleep."
"That's nice to hear. Many times, I wished Eugene could have passed like that. He's had a lung condition, you see, for the past couple years. They had him on a CPAP machine: increasing the oxygen level over the past few months. He got along pretty good with his machine: still doing things around the house. He called it his 'filling station'." She tried to chuckle, but the engine would not start.
"When the power went out, and the machine didn't work, he said he would be okay. He tried not to move around much. You know, conserve his oxygen, but his breathing got more and more labored. Still, he said he would be okay.
"The past couple days, it was such hard work for him to breathe that he was sweating. I tried to make him as comfortable as I could: damp cloths on his forehead, fanning him. He kept telling me not to worry, saying he would be okay."
Martin gave the woman a curious-skeptical look.
"Oh, he didn't mean he would be able to breathe better. Not that kind of okay. That he knew where he was going. He knew his end was near. We all did, though no one wanted to talk about it. But, he wasn't worried or scared. He knew that to be absent from the body was to be present with the Lord. He wasn't afraid of his end. I wasn't afraid either, I guess. I just didn't want it to be so soon. We'd only been married fifty one years. It wasn't enough. I wanted more."
Margaret put her arm around the little woman. She looked up at Margaret with a little smile.
"I wanted more," she continued, "but I am glad that he's not suffering anymore. Now it's like he kept saying: he's okay now." She sniffed and smiled. "He's probably up there now, saying: 'I told you so,' and doing that silly little victory dance of his." Her chuckle-engine started that time.
"Did Eugene have a favorite Bible verse?" Martin asked. "I could read that."
The little woman stared into the distance as she thought. "He had so many passages he liked. He was especially fond of the book of Isaiah."
"Okay. Isaiah." Martin's smile sagged. That was a very large target from which to quickly find the ideal comforting verse. He still had his stupid plan to just start talking. It worked once. While he turned in his little pocket Bible to find Isaiah, the little lady's companions lifted a rolled-up rug tied with twine. Two young men struggled to get the roll into the trench. They laid it beside where Ruby had just been covered up. When they climbed out, Martin had found what he hoped would be a suitable passage.
"God told Isaiah to tell his people, 'Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.' "
Martin looked over the top of his Bible, at the roll in the trench. "God did not mean that nothing bad would ever happen to His people. Bad things happen all the time. In fact, a lot of the rest of God's message through Isaiah was warning His people that bad times were coming. He was trying to reassure His people that he was not trying to wipe them out, but to shake them out of their rebellious pride, to bring them back to Him. That's why he told them, 'Fear not, I am with you.' Not because nothing bad would ever happen, but that He would be there, waiting for them if they returned."
"Eugene..." Martin looked at the little lady.
"Rowell."
"Eugene Rowell was not afraid. He knew God was going to be there for him: not just to heal his lungs, but that Eugene would have an eternity of free breathing. Eugene looked forward to that day, which I guess, was yesterday."
"Rest easy, breathe easy, Eugene Rowell." Martin closed his Bible. The little lady snuffled vigorously into her handkerchief. The two young men asked to borrow Martin's shovels. He nodded.
The little lady hugged Martin around his waist. "Thank you," she said. "Eugene would have liked that. It means a lot to me that someone spoke for him today."
"You're welcome." Martin noticed that the crowd of mourners was larger than when he started. The third group of people had slowly gathered around, mingling with Eugene's people. As the young men shoveled earth over the rug roll, a round-faced woman approached Martin and touched his sleeve.
"Excuse me," she said, eyes downcast. "I hate to impose on you, and this is really hard for me."
Martin guessed that she wanted him to say a few words over her lost loved-one too. He could see the large black plastic shape behind the mourner's legs. He felt exhausted after laying Ruby to rest. He felt emotionally drained by the pressure to be an impromptu pastor for his household and then Eugene's wife. He did not think he had anything left.
Yet, her sad face looking at him felt like an indictment. Was his exhaustion somehow better than hers? The words were not coming easily for the round-faced woman, so Martin waited with a patience that exhaustion sometimes gives.
"I'd like it if you might say a few words for my Keith."
"I could do that." Martin tried not to sound tired. It would probably sound condescending. He was simply tired. "Could you tell me a little bit about him? It would help me figure out what to say."
"Sure, but where to begin." She stared at the ground for a few moments. "Keith was always a do-er. He worked hard all his life, providing for his family. He was a good man, but..." She began to sniff. "He did have a temper sometimes: didn't like anyone telling him what to do." She smiled at Martin, as if to make her statement light-hearted, but her eyes told a different story.
"I tried to tell him it didn't look safe." She looked away. "I'm afraid that my saying that made him stay up there. He could be so stubborn. Like I said, he did not like anyone telling him what to do. He was chopping on some old cedar fence so we could burn it in the fireplace. But something must have slipped. The ax cut deep into his leg. We tried to clean the wound. My son, Tyler, is the safety monitor for his shift at work. He helped his unit’s medic in Iraq.” She smiled briefly with pride. "We used alcohol and bandages, but it got infected. At first it was all red, then it started to turn black. Keith began to run a very high fever. We couldn't cool him down. Yesterday, he laid there, sweating and mumbling, then he just went limp."
"I'm so sorry," whispered Martin. Ruby's dying in her sleep seemed like quite a blessing. He did not need to know all about how Keith died, but he figured the woman was finding some closure in telling someone about it.
"The hard part," she continued. "is that after hearing the nice things you said about your person, and that lady's husband, is that Keith wasn't saved. He…isn't going to heaven." Her shoulders heaved a few times, as if to sob, but it was plain that the woman had sobbed herself out too many times. Her well was dry.
"Oh." Martin felt at a loss. What do pastors say in such circumstances? Where are the words of hope for that? He could not sugar-coat things with the common 'everyone goes to heaven' palliative. The woman knew that was not the case. What comfort could he, or anyone, give her?
He had just spoken about Ruby and Eugene having a happy new beginning. This woman realized that her husband was just starting a terrible eternity. Martin felt certain she would feel insulted if he tried the customary saccarine words where everyone turns into angels. She knew that was not true. Nor did Martin want to start talking about the tragedy of hell. She knew that, and did not need lemon-juice poured on her cut. What words did that leave him? There was no middle ground to focus upon.
"I know it's too late for him," she began to gush. "Sakes knows I tried witnessing to him, but when it came to God, he was hard-hearted man. Oh, he loved his dogs. But he would get so angry whenever I brought up God: said he didn't need God. He said it was just stories to milk people out of their money, that he would have nothing to do with a god that let babies die."
"That sounds like my brother," Martin tried to commiserate. "He said that too. Once, he told me he would never submit to a god that sent people to hell. That he'd rather spend eternity in hell than be in heaven with a god like that. I don't think he ever saw the irony. God did not have to send my brother to hell, he was going there all on his own."
"Still," she said. "It doesn’t seem right to just dump Keith's body in a hole and go home. Isn't there something you might say?"
"How about a prayer for the rest of you?" Martin asked. She nodded and motioned for her group to join her. Two men, who had round faces like the woman's, dragged the large black trash-bag bundle to the edge of the trench. They rolled it in the trench like jettsom going overboard. They stood ready with their own shovels. The rest of them held hands, bowed their heads and waited.
It was time for Martin to have some words. All he had, was his stupid plan. With a deep breath, he began. "Lord, please be with these people, to comfort their hearts for their loss. You said, 'blessed are they who mourn'. Here they are. We don't know the state of Keith, whether he ever confessed you as his Lord, maybe when he was young," Martin knew he was grasping at straws, but thought it might salvage some scrap of hope for the woman. Given the prospects for the days ahead, any scrap of hope would be treasured.
"But, he lived angry at you. I don't know why, but you know, so we leave his fate in your hands. Please be with the others who might be like Keith."
Martin guessed that the two young men were Keith's sons and, by the way the rolled their father's body into the trench, were not necessarily all that sad that he was gone. They might have inherited their father's anger. If so, their mother was probably worried about them and their fate too.
For her, he added, "Please touch their hearts before their last day. Amen."
The men shook Martin's hand, and commenced shoveling. No other words were said. The round-faced woman mouthed a 'thank you' but had no voice.
Numbness had replaced exhaustion. Martin turned slowly to gather his shovels and head back to his truck. The women had gone on ahead of him. He paused to look back at the trench. He resolved to prepare some better words in advance, in case there was a 'next time'. From the size of the trench, it was clear that someone expected that there would be many 'next times'.
A light rain started to fall.
(end Chapter 8)
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Post by pbbrown0 on Apr 7, 2016 7:52:15 GMT -6
I never figured out why, living in a region where scorching sun was far more common than rain, that the vast majority of graveside services I led were "dampened" by clouds and rain.
Martin may not realize it but he IS a pastor (shepherd) for his small flock, and his "stupid" plan for what to say is not so foolish at all.
Good work, mic. Keep it up.
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Post by mic on Apr 9, 2016 14:25:52 GMT -6
Chapter 9: part 1: Questionable Calculus
The day dawned bright, as if nothing had ever happened. Yet, it had. Everyone in the Simmons house went about their chores without speaking. No one spoke during their breakfast of wheat grits. Margaret had the bedsheets washed as best she could in the big galvanized tub. They hung on the line to dry, which would take a long time, given the coolness of the air.
Dustin was gone somewhere. Martin did not know where. Judy was on watch, pacing around the house, peering into the woods. Everyone was ‘on watch’ to a degree. All ears listened for any sounds that did not belong.
Martin brought up a bucket of water from the well. As he rounded the chicken coop, Susan was there, checking for eggs. “That was nice, what you said for Ruby yesterday.”
“I really didn’t know what to say. It felt awkward.”
“It didn’t sound like it. It flowed and well…it was nice,” she said.
“Thanks.” Martin hoped he would never have an opportunity to do better ‘next time.’
Margaret was packing away the grain mill as Martin came through the back door. “When you were telling me about the meeting on Monday, you said the man talked about two trucks: one on Wednesday and one today,” she said.
“That’s what he said.” Martin shook his head. “But after how things went on Wednesday, do you really think there will be a truck today?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? What if the guy calmed down, or had a change of heart, or his bosses told him to send a truck anyhow? Lots of reasons why there might still be a truck today.”
Martin wanted to argue, but knew she was right. His pessimism was not the best approach to leadership or being the provider.
“Even if it’s just more of their cheap starchy meal packets, it will be something,” she continued. “With Ruby g…” she had to stop and breathe deeply. “With only five of us now, what we have will last a little longer, but still not long enough. Anything has to help.”
“Okay okay,” Martin held up his hands in surrender. “You don’t always have to be right, you know.” He smiled at her.
“But I am, aren’t I?” She winked.
“Don’t let it go to your head. I want to fill one more bucket, then go up and see if there’s a truck.”
Martin rummaged in the shed, making considerable noise.
“What are you doing, Mr. Simmons?” Judy peeked through the door. “You’re making an awful lot of noise.”
“Looking for that wagon,” he said without looking up. “Might need it for hauling home some possible FEMA boxes. Margaret said she had it back from the Walkers, but I can’t find it.”
“Was it red with yellow wheels?”
“Oh, you’ve seen it. Great. Where is it?”
“Dustin had it. He tied it to the back of his bike and rode off.”
“Rode off where?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Oh whatever.” Martin grabbed Margaret’s mountain bike. “I’ll just have to balance the stupid boxes as best I can, I guess.”
As Martin approached the general store, there were knots of people standing in the parking lot talking. There was no black Escalade, white Suburban, or more importantly, no truck.
“So, no truck?” Martin asked a nearby man in coveralls.
“Nope. That guy over there said he heard it got hijacked by a mob in Nutfield. Pulled the driver out of his cab and ransacked the trailer.”
“Nah,” countered another man. “I heard they never sent a truck, cuz FEMA’s already run out of food. That big warehouse of theirs in Portsmouth got hit by looters, or something.”
“Or,” weighed in yet another man, “That Quinn guy still has his panties in a bunch. Landers isn’t saying what he’s heard.”
“He’s been too busy this morning to get a word in edgewise,” said the first man.
“Busy doing what?” Martin asked.
The man pointed across the highway to Town Hall. Landers and Candice stood on the front steps with clipboards. A crowd of people ringed around the stairs. “I heard that the school ran out of propane last night. The selectmen are trying to find homes for all the people who were staying in the shelter.”
“Ah yep, and Candice, she’s been a helping right along. She likes that helping stuff, don’t she? Looks like about half of ‘em are placed. No idea where, but Haddock’s minivan’s been carting them off to somewhere.”
“So, you guys are just standing around waiting for a truck you don’t think is coming? Martin asked.
“Man’s got a point there, Rich. Why are we hangin’ around here?”
“Why, for the excellent companionship, my boy. That, and there ain’t nothing on the TV.” They all laughed. Martin shook his head, mounted the bike and rode back home, empty-handed.
“No truck,” Martin told Margaret as he hung his coat over a dining room chair. “Lots of theories as to why, but they all still add up to no truck.”
“Rats. I was kind of counting on another box or two.”
“Really? You said you didn’t like it: how it was cheap filler food.”
“I know, but it has its uses. Judy is about due to come off of watch soon. It will be time for lunch too.”
“Okay. I see I’m up next anyhow. Might as well start now, seeing as how I’m already dressed for it.”
Martin walked around the house slowly. He had the carbine’s sling cinched tight, so it would not rattle. He peered into the woods, carefully scanning through the bare branches and leaf litter, looking for any sign of movement. There was nothing. He could not see all that far into the woods as it was. It was more a matter of listening.
He paused, standing near the back wall of the house, letting the big wall gather faint sounds for him. In the distance, perhaps beyond the pines, he thought he could hear the sound of a squirrel thrashing around in the leaves. For awhile, he wondered if it was a college kid foraging where they were not supposed to — on his land — but decided that the rapid rhythm of the leaf rustles better fit the tempo of a bounding squirrel. That might be tomorrow’s supper, he thought.
At the front corner of the house, he noticed that the spot beside the juniper bush was a handy vantage point. From that spot, he could see up the road both directions, until trees obscured the view. He could see the road behind the shed and the first two wood piles. Toward the Oldham’s house, he could see across the swamp all the way to the highway, now that the leaves were off the scrubby trees.
From beside the juniper, he could see up Baldwin’s meadow road. The other nice thing about the juniper bush was that if he squatted down between it and the garage, he was sheltered from most winds and would be nearly hidden from view. He could hunker down under his heavy brown blanket for a long night watch, snug and invisible.
His ears perked up. The crunch of tires on gravel told of a vehicle coming. It was probably passing the substation. From the sound, it was not something large — a car perhaps. He unslung the carbine and gave the magazine a tap, just to be sure it was seated.
Down the hill rolled a light blue minivan. He did not recognize it. The minivan slowed, blinker on, to turn into his driveway. Do bad guys use their blinkers? He did not want whoever it was to see him emerge from his new hidey-hole, so he stood up and took a few steps sideways before they completed their turn in.
Landers got out of the passenger side. Haddock stepped out of the driver’s side.
“Oh, hello, Simmons,” called Landers. “Didn’t see you up there. How are you…oh, I see you’re ready for…anything.” Landers smiled.
“Seemed like a good idea,” said Martin flatly. “What can I do for you?”
“Yes. That’s good. Cut to the chase. No pussy-footing around. Just read the bottom line…”
Martin wondered when he would run out of catch-phrases. It was clear that Landers was ill-at-ease with whatever his business was. That made Martin keep a grip on the carbine.
Haddock broke the phrase log-jam. “You might have heard that the school ran out of propane last night.” Martin nodded. “So, we’ve been trying to get all the people who were in the shelter placed in homes.”
“And,” Landers had recovered. “You were saying how you had an empty…well, you didn’t actually say you and an empty room, but when you were saying that the old lady from your church died, well, it was almost like saying you had an empty room.” Landers held a wide, guilty smile, like a boy delivering his best dog-ate-my-homework line.
Martin did not like the nervousness. No one is nervous delivering good news. He decided to hold his peace and let the two selectmen play their hand.
“We got almost everyone placed,” Haddock said proudly.
“Yup,” chimed in Landers. “Almost everyone.”
“Even that family of seven. So, now it’s down to just the last couple. That’s pretty good, huh?”
Martin remained silent.
Haddock motioned for whoever was in the backseat to come out. It was Dunan and his wife. Martin felt his spirits melt. They WOULD be the last ones placed, he thought. Who would want them?
Margaret emerged from the front door. “Martin? I heard talking. Who is this?” She saw him with the carbine slung forward. “Martin.” Her hoarse whisper was half reproach for having the gun ready in front of guests, and half a call for what’s-going-on-here?
“Hello Mrs. Simmons,” Landers called out. “It’s a fine day, eh?”
Martin’s non-verbal caution inclined Margaret to stay quiet and let the fish have more line.
“Yes, well, the reason we’re here is that the shelter ran out of fuel last night. We’ve been placing the families in various homes that had room. We only had this one couple left, Adam and Trisha Dunan. Their house is on Peachtree Circle, but it’s too cold…and, well, we heard that you had an empty room…now…and so we thought…”
For a moment, Margaret seemed to mirror Martin’s guarded demeanor. Her Christian charity got the upper hand, however. “We do have an empty room…now, but…” Her pioneer woman pragmatism was still in the game. “But we don’t have enough food for the people we have now, let alone two more.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem,” began Landers enthusiastically. “The shelter ran out of fuel, but it was not out of food. In fact, the town’s food pantry had a fair supply on hand, so…” Landers moved around to the back of the minivan and lifted the hatch. He pulled out a big box filled with boxes and cans.
“We don’t want this to be a burden on anyone, so we also brought a supply of food too.” He held a broad smile.
Martin still did not like it. His only experience with Dunan was at Monday’s meeting. It was brief, but hardly encouraging. Margaret, ever the skeptical bargain hunter, must have wondered why the large box of food was part of the request. She hesitated.
Landers gave a little nod to Haddock, who also walked behind the minivan. “Actually,” Haddock said, “They come with two boxes of food.” He held up a slightly smaller box.
They come with? The Dunans sounded like kitchen appliances with accessories. Martin still did not like the deal. Food or no food, he had his fill of strife in his home. Margaret, however, was softening at the prospect of two boxes of food.
She stepped beside Martin to whisper. “I don’t know who they are, but, they come with two boxes of food.”
“I know,” Martin whispered back. “But he’s the guy I told you about that started the fight. I don’t like it.”
“…and I am really not in the mood for any more people in my house,” Margaret said. “But, Martin, two boxes of food like that might get us another month of timeline. Another month.”
Martin tried not to sigh, but he did. The Dunans were an unknown variable, though suspect. The boxes of food were a known element and important. The calculus said take the deal. He looked at Margaret with resignation. She smiled.
“Okay. We’ll take them in,” Martin said at last.
“Great. Great!” gushed Landers, obviously relieved. “This really helps us all out a lot. I can’t thank you and Mrs. Simmons enough.” He walked up the steps to hand Margaret the box of food. Haddock set his box on the rock wall beside the steps. The Dunan’s each took two suitcases from the back of the minivan.
“If there’s anything you need, Simmons, just come up to Town Hall. We’re all in this together, right?” Landers and Haddock both got in the minivan quickly and drove away, rather like someone drives away after dropping off a dog at ‘the farm.’
The Dunan’s stood in the driveway like shipwreck survivors on a beach. They smiled awkwardly at their new hosts.
Margaret’s hostess instincts began to warm up. She waved them up the steps. “Well come on in, you two. My name is Margaret. That’s Martin. Come on in. I’ll show you to the room.”
Martin tried running the variables through the calculus again. Maybe he made a math error.
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Post by kaijafon on Apr 10, 2016 2:28:14 GMT -6
with two new mouths, that food won't last long! thanks!
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Post by headlesshorseman on Apr 10, 2016 19:33:10 GMT -6
Does he get to take them back when the boxes are empty?
Thanks for the new chapter.
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Post by mic on Apr 12, 2016 18:37:35 GMT -6
Chapter 9: part 2: Trouble Nearby
“We really can’t thank you enough,” said Adam. He tore off a strip of flatbread and chewed it rapidly. He reached across the table for the water pitcher.
“It really is nice of you,” said Trish. “It was bad enough when we had to leave our house, but then to have the shelter close on us too! We didn’t know where to turn.”
Martin recalled Adam’s announcement to go move in with his mother and wondered why that part of their saga had been omitted.
“Well, we do want to help out people in need,” Margaret said. “After all, Jesus did say, ‘whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me.’ “
“That is so true,” said Adam, still chewing. “So true.”
“So. Adam, Trish,” Martin tried to sound casual and diplomatic. “It might not need saying, but just in case, I’ll say it anyway. Everyone in this house is contributing to what needs to be done. This isn’t some gulag salt mine, but neither is it a vacation resort.” Martin was recalling the shouting match at the Friday meeting and Peter’s cautions against pampered princes. “This is still my house…and Margaret’s. We have our rules for getting things done, which aren’t just because we like bossing people around. The rules are for the benefit of everyone in the house. Understand?”
“Oh we don’t want to be a burden on you,” said Trish. “You just show us how you want us to help around here and we will. We want to pull our weight. Right Adam?” Adam nodded, but could not speak for having stuffed in another strip of his flatbread.
“That’s good to hear,” Martin said. “There are chores to keep the house going for everyone’s benefit. There’s firewood to haul in.”
“Oh, I’ll do that,” said Adam.
“And water to haul up from the well.”
“I’ll do that,” chimed in Trish.
“There’s also watches to keep,” added Martin. Adam and Trish looked at each other, as if expecting the other to give them a hint of what that meant. “We have someone awake and outside — at all times — to keep watch. That’s why we call it ‘a watch’.”
“Ohhh,” they both said in unison.
“With you two, there are now seven of us. That means we can have six four-hour watches, with a seventh person as relief in the rotation. With each of us having just have one watch per day, it won’t be as hard on any of us. The six-hour watches were starting to wear on us all.”
“Okay, so what do you do on a watch?” Adam asked.
“Mostly listen for the sound of anyone approaching. Then…”
Susan’s voice crackled through the walkie talkie on the counter. “Hey, there’s something going on at the house down the road. Come quick!”
Martin had his 9mm in his pocket already. His carbine was propped in the corner. Dustin jogged to the gun safe for his shotgun and shell belt. Martin set Margaret’s pistol on the kitchen counter. “Keep an eye out back and toward the bridge. Blow your whistle if you see anything you don’t like. Understand? Anything.” Margaret nodded, cleared the action and reinserted the magazine.
“Trish, you stay here. Do whatever Margaret tells you. Judy, be out on the deck listening and watching the woods. Use your whistle if you see anything sketchy.”
“Adam. You come with us.” The three men rushed down the front walk and out to the road.
“Susan. Give me the walkie. Stand here by the mailbox. Keep an eye up the road and up the meadow. Blow your whistle if you see anything suspicious.” Susan nodded with a worried look.
They jogged fifty yards or more until Martin gave the signal to slow down and approach more carefully. The pause gave Martin time to realize that he had done it again. He had rushed off to help someone before thinking once about what, exactly, he expected to do.
Was there any real trouble, or was Nick just raising his voice at his kids again? That was a familiar sound, and this did not sound quite like that. If it was trouble, how many bad-guys were there? He had no idea. What if there ten of them? What if they all had ARs or AKs? What good would a small carbine and a shotgun do against that? Martin had picked a fine time to start raising questions. They were nearly in sight of the house.
Raised voices could be heard from the Oldham’s house. Nick’s voice, though muffled, was one of them. The other male voices were strangers. Martin had Dustin and Adam behind him, single file, near the brushy edge of the dirt road.
Between the trees, Martin could see that there were three men on the porch of the Oldham’s house. The storm door was closed, probably locked. Nick was visible inside, gesturing rapidly. Two of the men were heavier-set with thick arms and the broad backs of men who regularly enjoyed large meals. They were armed. One had a handgun. The other had a deer rifle of some kind. They were not pointing them at Nick, but had them in their hands nonetheless. The third man was small and wiry. All three had the same mustache-goatee combo. Voices were raised and did not sound friendly. Exact words were not clear.
Dustin tapped Martin on the shoulder and pointed further up the road. Between the trees, he could see two women bundled up like Russian peasants. They stood near the end of the driveway. Behind them sat two shopping carts filled with various bags, boxes and rolled up tarps. They had not seen Martin’s group approach. Their attention was fixed on the porch.
Seeing only five strangers — and only two of them armed — was almost reassuring, at least, when compared to Martin’s pessimistic imagination. Two strangers with guns versus himself and Dustin with guns was a workable scenario. Martin knew Nick had a couple guns, though not what kind. The two women did not have any weapons visible. While they might have them hidden in the bundles, it seemed less likely. If the group’s goal was to intimidate random homeowners, displaying overwhelming firepower would make more sense than keeping it concealed.
Martin signaled for Adam to stay behind a maple tree near the road. He seemed happy to comply. With hand signals, Martin told Adam to keep watch on the road behind them and shout if he saw anything. Adam nodded and gave a thumbs up. The five strangers might be all there were, or they might not be. Martin might not have a plan, per se, but what plan he did have, was to not be surprised.
Dustin took up a position behind the telephone pole at the corner of the Oldham’s yard. It was scant concealment, but a good position. Martin went a bit further to take up position behind an old oak near the middle of the frontage. He could see the porch across the front lawn and could keep an eye on the two women at the end of the driveway.
“We’re only talkin’ a little food is all,” said the man with the deer rifle. “That’s all. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“We haven’t eaten in days,” said the man with the pistol. Martin wondered at that statement. The man’s physique suggested that his ‘personal reserves’ had not been tapped into all that much. “You gotta have a little you can spare.”
Martin could hear Nick’s booming voice through the storm door glass. “We don’t have any food to spare. I told you that ten times. I also told you to go away. Now get lost!”
“Hey man, we’re just trying to be friendly like,” said the wiry man with no gun. “You’re the one copping an attitude. You really shouldn’t be giving people attitude, you know. It’ll be better for everyone if you just chill out and share a little of what you’ve got. That’s all we ask.”
Nick added some profanities to his refusal.
“Oh hey now, don’t go and get all hostile, Mr. Homie. That’s not safe. There’s five us out here, and only two of you in there.”
That was it for Martin. The begging had crossed the line into threats.
“Count again,” shouted Martin. He slid the safety off. The men spun around to face the road. Their eyes darted left and right to find the source of the voice. Martin remained behind the tree, so they could not see him. The two women could, however, and pointed at Martin. For his part, Martin had the carbine at low-ready in case the women pulled out anything. The two women wisely chose to stand still and slowly raise their hands.
Dustin made sure his shotgun barrel was visible. The goatee-men noticed. Adam repositioned himself behind the maple tree. Whether it was a deliberate effort to make his feet visible from the porch, or simply Adam fidgeting, it was handy timing.
“Whoa, hey now,” said the rifle man. “We didn’t mean anything. We were just asking for a little food.”
“Yeah, we’ve been walking for days. We’re really hungry is all. We don’t mean any harm or anything.” The men had moved off the porch, cautiously eyeing Martin, Dustin and Adam’s positions.
Emboldened by the turn of events, Nick and his son Teddy stepped out onto the porch. Nick had his deer rifle. Teddy had a small handgun. “I told you guys to just ship out, and I mean it. We don’t have any extra food.”
“Please hold your weapons high, gentlemen,” shouted Martin. “Where we can see them, and hold them by the barrels, please, gentlemen. Thank you. That’s much more friendly. We do all want to be friendly-like.”
“Aren’t you going to take their guns away?” Dustin whispered.
“Would you give up yours?” Martin whispered back. Dustin scowled. “I’m not looking for a fight here, just to get them out of here.”
The three men and two women turned their shopping carts around and pushed them up the road. The small wheels were not suited to the rocks and loose sand of a dirt road. It was obviously a lot of work to get the carts trundled back to where the pavement began. Martin stayed by the oak to watch them. They continued east on the highway, looking back periodically.
“Hey man, I really gotta thank you for showing up when you did,” said Nick. “That was perfect timing. Those guys had me spooked, I gotta tell ya. It was not gonna going well.”
“Glad we could help,” said Martin. “We heard something going on, so came right over. That bunch did sound like trouble. Probably just enough of them to outnumber a lot of households. Speaking of numbers, they said there were just two of you.”
“Jess and Heather had all the kids downstairs hiding. I wasn’t about to tell them there were women and children in the house. I did NOT like the look of those guys.”
“Are Jess and them okay?” Martin asked.
“I think so. Scared as all get-out, but not hurt.”
Dustin, Adam and Teddy stayed outside to watch the road and make sure the goatee bunch did not double back or try anything like a flanking move. Martin went inside with Nick to see how the women and children were. The women were more rattled than the children, who had turned the event into extreme hide and seek.
Martin noticed empty meal wrappers around the fireplace: wrappers to FEMA meals. It looked like the family had eaten the whole box in one sitting. He could not recall seeing Nick or Jess in the line Wednesday. “So, Nick, how are you guys set for food?”
“Oh, we’re pretty good,” Nick said with stiff nonchalance.
“Come on, Nick. Really.”
Nick’s brave pose collapsed. “Yeah, not really. Jess was gonna go shopping Saturday, but the thing hit on Monday. So, we were already kinda low. Margaret’s been really good about giving us a little now and then.”
“She has, has she?”
“Oh, nothing big,” said Nick, “just a little, now and then, for the kids, you know.”
“What about you and Jess, and Heather?”
“Well…” Nick stalled. “On the bright side, I’ve finally developed a taste for rice cakes.” He forced a smile. “Jess bought, like, a case of those for the diet she kept wanting me to start, but I never did. I guess I started it last week. Now that’s pretty much all we’ve got. That and what’s left in the freezer. That’s getting pretty sparse too.”
“So, when you were telling those guys that you didn’t have anything to spare, you weren’t just handing them a line.”
“No. We don’t have anything to spare. Of course, even if we did, I still didn’t like the look of them. I wouldn’t have given them any anyhow.”
“I’ll talk to Margaret and see if we might have something we can spare.”
“Oh thanks, man,” Nick shook Martin’s hand like he had just landed a million-dollar account. “And if there’s anything we can do to help you guys out, you just let me know, okay?”
Martin waved as he left, but his mood was not light. He was not sure what Nick could help with. He and Margaret were already supplying the Oldhams with water and apparently some food too. He resolved to ask Margaret about that.
Martin reconvened the house meeting around the dining room table. “That is precisely why we need to have watches. It was only because Susan was outside watching and listening that we knew what was going on and in time to deal with it.”
Heads nodded around the table.
“But, this also tells me that we have to ramp things up.”
Margaret cocked her head. “How so?”
“Well, four hour shifts is a good start. That’s far better than the six hour shifts we were doing. We’ll be less fatigued, sharper. But for those who aren’t on watch to actually sleep or do other chores, they can’t be indoor-backup. Each watch has to be able to stand and react quickly — on their own. To do that, each watch needs to be armed.”
The pushback came as a flood. Susan shook her head. Judy protested loudly. Adam and Trish tried to decline on moral grounds.
Martin stood up with his hands out to silence the revolt. “It doesn’t matter how you feel about it. Each watch needs to be armed. This is one of those house rules I mentioned earlier.”
“But I’ve never even touched a gun before,” said Trish, almost as if it were a point of pride.
“Violence isn’t the way,” said Adam, sounding like he was quoting a protest sign.
“Well, violence might just have its way with you,” Martin said. “You just saw a hint of that next door. Nick wasn’t looking for trouble, but trouble came up his driveway just the same. You might be willing to take a fall for your beliefs, but it’s not just you anymore. Whoever is on watch is responsible for the whole household. Understand? It’s not about you anymore.”
“I’ve never fired a gun before,” protested Judy with reduced zeal.
“I intend to fix that,” said Martin. “Everyone meet out behind the wood piles in thirty minutes.”
Martin had a small table set up beside a woodpile. Two paper targets were tacked to a heavy timber backstop twenty feet away. On the table were three handguns.
Adam, Trish, Susan and Judy approached the table with caution, as if expecting one of the guns to jump up and start firing on its own.
Martin held up the .22 revolver. “We’re going to start with this one. It’s not heavy and doesn’t have any real kick. It’ll be a good introduction piece. I know you’re all nervous about guns, but they’re just tools. Someone once said, all a gun does is make holes. Guns don’t cause insanity, they don’t spread disease or invite in demons. They’re just tools, like a drill. All a drill does is make holes too. Guns just make holes farther away.”
From the fidgeting, it did not seem his soft-talk had worked very well. “Okay. Before we begin, a few rules for safe gun handling. Safety is a priority. We all want to be safe, right?” Martin waited for nods to the obvious question. They nodded, but without enthusiasm.
“Three simple rules to always remember. First, treat every gun as if it were loaded. Even if you think it isn’t. Second, never point the muzzle at anything you don’t intend to hit. Keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction at all times: Up, down, whatever, until you’re ready to fire. Third, keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”
Their eyes were wider. Perhaps he used too harsh of words — like ‘fire’. “Keep those three simple rules and everyone will be safe. Okay?” He waited for more nods, which were even less enthusiastic. He did not think he was off to a good start.
He showed them how to flip out the cylinder, and see that it was empty. He called Adam forward, thinking that he might be the least opposed to trying the revolver. Perhaps, Martin reasoned, if Adam shot first, it would encourage the other three.
“First off,” Martin said. “Let’s figure out which eye is your dominant eye.” Adam blinked at him blankly. “Go like this.” Martin made a triangle of his fingers. “Hold your hands out and look through the triangle at that tin can on top of the backstop.” All four made the triangle. “Okay, now stay focused on the can, and slowly bring your hands back to your face. Your triangle should land over your dominant eye.”
All four smiled at accomplishing that task. They did something, and it was not scary.
“That’s the eye you’re going to aim with.” He showed them the front and rear sights and how they should line up. He showed Adam how to hold the revolver with both hands, arms extended and to line up the sights on the black dot of the target. It must have seemed like a variation on yoga or pilates. All four seemed relaxed. They were just learning how to stand. Putting on the glasses and hearing protection started to make things suddenly serious again.
Martin put in a single round and handed the revolver to Adam. “Okay, now line up the sights on the dot and pull back gently and steadily on the trigger. Don’t jerk it back. This isn’t a water pistol that you have to pump.”
Adam extended his arms, lined up the sights and took several long minutes before he pulled the trigger. Pop! All four of them jumped.
“Hey! I did it!” Adam exclaimed. “I didn’t hit the paper, but I shot the gun! Did you see, Trish? Did you?”
Trish grudgingly agreed to go next. Seeing that her husband did not go insane, or become demon-possessed, she went through all the steps, with the same result. No hits on the paper. Judy wanted to shoot with her eyes closed. Martin had to explain at some length how a gun is not a firecracker. It will not simply make a loud noise, it will make a hole someplace. Her job, as a responsible gun-carrier is to know exactly where that hole will be.
Even if she never planned to hurt a person, but only try to frighten them, she was going to make a hole somewhere. She needed enough skill to be able to choose where that hole would be. That seemed to help. Judy fired a shot. There were still no hits on the paper.
“This is impossible,” said Trish. “There’s no way to control these things!”
“Yeah.” Judy chimed in. “We’re girls.” Adam frowned at being included.
Martin could see that there was too much fear in them. They were too tense, and pulling or anticipating the recoil. He could see that Adam’s masculine sense of conquering a challenge had been kindled, but the three women were stuck.
He got the idea of having Margaret shoot a few rounds. Perhaps if another woman handled a gun with confidence, they might too. He sent Judy up to the house. Margaret came down, her barn coat unzipped over her flour-spattered apron.
Martin explained that a little demonstration might help the others. Margaret took her favorite pistol from the table. Wordlessly, she demonstrated to all that it was empty. She put on her hearing protection and glasses. She pushed in a magazine and racked the bolt as if snapping a rubber band. She held the gun at low-ready until Martin said ‘go’.
Pop, pop, pop. She dumped the magazine, racked the bolt to empty the chamber and set the gun down, bolt open.
“Ha!” said Trish. “She missed the paper too. Just proves it’s too hard.”
Martin knew better. He had Adam fetch the target paper. Adam walked back with wide eyes and showed the paper to Trish. All three holes were within the black dot.
“I wanna try her gun,” Trish said. “It works way better than this one.” Trish’s innate competitive spirit was overpowering her cultural indoctrination. That was a good sign.
Margaret rolled her eyes. She put two rounds into the little revolver. She sighted on the tin can. Pop. The can flew backward, landing between the legs of the backstop. Pop! It spun away into the leaves.
“I have to get back to my flatbread,” she told Martin. She emptied the casings from the cylinder and handed Trish the empty revolver. She walked back up to her flatbread.
“Okaaay,” said Martin. “I think we got two good lessons here. One is that it’s the person, not the gun, and two: girls can shoot.”
After that, Trish’s aim improved enough to get hits on the edges of the paper. She was still flinching in anticipation of the recoil. Judy still wanted to close her eyes, but compromised to keep one eye open. It was a start. She got excited too, when she made her first hole in the paper. Martin smiled at their progress. He was glad he stocked up on .22 rounds a couple years before the supply dried up. The group was going to need a lot more practice.
Susan continued to hang back, practicing chameleon skills. It did not work. Martin saw her anyway. Dustin took Adam to show him around for watch and to see if their practice shooting had attracted any attention. Judy had kitchen duty, so left to help Margaret. Trish stayed to encourage Susan. There was no one left to go ahead of her. It was her turn.
“I said I would have to get used to seeing them,” she protested. “Not shooting them.”
“It won’t be all that bad,” Martin assured. “I didn’t want to say it the other day, but ‘country people’ also know how to shoot. You saw Trish and Judy. They did great.” Trish beamed: she had hit the paper.
Martin showed Susan how to hold the revolver, but it was worse than a teen boy trying to hold a newborn. People can become very rubbery when asked to hold something they do not want to hold.
“No no no,” he corrected. “You can’t have your fingers up there like that. There’s a little gap between the cylinder and the barrel. Little sparks can leak out. No. Don’t drop it! It’s not that bad. It might just sting a little is all, but if your fingers are out of the way it won’t matter. Here, like this…” Martin tried to shape Susan’s free hand around her trigger hand. “You wrap the fingers of this hand around…”
He stopped suddenly. Both of them realized at the same moment, that he had her hands in his. They were warm. His cheek was near enough to hers to feel the warmth. Their startled eyes locked. A long moment passed.
“What will we do?” Her whisper sounded slightly afraid. It did not sound like she was talking about the revolver.
“I don’t know,” he whispered back. He felt a shiver between his shoulders.
“Are you two dancing, or what?” complained Trish. “Cumon. I wanna see if she can hit the paper or not.”
(end chapter 9)
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Post by kaijafon on Apr 12, 2016 19:15:17 GMT -6
oh great gobs of whoosihood! lol! some people! thanks for the moar!
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Post by mic on Apr 19, 2016 13:07:25 GMT -6
Chapter 10: Tin Man
"Excuse me," Martin said, peeking around the door. "Just coming in for a book."
"Okay," Susan said softly.
Martin went straight to the bookcase, avoiding eye contact. "I'm looking for a book Jake gave me." He rummaged through his 'miscellaneous' shelf of books which defied categorization.
"Ha. Here it is." Martin was embarrassed that he had to blow dust off the top. Trapper's Bible. "Jake gave me this. He likes to hunt and trap. I think he wanted us to have more in common."
Susan stared at her book, also avoiding eye contact.
"Listen," Martin said quietly. "At target practice yesterday. I wasn’t trying to..."
"That's okay," she half-whispered, looking at the wall. "I didn't mind."
It was getting warm. Martin assumed it was because he had his coat on indoors. "I've gotta go." She only nodded.
"What are you rummaging for?" Margaret asked.
"Peanut butter."
"It's not even close to lunchtime," she protested.
"Not for me. The book says to use peanut butter as bait. I've been reading in that book Jake gave me last Christmas. There's a chapter on small animal snares. Figured I could...Ah ha. There it is." He took down the jar.
"Figure you could what?"
"Maybe set some snares out back. If I can catch some squirrels or rabbits or something, it'll be quieter and save our .22 rounds for practice. That bunch needs a lot of practice. See? I got roll of wire from the workbench and some tools."
"How much peanut butter are you planning to waste? It's part of our supply of proteins, you know."
"Waste? Such an optimist. But, the book made it sound like you only need a little. How's this? Looks like about a tablespoon."
"Okay," she said reluctantly. "It better work. But, just peanut butter? Don't you need something more substantial? What about these two flatbreads? They got a little dark and hard. I was going to give them to the chickens."
"The book didn't say anything about flatbread, but I'll take them. Who knows? Maybe squirrels prefer little peanut butter sandwiches."
Margaret swatted him on the shoulder. "You're just mocking me now." They shared a smile.
Martin crunched down the path to cross the little bridge and entered the pine woods. He scanned the ground for traces of animal runs, as the book described. Nothing looked like the illustrations in the book. Did he even have animals in his backwoods?
He knew squirrels cavorted in the trees along the swamp, so decided to try some snares there. He set up a leaning-pole on the big maple he bagged a squirrel on last time. Around the pole he twisted the wire, making loops like the book showed. A dab of peanut butter on the pole and he was finished. It all looked crude and not as tidy as the drawings. He hoped it would work.
While setting up another leaning-pole, he heard leaves rustling. Perhaps it was the squirrel he heard yesterday. Shooting a squirrel was less bushcraft-y than he wanted to be, but it was not a competition. The pot needed filled, regardless of method. He swung the .22 around and knelt in a good stable position. He waited for the squirrel to come bounding out of the brush. When it stood still to look around, he would squeeze off a shot -- hopefully a head-shot this time.
The rustling never came closer. Martin grew curious and skeptical. He cautiously investigated.
"Oh hey," said a startled Andy. "Sorry about straying back on your side of the line, Mr. Homeowner, sir." Andy looked thinner and dirtier.
"Martin. My name is Martin."
"Right. Um...Martin, sir."
"No 'sir'. Just Martin. Why are you here, Andy?" Martin sounded like a judge asking a defendant about his third DWI.
"Yeah, okay. No-sir Martin. Well, to be honest, ya see...things are getting kinda...well...it looked like a whole ton of cattail when we got there, but...well...we're doing an eat-out, kinda just like the muskrats." He hung his head as if confessing.
"You're catching muskrats?" Martin did not know there were muskrats in the area. He thought the college kids might have some trapping tips.
"No, not eating them, eating like them. They go in cycles, ya know? Population grows when food is plentiful. Lots of cute little muskrat babies running around going cheep cheep cheep...or whatever sound it is they make. Never actually heard one, but they look so cute, I figured they had to sound cute too."
"Go on."
"Oh yeah. So, they keep multiplying and eating until they've eaten more than the land can sustain. They 'eat out' their habitat. Population crashes. The weak get sick and die. Most of the rest starve. Death. Dead muskrats all over." Andy got a tragic look on his face. "We're doing like the muskrats."
"You're running out of food in your camp?" Martin asked the obvious to keep Andy talking. He wanted to know more.
"More like ran out. We dug up all the cattail we could find. The swamp pond is empty. We still find some roots, like this burdock I found back there. It was on the other side of the road, No-sir Martin: not on your side, so don't get all mad and stuff."
"I'm not mad, Andy, and it's just Martin. Not no-sir Martin."
"Oh, sorry. So, I thought maybe there were still some beechnuts under here that I didn't see. Really sorry about being all tresspassy. Wasn't trying to, like, stomp on your rights and all."
If Andy looked that scruffy, Martin wondered about the rest of the group. "How are the rest of you doing?"
Andy tried a smile, but it did not last. "Alright, I guess. Ashley isn't feeling too good. Feels cold a lot. We even made fires for her. Jared just stays in his hut most of the time."
"What about your leader, Cupcake...I mean...what was her name?"
"Oh, you mean Mara? Oh man, don't ever call her cupcake. That would be like, the worst." Andy shuddered. "She'd go femi-balistic. Me, Brandon and Jared, well, we'd take hell for the rest of the day, just cuz we had a different chromosome."
"Okay, I'll try not to slip up."
"But Mara, yeah, she's okay. Holding up better than the rest of us. She's trying to keep us going, you know? All motivational speaker and go-getter, like. She's been great...just a little touchy cuz she’s hungry too…” His voice trailed off.
Martin imagined sick college kids huddled in debris huts. He felt a twinge of sympathy: the way you still wince when a kid wipes out attempting some stupid skateboard stunt. They did it to themselves, but still, you knew it had to hurt. No one forced the paleo-idealists to camp in the woods. Mara might be doing better than the rest, but judging from Andy’s degraded appearance, she was probably in rough shape too. Photoshopping had to wear off.
Martin was not sure if he felt bad for Mara or not. She had a toxic attitude, but she was still a woman and a pretty one. He did not like the image of a pretty woman suffering -- even a cranky one.
"You wouldn't happen to have, you know, like, something to eat, would you?" Andy looked like the big-eyed starving African children in the missions posters, except that he was white and twenty, and had a new scraggly beard. At least the eyes looked the same.
"I've got a little peanut butter, and these two hard flatbreads." Martin pulled them from his coat pocket.
Andy stared at them like Golem at his ring. His hands reflexively rose to snatch the prizes, but pulled back. "Oh man. I don't know. Mara is gonna yell her head off if she knew I ate capitalist food."
"Andy. It’s flour, water and oil. How is that capitalist?”
That was all Andy needed to decide. He snatched the bread, breaking it into fragments and stuffing them in his mouth. He dropped to his knees to pick up the bits that fell among the leaves. With both hands darting from ground to mouth and back, Andy resembled a crab feeding in a tidepool.
"Oo man. diss dastes so goob. Oh how I miff bread." Andy carefully picked the littler bits out of his beard and ate them too.
"I better get back," Andy said. "They're gonna think I ran away, but I'm not the running away kind. We got something to eat today! I found this great burdock root and these beechnuts...if that's okay with you, and all...since they were on your side of capitalist oppressor line and all."
"You can have them, Andy." Martin felt bad for the skinny young man. "You know. I might 'accidentally' leave a flatbread out here, under these beeches...sometime...when I'm checking my snares. Never know."
Andy's face lit up like an adopted puppy. "Oh, you'd do that? Aw man. You're alright...for an evil capitalist oppressor." He smiled.
Martin chuckled. "Yeah, we can surprise people sometimes. Might be under a flower pot, or something, just to keep animals from getting the 'lost' (air quotes) flatbread."
Andy’s smile faded. "I better get back. Don't want Mara coming to find me and seeing you again, and oh man, if you ever do see her, do not ever call her cupcake. Oh, that would be the worst." Andy turned and slunk quickly through the brush with an animal-like flexibility.
Martin set up two more snares with his wire and what was left of his peanut butter, then headed back. On the way, he heard the generator start up again. It was a red cape in front of a bull. “Not again,” he muttered to himself. “I thought we settled all that.”
Dustin was hunched over something near the shed. The generator puttered away beside him. Martin stomped over, madder than he was the first time.
“What in blazes are you doing?” he shouted. He kicked off the generator’s red switch. “It wasn’t just a few days ago, I told you that we have to save gas. We can’t be wasting it on trivial…What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”
Dustin said nothing in his defense. He simply hung his head with a guilty little-boy look. It reminded Martin of the time three-year-old Dustin painted the bumper of his truck with a can of OSHA Yellow spray paint which Martin had foolishly left within a toddler’s reach. Little Dustin thought his dad would be so proud with the color upgrade. Martin yelled a lot that day. Then he felt terrible.
He felt terrible again. Apparently, he did not learn much from the painted-bumper incident. He looked at the pile of junk in front of Dustin. His curiously trumped his anger. “No, really. What ARE you doing? What’s all this stuff?”
“I was going to make a gasifier, but I needed to run some power tools to put it together…once I figure out how to put it together. Sorry. I should have asked you about it first, but mom said you were out in the woods and...”
“A what?”
“A gasifier. I saw it on an episode of The Colony a long time ago. These people were trapped in a building and had no power, and evil gang thugs were outside, but they had a ton of wood pallets. They made a gasifier to turn the wood into gas so they could run their generator. I figured I could make one…and not use the gasoline to…” He trailed off, looking for clues to which way Martin’s mood was turning.
“Wait.” Martin stared at the junk. “How would that even work? Or was it just some dopy reality show gimmick…”
“No, it really works!” Dustin brightened up, seeing that Martin was not yelling, but merely puzzled. “I checked it out online after the show, cuz I wondered the same thing.” He pulled two five-gallon metal cans over. “Theirs worked like this. In one can, they burned wood scraps, just to make heat. In the other can, they put little cut up chunks of wood from the pallets. They sealed the chunks-can so the wood gas couldn't get out, see?”
Martin nodded, but did not really understand. What good would gas do in a sealed can?
“Then they piped that wood gas through a filter of some kind. I kinda forgot that part. Then they piped it to their generator. At first it didn’t work, but they fiddled with it, then it did. I figured I could use this can for my fire can, and this one for my wood chunks can. I could use hunks of these exhaust pipe sections to route the gas to the generator and run it without using any gasoline and…”
“Wait. Where did all this junk come from? I don’t remember all this stuff.”
“Oh, well, I sorta snuck into the transfer station and picked through the big metals dumpster. I kinda ripped my pants on the barbed wire fence, but…”
“That’s why I couldn’t find the wagon, isn’t it?”
Dustin hung his head. “I didn’t know you were going to be looking for it.”
“Never mind. Turned out I didn’t need it. Go on. How’s this gasifier thing supposed to work?”
“Oh, well, you fill up the chunks-can and set it on the fire-can. The fire cooks the wood chunks. Since they don’t have enough oxygen or a flame to ignite their gasses, the wood gas just cooks off, so you pipe that to an engine and it burns like…well, gas…which it is…in a different way.”
“What happens when the chunks are all cooked out?” Martin was trying to get his head around the concept.
“The people on the show would let it cool down, dump out the charred bits and refill it.”
“So you could only run it for a little while before having to refuel?”
“I guess so. Why?”
Martin’s wheels were turning as he slowly paced around Dustin’s pile of metal scraps. “Wouldn’t it be better if you could open the top and add in new chunks without having to stop and let it cool down?”
“I suppose, but you’d be letting your gas get out. The engine would stop anyhow.”
“Maybe not, maybe not.” Martin squatted down to poke through the junk. “To get the gasses out of the chunks-can and into their engine, there had to be a way for air to get in, right?”
“Yeah, they punched some holes.”
“Okay, so what if the air intake was smallish and was also the refueling hatch at the top? Air was flowing in anyway, right? Might alter the fuel-air mix, but it wouldn’t stop the flow.”
“Oh, oh, I see what you mean. If the chunks can was tall enough and you pulled the wood-gas from the bottom…”
“Hmmm.” Martin frowned in concentration. “The wood you burn in the bottom can, it just burns up, right?"
"Well, yeah. That's where you get the heat to cook the chunks."
"Okay, but think about our wood stove in the house. For a long slow fire, we get a good bed of coals, then carefully arrange the logs on that. The heat cooks off the gasses in the logs, which burns all blue up near the top."
“Yeah, so?"
"So, the top logs eventually fall down onto the coals and become fuel for the fire too. We add more logs on top and the cycle repeats. What if the wood chunks making the gas become fuel for the fire?” Martin sketched an idea in the dirt. Dustin stacked up the various metal cans that he brought home. None of it looked right. They agreed to move their design-committee meeting to the dining room table where it was warmer. They scribbled over several sheets of paper, but had to evacuate the table. Lunch was ready.
"Man, all that carrying of firewood really made me hungry," said Adam as he took his seat.
"Me too," added Trish. "That water is heavy, and doing laundry in that tub takes a lot of water."
Everyone devoured their meager portion of carrots, rice and beans. Martin quietly pocketed half of his flatbread.
“Could I have some more?" Adam asked. "I'm still hungry."
"I'm afraid that's it for this meal, Adam, sorry," said Margaret.
"But...why? Those selectmen dudes gave you those two big boxes of food."
"Yes, but to make it last, we need to limit ourselves to 1,800 calories a day. You got half of that just now. Hungry will be the new normal around here until something improves. The alternative is full-today, starve tomorrow."
Adam did not like that answer, but had no credible protest. A sullen frown was the best he could muster. Martin was glad it did not escalate to another food tantrum like it did with Ruby.
The rest of the meal was quiet. Somehow, knowing that portions were limited made the food on the plate less filling.
"You'd best get a nap in, Adam." Martin broke the veil of silence. "You'll have the first dark watch tonight."
Martin and Dustin had metal scraps, pipes, cans and sheetmetal scattered over the driveway. They lined up their power tool requirements -- cutting, drilling, grinding -- until they had a critical mass sufficient to warrant running the generator for the power tools.
Once the major elements were cut, fitted and assembled, the contraption needed time for various JB Weld seams set up. The two men set to creating fuel for their gasifier. Dustin chipped at some logs with a hatchet. Martin used brush clippers to make breakfast-link-sized chunks of branches from their brush pile. He was glad he had procrastinated the usual burn-the-brush day chore.
It took longer than they thought to fill two five-gallon buckets with chips and chunks.
"Well, the goop is hard on the seams," Dustin declared. "Let's fire it up."
"Okay," said Martin. "A small fire at first, just to season it and check for leaks."
They scooped in a small load of chips. Martin opened the little hatch in the paint can at the bottom. The lighter started eager yellow licks amid the crumpled paper. A few long breaths blown on the flames had the chips and chunks raging. He locked the hatch. "Okay, start the fan. The fire needs a draft now.”
Dustin began spinning a spoked pulley which he had fastened to the end of a squirrel-cage blower. It was both hand wheel and flywheel. He had to keep giving it periodic strokes to keep the speed up. Eventually, white smoke began to puff out of the flattened copper pipe -- the "jet".
"How long do we let it burn?" Dustin asked.
"This is mostly to cook off the volatiles in the seam goop, which really stink right now, but hey, try and light the smoke." Martin said.
The white smoke would not ignite, even with a flame held within it. "This is what happened to the people on The Colony too."
"So, what did they do to fix it?"
"I don't know. The cameras never really showed."
"Well, let's let it burn out. This was enough for the first burn." The flywheel slowed to a stop. The white smoke faded away.
“What is that?” asked Susan in the way someone might while pointing to a platypus.
“It’s a gasifier,” beamed Dustin. “At least, it’s supposed to be.”
“A what?”
“A gasifier. It’s supposed to make combustible gasses…” Martin paused. He did it again. He wondered if he had some bizarre variety of Tourettes. Instead of spontaneous curse words, he would say ‘combustible gasses’ whenever Susan was nearby. She noticed too, and smiled. “…anyhow, it makes gasses out of wood that we can use to make the generator run.” She looked unimpressed, as if there ought to be more. “Hopefully. That’s the theory anyhow.”
She studied the ad hoc assembly of scrap metals with her hands on her hips. She tilted her head one way and then the other, like a dog trying to understand its master. “You know,” she said at last. It looks kinda like the tin man, from the Wizard of Oz.”
“What?” said Dustin. “No. I was thinking something more NASA-like. Sort of a tall Mars lander thing.”
“No. Don’t you see? This big can part is his chest. This littler can below is his waist. You gave him two little legs below that. Never mind the third leg in the back, that would be like a tail and the Tin Man didn’t have a tail, but look here, this big pipe on one side is like one arm. This tall cylinder thing on the other side…”
“That’s the vortex filter,” interrupted Dustin.
“Whatever. It looks like his other arm. See? A body, legs, arms. What he’s missing is a head.” Susan rummaged through the unused scrap. “Aha.” She set a quart paint can on top with a little giggle. “There’s his little head. See? The Tin Man.”
Martin had to agree. And so, Tin Man was born.
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Post by headlesshorseman on Apr 19, 2016 16:23:33 GMT -6
Great chapter. I hope he doesn't regret feeding the stray. It may take a while for the squirrel poles to get to producing at full swing.
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Post by mic on Apr 22, 2016 18:06:07 GMT -6
Chapter 10: part 2: Glimpses
Martin took a last deep breath of warm air before slipping out beneath the blanket and out the back door. The midnight air had a sharp crispness to it that stung inside his nostrils. He walked slowly around the back of the house, trying to be silent enough to hear whatever other sounds the night might have for him.
The house had been dark inside since supper, so he already had some night vision. Being familiar with the house and yard made what little he could see, just enough to navigate without a flashlight. He moved in slow increments around the back corner of the house, practicing seeing 'slices of pie' before exposing himself. There was nothing there. There never was anything there, for which he was very thankful. But, practicing such things gave him something to keep his mind occupied. On the midnight to 4 a.m. watch, that was important.
Martin wondered where Adam set himself up for his watch. Martin came to relieve him, but had to find him first. He was not on the front porch. Nor was he in the hidey-hole. Martin wondered if Adam had gotten clever and set himself up in a tree stand, or something.
A faint scraping sound perked up his ears. Was it an animal -- or a person -- dragging something? It was coming from the road. At least it seemed like it was until Martin passed the shed. It was coming from the shed.
There was no way to open the shed's creaky hasp quietly, so Martin counted on the element of surprise. He had his maglight and 9mm ready. He yanked open the door. Dunan sat up quickly, startled, and blinded by the flashlight.
"You were sleeping on a pile of tarps?" Martin tried not to sound as angry as he was.
"Oh, hey, sorry about that. I just got really tired...towards the end. I was wide awake and watching and listening the whole time, or nearly the whole time. It was just near the end...that I was...checking out the shed and...just stopped to rest. I didn't think I'd fall asleep. I'm really sorry, man. It won't happen again."
Martin wanted to shake Adam by the collar, he was so angry. Through clenched teeth, he said, "This better not happen again. Everyone in that house was counting on YOU to watch for trouble and YOU were sleeping. The next time you think you can't stay awake, you come back in and get relieved early. Sleeping on watch is never acceptable."
"I know. I know. I'm really sorry. It'll never happen again. I promise. Always awake. Always watching."
Martin growled. "Now get in the house. Put the revolver in the box." Martin flung the shed door wide so Adam could pass.
It would take a good half an hour for his night vision to recover from the flashlight beam. He sat on a wood pallet near the shed. He could barely make out the silhouette of the house against the starry sky. He closed his eyes to concentrate on hearing night sounds and to not dwell on Adam.
Slowly, the quiet sounds of the night drained away his anger. A pair of barred owls, one near, one far, debated who-cooks-for-you. Another night bird of some kind was making soft pip-pip sounds from the trees lining Baldwin's meadow. A faint clank or bang would waft in with its own semi-echo that signaled it had come from far away. A door slammed. The way sound carried in the cold night air, it could have been a couple miles away. The night was quiet. Martin liked it that way.
At breakfast, Dustin was excited to work on Tin Man again. He got so carried away describing his next steps that little spatters of cream-of-wheat trailed down his chin. Margaret smiled. Susan did too. Martin pretended not to see it. Finally, when Judy saw it and was horrified that her very own husband would look like that. She took a napkin and wiped his chin. Dustin did not notice. He kept talking.
Dustin kept talking while he and Martin walked out to the driveway. He was convinced that the failure to light the jet was from stoking too small of a fire or not letting it get hot enough. His theory was that the white smoke was mostly moisture in the wood cooking off: steam, basically.
They both stopped when they saw Tin Man.
"Aw, maaannn," Dustin whined. "I was gonna make up a nose-cone thing so it would look like a rocket, but she went and drew a face on the can." He pointed with both hands. "I can't make it look like a rocket now. He's got a head...and a face...with little eyes....awww maaannn." Martin stifled a chuckle.
Martin lit the fire in the burn chamber. Dustin spun the flywheel to get the draft going. White smoke began to flow out of the jet. Dustin wanted to be patient, but it was not easy. Ten long minutes was a long time to keep the fan's flywheel spinning. Slowly the smoke began to change from white to gray, then blue.
Dustin held the lighter to the blue smoke. It puffed a couple of times, but finally caught. A nearly invisible jet of pale blue flame crackled at the end of the copper jet. Dustin shouted and jumped around in a happy-dance, at least, as much as he could while still spinning the flywheel. They had succeeded in extracting combustible gas from wood chips.
Martin was excited too. He was happy that Susan was not around, or he might erupt into uncontrollable shouting of 'combustible gasses, combustible gasses...'
Margaret came to see what all the whooping was about. She got a happy-son one-armed hug. Judy smiled, partially in embarrassment with her husband's boyish excitement. Susan was amused. Martin made sure not to speak. The Dunans came to see what all the noise was about. Adam avoided eye contact with Martin, but that suited Martin just fine. Margaret brought everyone a celebratory apple wedge.
The next step would be crucial: hooking Tin Man up to the engine of the generator. It was one thing to make some blue smoke burn. It was quite another to make a four-stroke engine run. The successful burn gave Martin and Dustin enough enthusiasm to overlook how little they had figured out for the next steps. Small engine carburetors are fussy things compared to pop-riveted sealcoat cans and tailpipes. The work was slow.
They took a break for lunch. Dustin continued to talk all through lunch too. The women all gave each other little sideways glances and knowing smiles -- a shared feminine burden of enduring long bursts of 'guy talk' about carburetors, intake strokes, valves and such. Dustin did not notice.
While Dustin fabricated piping to connect Tin Man to the generator, Martin set up for another round of target practice. The ice broken, this session was advertised as focusing on technique. Martin was not all that concerned about their technique yet. He simply wanted them to be more comfortable shooting. Hitting the bullseye would come later.
Adam was quiet through the practice. He took his shots and got most of his hits on the paper. He left the practice as soon as he was done, disappearing in the house.
Judy continued to struggle. The morality was not letting go of her. Martin set her up an alternate target. She was happier shooting at a tin can that sat near one of the legs of the backstop. The paper target may have symbolized the center of a human being too much for her. Intentionally aiming somewhere else came easier. She hit the can once, which spawned a broad smile. She sounded disappointed that Margaret called her in to help with the bread. Martin took that as a good sign — a very small step, but a good sign.
Martin stood a step farther away from Susan as she practiced. Her face showed a grim resolve. Martin gave her a few tips with his hands in his pockets. She acknowledged with a nod, but not making eye contact. Her aim improved. She was getting six inch groups.
Trish took her turn enthusiastically. Her first two shots were respectably closer to the dot than the edge of the paper. Her next two shots were wild.
"Ow," Trish said. "Something hurt my hand!"
"You have your free hand too far forward," said Martin. "Wrap your fingers tighter around your trigger hand."
"Like this?"
Martin slumped. "No. That's worse. Interweave. Lay the top fingers into the valleys of..."
"I can't get it. What do you mean, 'valleys'?"
"The spaces between...Oh here. I'll show you." Martin stepped over and placed her fingers in the gaps of her trigger hand. How hard was that to understand? he thought. She already had it once.
"Like this?" Trish leaned toward him slightly and made a slow little tilt of her head, as if trying to rub her cheek against his. It reminded Martin of how Pudge used to rub his cheek against table legs or door jambs, especially when it was close to supper time.
Martin pulled his head back. Her hair tickled his nose. What an odd move, he thought. Maybe her coat felt bunched up, or something, and she had to shift to get it to hang better. "Um. Yeah. Try it now."
Trish fired two more rounds. Both landed near the dot. "Oh Martin, you are such a good teacher," Trish said breathily. "I'm sure that if you keep teaching me, I can be really good."
She put the revolver on the table. "I have to go inside and change out of these clothes." She glanced at his eyes. "My turn for watch is coming up soon. I need to put on something warmer. I don't like being cold." She walked up the hill with more twisting to her gait than Martin remembered. Maybe her coat really doesn't fit well.
"What was THAT all about?" said Susan in a half-whisper. Her tone was accusing: her eyes narrow.
"What was what all about?" Martin wondered if Susan noticed the ill fit of Trish's coat too. Women notice clothing things faster than guys do.
"That whole 'I don't know where to put my hands' thing." Susan mocked Trish's tone.
"She said the shots hurt her hands." Martin had recent events in mental rewind, searching for what Susan thought ‘that’ was.
Susan leveled a stare at Martin, her eyes narrower still. "Are you telling me you didn't see what she was doing?"
"See what? What did she do?" Martin was trying to remember how Trish held her hands. None of Susan’s line of questions made any sense to Martin.
She stared hard into his eyes. He wondered if he was supposed to say something, but forgot what it was. It was a pop quiz and he was totally unprepared.
“What?” he asked again.
Her face relaxed, only to take on that sad-puzzled look again. "You really don't know, do you?"
"Know what?” Martin was getting flustered. “You need to use some nouns and verbs. This feels like that Abbott and Costello routine. I don't know what you're talking about."
She shook her head, like a teacher handing back yet another F paper. "Oh Martin."
Susan went on to shoot a three inch group. She seemed surprised and pleased.
"Wow. You did really well." Martin was impressed.
"I kinda did. Maybe I just needed a little motivation."
"Huh?"
"Never mind, Martin. I'm going to stop here, before I mess up and ruin it. Here. I'll help you carry in all this stuff."
Martin took the 10-22 out into the woods to see if that supper-squirrel was still frolicking in the leaves. He had to check on his snares anyhow. The woods seemed particularly quiet. His first snare looked like it had been ravaged by Visigoths. The wire was torn away and peanut butter licked off the bark. He shook his head as he coiled up the tangle of wire.
The second snare had not been touched, but the peanut butter was gone. He had neglected to bring more with him. He would only have to make another trip out to re-bait them and reset his first snare. He wondered if there was something in the woods much larger than a squirrel that was eating bait and savaging his wire snares. He cast a wary eye through the naked trees.
Approaching his third snare, his heart leapt with joy. Hanging from his lean-pole was a gray squirrel. So, I got you after all! I’ll bet hat's why the woods are so quiet today, eh? There's probably just enough time before dark to get you cleaned up for the pot. He disengaged the stiff squirrel. The wire could be straightened and reset, but he still had no fresh bait. The prospect of second trip into the woods did not seem as much of a failure now. He was coming home as the successful hunter. He also wondered if the woods were so quiet because he had taken the last squirrel. He shook off the thought. There had to be others. They were just someplace else at the moment.
On his way back, Martin stopped at the beech trees. He set his half of flatbread on the leaves and covered it with the drip tray of a flower pot. He worried that he was only feeding a stray dog, but was too soft-hearted not to.
“Soup.” said Adam flatly. "A little break from rice and beans, I guess.” He stirred his bowl. “Mostly broth,” he said to himself.
"You guys have chickens," said Trish, taking her seat. "You probably make a lot of chicken soup, right?"
Margaret simply smiled. Martin passed around the platter of flatbread. One disk per person.
"Their chicken soup can be really special, sometimes," Susan said with a piercing look at Martin. "Is this...?"
"Yes. This is one of the special ones," Martin said with a half wink.
"Oh." Susan sighed and fished around the bowl with her spoon.
"Great. I'm starved," added Dustin. "Can I say the prayer tonight?" Martin nodded. It was the typical short prayer of an impatient, hungry young man.
"So, I took the little radio up on the meadow hill today," Dustin said between noisy slurps. "I could get a couple stations up there. One was out of Manchester, I think. It was kinda weak. They were talking about police areas or zones, or something. I didn't get it. It faded out.
"The Mass station was clearer. They were talking about some hangups on shipments of aid. The trucks that were supposed to come to Salem, Nashua and Manchester yesterday are held up by some transportation snafu or something. They should be able to get that cleared up, though. Sounds like trucks have been arriving in Worcester and Lowell every other day or so. Think that Ohio thing is part of the problem.”
“Could be,“ said Martin.
(end chapter 10)
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Post by headlesshorseman on Apr 23, 2016 11:59:27 GMT -6
Is there going to be a girl fight?
Will Margaret referee?
Great chapter Mic.
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