Siege Fall (Book 2: Siege of New Hampshire)

[mic]

Chapter 11: part 1: Seeing Red



Dustin and Martin had Tin Man and the generator positioned near the shed to take advantage of a sunbeam. The warmer air was nicer for working on small parts without gloves. They looked up from their work on Tin Man. The sound of a Harley was coming down their road. Pastor John turned in, still pulling his plywood trailer.

"Good morning," John said with less cheer than usual. "How are you all getting on out here? Ruby settling in okay? Not too many stories?"

Martin and Dustin looked at each other. "Actually, she died Wednesday night. We think she had a stroke."

"Oh," what thin congeniality John had mustered, faded away. "Sorry to hear that."

"Pastor John!" Margaret called cheerily. That is, until she saw the somber faces. "Oh, did Martin tell you about Ruby?"

John nodded. "I've brought some similar news of my own. Elise died, maybe Thursday. I found her yesterday."

"Oh no."

"I visited her last Sunday, while making my rounds. She kinda knew she might not make it long. She only had a couple more days of her medications left. I asked around, to see if anyone had her kind of heart pills, but no one did. She made her peace, and all. We prayed together. She said that I should give you this." He took a music box from the trailer and handed it to Margaret. "She said you always smiled when it played. She wanted you to remember her and smile again.”

"So," John tried to lighten the mood and change the topic. "How many do you have out here with you, Martin?"

"Me and Margaret, Dustin and Judy, a woman named Susan -- that's her out by the woods there. She’s on watch. Then just recently, another young couple from town here who had to abandon their house: Adam and Trish."

"Hmm. Kind of a full house. Everyone getting along okay?"

Martin hesitated. There was too much to say to even start, so he did not. "Pretty much, yeah."

“That’s good. That’s good. The Hamiltons…well, they aren't doing so well," said John. "I think the stress of trying to get by... And I don't know what happened to the Boisverts. There was nobody home, no note, nothing. They're just gone. Connie and Rick have taken in a couple strangers. Things are still dicey with the people around Indian Lakes. Guess they've been getting bolder."

Margaret returned with a few canned goods and a box of pasta. "These are for the Hamiltons. Tell them we're praying for them, okay? Tell them they can make it, just hang in there.“ She placed the food in the mostly empty trailer, then looked up suddenly and waved.

"Lance! Miri!" She waved to an old couple walking in the road. She gestured for them to come over and talk.

"Thanks guys," said John. "I see you have company, I'd better go. Listen, this might be my last visit until we can figure something else out. We're getting really low on gasoline. Take care and remember that we're always in His hands." He slipped on his helmet, cranked the big Harley to life and rode off.

Lance and Miri stepped over the driveway flower bed, trimmed back for winter. Miri carried a cardboard box.

"What's in the box?" Margaret asked.

"Oh, just some of our canned peaches." Miri handed Margaret the box. "A little thank you for all your help getting our wood stove working again."

"You didn't have to do that," said Margaret with recipient reflex. "But, come on in. Sit a spell. We don't get guests anymore. I have a little coffee left. I'll brew up a pot." The three of them chatted all the way up to the front door.

"That worked out kinda neat," said Martin. "She gives away three cans of veggies, and gets three jars of peach. A net wash for the food supplies. Good thing too, when we're trying to make it last."

"Yeah, um...about that," said Dustin. "I overheard the Dunan's last night complaining about the small portions. I don't think they knew I was in the next room."

"They'll just have to get used to it. Your mother's got it all figured out and I have no reason to question her charts and schedules."

"I know, but just a heads up that they're grumbling. But hey, that's enough about them. I want to get Tin Man going today. I'm beyond excited!"

"You just called it Tin Man. Have you given up on making it look like a rocket?"

"Yeah. Now that she pointed out the arms and legs thing, I can't help but see a little tin man. Why fight it? Now,” Dustin rubbed his hands together. “I figure we're going to need some springs and things. I had a box of junk under my bed from when I took apart my..." Dustin's voice trailed off.

"I knew you took apart your RC car and train set. You thought I wouldn't notice they were gone?"

Dustin smiled a guilty smile. "Hehe, yeah, I suppose not, huh. I really thought a remote control train without rails would have been totally awesome…but…Well, anyhow, there's some good little springs and stuff in there. I'm gonna go rummage for buried treasure. Back in a bit!" Dustin ran up the front walk.

“Judy’s on patrol now,” said Susan. “Thought you and Dustin might want some help. Where's he going in such a hurry?"

"He's looking for some junk, some buried treasure under his old bed. Want to go on a treasure hunt yourself?" Martin asked.

"You mean look for more junk, don't you?"

"Hehe, You're onto me. In the shed, on a shelf somewhere, there's a couple boxes of plumbing junk: copper pipe scraps, elbows, fittings, old valves and stuff like that. I'm pretty sure that in one of those boxes, I had a big ball valve. It'll be a hunk of bronze about this big, with flat handle on one side, probably with red rubber on it. Might be yellow. I don't remember."

"Okay..."

"If I do still have it, it'll make a handy air bypass valve. If we don't have it, we'll have to cobble something else together. It's worth a little rummaging."

Susan walked into the shed looking less than enthused at her treasure quest.

Martin sat on an inverted paint can while he tried to bend a hand-made elbow into fitting the carburetor opening. In his peripheral vision, he saw Trish approaching from the back door. Instead of her usual ponytail, her brownish-blonde hair was down around her shoulders. She had that twist to her walk again, her coat zipped up.

"Still working on your project, hmmm?" She leaned over, pretending interest in Tin Man's seams. "You're sooo smart, Martin."

"Thanks," Martin replied flatly. He did not look up, but continued trying to thread small nuts onto fussy thin studs. "Did you need something?"

"Well, actually, I did have something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Go on. I'm listening. Just trying to get this fitting to seal up against the carburetor."

"Well, I know how Margaret has her meals all planned and stuff...and I know she's trying to do it to help everyone...and I can really appreciate all the time she puts into it and all...but...."

Martin did not feel inclined to help Trish out conversationally. She would get to her point eventually. He had tiny washers to not drop in the dirt.

"Well, I was just thinking that since you're in charge of the whole house, you would be able to see the bigger picture...that maybe everyone in the house isn't exactly equal...I mean equality is a wonderful thing and all, but you and I both know that sometimes, someone is more important and the usual rules don't necessarily apply. I mean, I can see how things really are around here." She tossed her hair back and struck a couple fashion-catalog poses.

Trish had to wait until Martin stopped making noises with his metal file.

"And, well, I really think you deserve a little extra for all the hard work you do around here. And what you did with your well-deserved extra portion...well, that would be your business and nobody else's, right?"

Since Martin was not looking up at her, she leaned over. "Gosh, it's kinda warm out here." She unzipped her coat part way. Martin continued to work without looking up more than a quick glance -- which was more than enough. There was nothing but pink within the teal jacket opening. Martin sighed.

Undaunted at Martin's apparent lack of appreciation, Trish continued. "You know, it really is quite warm for this time of year." She unzipped her jacket further. Martin caught enough of a glimpse of a red push-up bra to prompt a deeper sigh, and tighter focus how the homemade fitting seated against the carburetor flange. Trish was of average build, but the undergarment designers had succeeded in making average look like abundance. Martin still had not looked up, so she shifted her weight from one leg to the other like a model at the end of the runway.

"So, as I was saying, what you do with your rightful supplies is your business. You could use them however you liked. No one need know how you use them, either, right? They're yours, fair and square. I know I would certainly like a little more to eat, but that's how it goes. The meal plan is the meal plan. I'm certainly okay with that. We all can't be the leader like you...and you are an excellent leader, Martin."

Martin was not appreciating her enhanced-average-form as much as she expected. She leaned over, deeply, to whisper and present maximum assets. "I looked on the watch schedule, and I saw that you'll be relieving me at 8:00. I'll see you then...Martin."

She zipped up her coat and sauntered up to the back door, pausing once to toss her long hair aside and cast a big smile over her shoulder.

Martin let out a big sigh when the back door closed. He was glad that was over.

"Now don't tell me you didn’t see THAT!" said an angry Susan from behind him. "I was in the shed the whole time. The whole time! I heard everything. I SAW everything. Oooo. She makes me so angry. Don't tell me you didn't notice. You had to notice. How could you NOT notice?"

"Calm down. I noticed. I might be a little slow, but I’m not that dense. I figured out what you were talking about at the last target practice.”

“So what are you going to do about it?" she demanded, hands on hips.

"First thing will be to trade watches with Dustin."

"And then?"

"I think that's it." Martin stood up and brushed the metal shavings off his pant legs.

"That's it?" Susan was stoking up a full boiler of rage. "But she was practically throwing herself at you. Promising...well...strongly hinting that she'd...and in a red bra! She was standing with her back to the house and no one could see what she was doing...except I was in the shed and I saw. Ooo, she makes me so mad." Susan’s white fists vibrated beside her hips.

Martin touched her hand, which startled her into silence. He looked her in the eye and spoke softly. "First off, she was just doing that to try to get extra food. That's all. She didn't plan to do anything except be flirty and imply things to get her way. I’m guessing that’s worked for her in the past. She wasn't going to actually do anything. Even I could tell that."

"But who does she think she…”

"Second, I'm not as shallow and stupid as she thinks. Maybe all the guys she's ever known have been drooling brutes who can be hypnotized by a red bra. I don't know them, but I do know me and I'm not like that. We’re all living in tight quarters these days. We all have to put up with each other and try to get along. I’m not going to create piles tension by ratting her out.”

"But she...”

"And third, I have a much bigger problem."

Suddenly, all her steam vented away. "What?"

"The reason you're so angry."

"Oh." Susan went from super-heated steam to icy waterfall. She stared at the ground for a long time. Martin let her stare in peace. He could see many wheels turning. There was a great deal he was not saying, so it was only fair that she be allowed time to not say things too.

When her inner computer had run through the complex equation and printed out an answer, she glanced up at him with a worried look. "Are you...upset with me for it?"

"No. That's part of why it is my biggest problem."

"Hey, look at the cool stuff I found.” Dustin walked up with a shallow box. "I'm sure glad mom never got around to cleaning under my bed. These little springs will work great for making up a throttle valve. Did you find that ball valve?"

"Yes," Susan said. She held out the valve for Dustin, but continued to look at Martin with her sad-puzzled look. “Then…what do we do?” she asked faintly.

Dustin snatched the valve from her hand. “Use it as our air mixing valve, that’s what. This has got to work. It's just too cool NOT to work."

"Listen, Dustin. I'm trading watches with you tonight." Martin said.

"Really? You're okay with coming on at midnight?"

"Yes. It'll be good for me. Best for everyone, really."

"Cool. Hey, I can get an early start on chipping up some more fuel. Oh, I see you got that carburetor fitting done. That looks awesome. I've got the intake tube almost made up. I'll glom on this ball valve and rig up a little butterfly whoozie and maybe we can give it a go for real."

Martin smiled at Dustin's tinkering enthusiasm. "I'm going in the house awhile. Will you be okay out here on your own?"

"No problem. Don't be too long though. I plan on working like lightening."

"Susan, would you go throw some more litter in the chickens' run, please?"

She nodded, but stood still.


Lance and Miri were hunched over the Simmons’ wood stove. Scraps of cardboard, lath and aluminum foil were scattered at their feet. Margaret could easily read the 'what the heck?' look on Martin's face.

"Miri and Lance made a little dehydrator for the top of their wood stove the other day. They don't have a generator, so they needed to dry their remaining freezer meats. They thought we'd like one too, so came to show us how they did it.“

"Your wood stove is a really different shape from ours," Lance said without looking up. "Gonna take some fussing and fitting, but I'll betcha we can get something..."

"That would be great, Lance. Thanks," said Martin. He turned to Margaret to whisper, "Let's go in the kitchen a minute."

"Okay. We're in the kitchen. What?" she whispered.

"I think we might have a little problem brewing with the Dunans. Trish was outside just now, strongly…um…hinting that she'd like more food than your meal plan gives her." Martin knew the red bra approach was an irrelevant complication, not salient to the food issue, and best ignored. He wanted to imagine that Trish, herself, would soon look back at her actions, be horrified and wish that no one ever knew what she did. Martin was more than happy to let the whole silly incident slip into the silence of the past.

"If you're asking for her..."

"No no no." Martin held his hands up. “Not asking for anything. Just saying that she was asking as a heads-up."

"Well, they can't have any extra. I've calculated everything out to make it last as long as possible. We can't go deviating from the meal plan, giving food to people just because they're still a little hungry." Her frown was not quite a scowl, but it was working on it.

"Yeah, um...about that..." Martin winced a little as he tried to select his words carefully. "When I was over at Nick's, you know, after the beggars were run off, I saw a lot of FEMA meal wrappers on the floor."

Margaret's frown evaporated.

"I didn't remember seeing Nick or Jess, or even Heather in the line on Wednesday. Certainly not up in the first half of people who got boxes before the truck left."

Margaret's eyes were wide and sad. She had been found out, breaking her own strict rule.

"They don't have hardly anything, Martin." Margaret pled her case. "I know we don't have enough to last until Spring, but they have even less. I can't just let Jess and the kids starve while I...we...still have something."

"I know, I know," Martin tried to sound sympathetic, not accusing. "It's really tough. And I have to confess, I snuck some food out to the woods for that scruffy kid Andy I was telling you about."

"You what? Is that why you put half of your flatbread in your pocket? I'll bet you didn't think I saw that, but I did. I thought it was odd."

"Yes, that's what I did, and it was probably a mistake, but it sounds like they've got next to nothing out there. What else could I do?"

Margaret smiled a sad smile. "So you do understand."

"Yes, but it's still a problem. If we have extra for Andy or the Oldham's, how credible is it to say we don't have extra for Trish and Adam?"

"Because they’re still getting 1800 calories a day. That's why." Margaret started to raise her voice.

"Shhh. I don't know where they are," Martin held his finger to his lips.

"We still have decent meals. That's why. Jess and the kids don't. I can't just eat my 1800 calories, knowing that Jess and the kids don't have anything."

"They're not completely out."

"Maybe not yet, but they will be soon. I had to do something."

Martin stared out the window for a moment. "Maybe I should try to do something."

"How would that be any different than me giving them something?"

"I'll take Nick up to town. Landers said the food pantry still had some supplies, remember? Maybe if I make some introductions, and Nick can plead his case, they might give him some aid. Maybe they won't. I don't know. Seems worth a try, though."

Margaret smiled. She had a co-conspirator.

>

[pbbrown0]

Mic,

I have to say your character development is really getting strong. It is the subtle things that can give real depth to characters, and your skill in that area has sharpened a lot since Book 1.

MOAR Please.

[mic]

Thanks PB. The second book does have a lot more characters. The first book was primarily just the two.

[mic]

Chapter 11: part 2: Fleeing Colors

"What's with the flowers?" Nick asked.

"Oh. Margaret trimmed back her mums yesterday and wanted me to put them on Ruby's grave. We'll do that later, though. We can come up and over Stockman Hill on the way back."

"I really wanna thank you for helping out, Martin," Nick said.

"We haven't gotten you anything yet," cautioned Martin.

"I know, but just coming along, showing me who to talk to..." Nick watched his feet as he walked. "I didn't know there was a food pantry or about the shelter and stuff."

"It helps to come to the meetings," Martin cringed inside at the irony. He had been avoiding town meetings for ten years and only attended two.

"Yeah. I suppose. I really wanted to somehow make it on my own, you know? Provide for Jess and the kids. I tried to do some hunting in the woods out back. I heard you shooting -- a lot sometimes."

"Oh, that was target practice. I'm trying to get my group a bit better with shooting. Could be more trouble with beggar types."

"Ah. Makes sense. Sounded like too much for hunting. Still, I went out in my woods, but couldn't find anything. Jess is trying to be all brave about it, but I can see she's really worried about the kids."

Nick lapsed into silence for the rest of the walk. The burdens of father and husband could be extremely heavy in lean times.



"Oh, hey, Hi there, Simmons," Landers came up to shake Martin's hand. "How are you getting on with your new guests? Pretty good, right? They seem like a nice couple."

Martin noticed that Landers had conveniently forgotten the almost-fight at that Friday meeting. He was still trying to "sell" the relocation deal. Martin wondered how he would react if he told him about the red bra incident, but there was no way to even start that conversation. Some cans of worms are best left closed.

"Yeah, it's been…interesting," Martin said. "But I came up, with my neighbor here, Nick Oldham. He's in the house down the road from us."

Landers shook Nick's hand heartily. "Moved in a short while ago? I don't recognize you."

Nick dropped his eyes. "Actually, we've been here for almost twelve years now. Moved in when my son was just four."

"Oh," Landers was at a momentary loss. Nick was yet another unknown resident.

The small-town ethos of everyone knowing everyone had been strained, if not outright eroded, by the twentieth-century psyche of the bedroom community. Towns were just a place for people to sleep, not to live. They lived their lives elsewhere -- mostly in their cars -- commuting, at distant jobs, shopping malls, soccer camps, etc. Martin imagined that the selectmen had struggled for years with having a growing population of such shadow citizens.

"You mentioned something about having some supplies in the food pantry," Martin said. "Nick and his family are nearly out of food, so I wondered if..."

Landers started to shake his head. "We don't have that much and we're trying to parcel it out to the families that took in the shelter folks. That Quinn guy said there'd be a supply truck on Friday. Even his packet described deliveries to restock our 'local node' until the next phase, but there's been no trucks.

"Please?" Nick actually clasped is hands in the archetypal begging pose. "My kids are getting hungry. I don't mind the rice cakes...so much...but the kids need more than that…please? Anything?"

Martin could see Landers' shoulders sag. He was too much of a public servant to have a cold heart. "Maybe a little." He rushed in the disclaimers. "But the food pantry can't be a regular source for your family. It has a lot of other mouths to feed and not enough to go around."

"Oh, I understand," Nick gushed. It was not quite a 'yes' but sounded like the lead-up to one.

"Come this way," Landers led Nick down to the Town Hall basement. Martin waited in the corridor. He did not want it to look like he was 'shopping' too.



"Oh no, really. This is great. I can't thank you enough. This is wonderful," Nick continued to gush. He came up the narrow stairway with the lid of a banker's box in his arms. On it were several cans of vegetables, some small boxes, a bag of rice and a bag of dry beans. The box lid was an inadequate vessel.

Everyone shook hands.

"This is wonderful," Nick kept repeating. "Jess and the kids will be so excited."

"I imagine," said Martin. "Try to be careful, though. They might be tempted to eat until they're full at the first meal, and when you’ve been hungry for awhile, it can take a lot to feel full. Everything you have there could be gone in a day."

Nick looked somber at the thought. The debris-field of FEMA wrappers indicated that they had already done that.

"I need to go put these flowers on Ruby's grave," Martin said. "A little break from going uphill won't be a bad thing either." Nick nodded and stayed at the edge of the road. Keeping his shifting load in his arms was a challenge.

Martin was relieved to see that the soil was still where he left it -- no animals had been pawing around -- and his little wooden marker stood where he placed it. He laid the little bouquet of orange and purple mums in front of the wooden marker. He thought he should say something to the grave, but had no idea what. He noticed that the trench had a few more places filled in, beyond Eugene and Keith.

Thoughts of the trench had Martin in quiet musings. The faint sound of racing engines drifted up through the silence. He stopped to listen closer.

"Do you hear that?" Martin asked.

"Yeah. Sounds like maybe a couple cars. A little one and a bigger one, driving really fast. Wonder where that's coming from?"

"It's getting louder," Martin observed. "Maybe the police or something going down South Road?" The engine whine was loud and getting louder.

"Or right at us!" Nick exclaimed. He rushed to get away from the road, spilling his box of food over the damp grass and leaves.

Up the hill sped a small silver sedan, an older model import. It began to sputter. The engine missed, then cut out altogether. Martin and Nick watched as the little Nissan coasted past them, losing speed quickly on the uphill grade. It slowly crunched to a stop on the roadside before the crest of Stockman Hill.

Martin bent over to help Nick pick up his fallen food. A neon blue tuner come roaring up the hill. It screeched to a stop in front of the Nissan. The family in the Nissan had climbed out and stood in a little huddle. Out of the tuner stepped two thin young men in baggy hiphop attire. They approached the frightened family with hostile gestures and angry words.

Martin's instincts got the better of him again. He stepped over to the confrontation. "Hey, take it easy," he shouted to the first hiphop. "They're not bothering anyone."

"No YOU take it easy, chump!" Hiphop #1 pulled a huge pistol out of his jacket pocket and aimed it at Martin with a swaggering one-hand pose. "This ain't none o' your business. These people done stole some of OUR stuff and we're taking it back."

Martin was caught flat footed. He had his 9mm in his pocket, but also had a bag of beans in his hand. There was no way he could out-draw a trigger pull.

"Yeah, taking it back. It's ours," said Hiphop #2. He pulled a chunky black pistol out of his jacket and aimed at the huddled family. The frightened mother was trying to cover her eight-year-old son with her arms.

"You back off, trash, or I pop you too,” threatened Hiphop 1. He waved his big pistol around before pointing it back at Martin. It was an odd piece. It had a very long barrel, longer than Martin would have thought would fit in a jacket pocket. It had no cylinder, so must have been a semi-auto. Yet, the barrel looked fixed and had a rail atop it like Martin's slug barrel had -- only chunkier.

"Don' make me shoot you too," blustered Hiphop 1.

"Don't make me shoot YOU," came a booming voice from the house beside them. All eyes snapped around to see. Beside the heavy porch post stood a stocky man, silver hair, his eye behind the scope of a long rifle aimed at Hiphop 1. Both hiphops turned their pistols towards the porch.

"I don't wanna shoot you either," came another voice. This one came from the house across the road. The middle-aged man stood behind a hedge with a pistol fully-extended and a bead on Hiphop 2's head. "But I could change my mind."

"You boys just put your toys on the ground," boomed the man on the porch.

"Hey," protested Hiphop 1. "They stole our stuff. We’s just gettin' back our stuff."

"Don't know, don't care," boomed porch man. "Put 'em down before I decide to help you."

Both young men slowly lowered their hands and laid their guns on the ground.

"Now get back in your car and get out of here," said porch man. His eye never left the scope.

The young men stooped to retrieve their guns, but the other homeowner shouted. "Not with those. You just leave those."

"Hey, those are ours," protested Hiphop 1.

"Back to not caring," said porch man. "I don't think you boys ought to have those. You're acting kind of irresponsible. Now go on, get back in your car." He waved the barrel toward their car.

The young men looked at each other, as if expecting the other to have a better idea. They slowly walked backward and got into their tuner without taking their eyes off of either homeowner. After a sloppy three-point turn, the tuner roared down the hill and back into the distance.


"Okay, now what's going on out here?" demanded the man on the porch. He and the man across the street relaxed their stances. Both held their guns at high-ready.

Martin explained about him and Nick living on Old Stockman Road, coming back from Town Hall, the engine roars, the little Nissan stalling and the arrival of the tuner boys. The man on the porch introduced himself as Gene Merdot. The man across the street said he was Lyle Talbot.

“Don’t remember seeing you before,” said Gene. “No wait. You were at that meeting on Monday.” Martin nodded eagerly. “You had a sausage or something.”

“Yeah, that was me.” What a thing to be remembered for, Martin thought.

“You ought not be going around unarmed," said Gene. "These are kinda dangerous times." Martin explained about having his 9mm, but a bag of beans too.

"I'm sure glad you guys stepped in," said Martin. "Not sure what they would have done to these people.” Attention returned to the three newcomers, still in a tight huddle beside their Nissan.

The father introduced himself, as Carlos Perez. He said they came from Manchester. His english was pretty good, but his accent was pronounced. He introduced his wife, Anna, who did not speak, but had the air of an Ethiopian princess about her — albeit a frightened princess. Young Lucas was more eager to talk. He spoke with almost no accent at all. Carlos told how they ran out of gas going up the hill, trying to escape the men in the blue car.

“What do you plan to do with your new friends, Simmons?” asked Gene.

“My friends? But they ran out of gas coming up the hill. I was just walking here.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Talbot. “Got a full house already.”

“Finders keepers,” said Gene. “Looks like they’re yours. Outta gas or not, I’d appreciate them taking their car away too. Don’t want that left in front of my house. Pick up those punks’ guns too. Looks like you need ‘em. And, don’t go around carrying bags of beans. It’s dangerous out here.”

The Perez family looked at Martin as if he held their lives in his hands. He had no idea what he would do with them. The only agenda item on the table was to get their car off the road. They pushed it over the top of Stockman Hill, then everyone had a nice ride down the other side.

Nick helped push the Nissan to Martin’s house, thanking him again for helping at the food pantry. Martin reminded Nick to go easy on the portions. He nodded, then hurried back to his house, beaming. He was bringing home some food.

“What have you done NOW?” exclaimed Margaret. The Perez family stood in the same tight clump, near their dead Nissan.

“It’s a long story,” sighed Martin.

Margaret came close enough to speak without being overheard. “Martin, we don’t have enough food for three more.”

“Nor do we have enough house. Our septic system will barely handle the seven of us. Ten is just out of the question. We can’t afford to have the septic conk out on us…in the middle of winter.”

“Then what are you going to do with them?”

“Why are they my problem to have to deal with?” Martin raised his voice but lowered it again. “I don’t know what to do with them. I had no idea I would have to know what to do three more people.”

“Well, you always come up with a plan, Martin. Now’s a good time to do it again.”

“What if we just let them stay the night, in the living room, or something. The next town meeting is tomorrow. I’ll ask if there’s any other donor families that might take them.”



The Perez family sat in a little huddle at the back of the living room. They had a small wall of suitcases and boxes in front of them, like kids making a “fort.”

“Lance and Miri brought their own food for supper. Good manners says I should offer these people a supper,” Margaret said softly, “but that might spark some complaints from you-know-who.”

“Oh, um…excuse me,” began Carlos. He had obviously overheard. “We could not take your food, Mrs. Martin. You have already been too kind to us. We have some food things. We will eat those, and thank you muchly for letting us stay in your warm house tonight. We did not know where we would be tonight.”

“But we got away from them, didn’t we papa?” beamed Lucas. His mother shushed him.

“Yes, we did, Lucas, now don’t bother the nice people.”

“It was Los Azules!” said Lucas as if he had uncovered a Nazi plot. “I thought they were going to catch us a couple of times, but my papa, he drives like a race car driver.”

“Now Lucas…”

“It’s true! Like that first time, you turned like you would go right on the highway, but cut back left! They missed the turn completely! That was sooooo cool. That’s my papa!”

Anna tried to dampen her son’s enthusiasm with motherly pats on his shoulders, but Lucas was too excited to notice.

“I knew it was the Azules. Mama didn’t want me to look, but I did, and I saw our house had the blue mark. That’s their color. The Crowns, they use red and yellow. They were marking houses two streets over, so I knew the Azules would come soon. They could not let the Crowns claim our street too.”

“They came to our door a few days ago,” said Carlos. “They said that since the government was not helping the people, they were helping people in the neighborhood — people who had little food. They asked us to give some food for the poor. We did. The next day, they were marking houses across the street. More blue paint.”

“Los Azules,” whispered Anna with dread.

“I saw them arguing with people across the street,” said Carlos. “They hit one woman. I think she did not want to give them food. Since she would not give them food, they punched a hole in the gas tank of her car and drained it into buckets. I was afraid we would be next. So, after dark, I went out to my car. With the wires, I make the fuel pump to run. I have a short piece of the tubing from another fix-up job I did. I pump gas into a soda bottle. Tube is so short, I have to make the bottle tilt. I can only get half of bottle.”

“My papa, he hid the bottle of gas under the floor in the front closet. It was a good thing, too, cuz when the Azules came again, they said they needed more food for the hungry. They did not stay at the door. They came right in and looked all around the house. Said they had to check how much food we had, then took a lot in their arms. Mama said there would not have enough for us if they took so much. The men, they laughed. They said that if we had no more food, they would come back and that mama could do something for them.”

Anna silenced Lucas with a finger across his lips.

Carlos continued. “Before they left, they did punch the hole in my car’s gas tank, as I had feared. They drained it into buckets then into a gas can. I did not wait for them to take the last of our food, or anything else.” Anna looked down to hide her eyes. “The police were…well…our street was not in one of their areas, so I knew they would not come. We had to go, but I did not know where.”

“I had Anna pack up the rest of our food and put it in the car. Lucas packed up his clothes. Anna packed ours too. I switched the hoses on the fuel pump so it would take from my bottle. I took my grandfather’s pistol from the hiding hole. I had only three of grandfather’s bullets.”

“We were getting ready to go,” burst in Lucas. “Papa had me hold the soda bottle in the back, with the tube inside. That was my job. I had to tilt it so it almost sloshed out, but I didn’t spill any, papa, even when you were driving like a race driver.”

“Today, the young men drove up to the house,” Carlos said. “They knocked on the door, but of course, we did not answer.”

“We were hiding in the car!” said Lucas. Anna shushed him.

“When they went around to the back to check the back door, I started the car. The men came running, but I drove as fast as I could.”

“I wanted to watch,” whined Lucas. “But I had to hold the bottle. I couldn’t see.”

“I drove down to the big 293 highway and turned east. The young men had a fast car. They were catching up. Where the highway splits north to south, I veered like to south. They were close behind me. Too close. They could not follow when I turned left at the last minute.”

“I could hear their tires screeching! Oh man, I wanted to see,” Lucas whined some more. “It sounded sooo cool.”

“They had to stop and go back, so I thought I could turn onto another road before they saw, and lose them, but there were no other roads in time. I could see the blue dot in my mirror.”

Lucas nodded. “The other kids say Azules never give up.”

“At last there was another road. I turned east again. I do not know the road. We do not go that way often. They followed and were getting closer. They pulled up beside me. One of them pointed a gun. I stepped hard on the brakes and turned right. I did not know that road either. It did not matter. I had to get my family away…anywhere.”

“The roads were so twisty,” said Lucas. “I had a hard time keeping the bottle steady. It helped that there wasn’t much left in it.”

“I drove as fast as I could,” said Carlos. “But I had no idea where I was going. My only thought was to get away fast and escape from the Azules. I thought maybe I had lost them at the last turn, but I saw them again. They were catching up.”

“I passed through your town. When we came up that big hill, the car began to stall. We could not get to the top of the hill.”

“The bottle was empty,” said Lucas.

“My wife, Anna. She begin to cry.” New tears rolled down Anna’s cheeks as Carlos recalled the event.

“We got out of the car, but I knew we could not outrun the men. They were young and angry. I did not know what to do. That is when you and your friends came and saved us. We are very thankful to God that you were there.”

“Gracias,” whispered Anna as she nodded.

“So, you see, Mrs. Martin, we are simply happy to be alive for another day. We will happily eat our own food and thank God for the chance to sleep in your house for even one night. We do not know where we will be tomorrow, but that is okay. It is only through His grace that we have a tomorrow.”


(end chapter 11)

[mic]

Chapter 12: part 1: Difficult Meeting



“Come on, dad. Wake up.” Dustin patted Martin’s face. “You fell asleep in the chair again. You’ve had, like, four whole hours of sleep. Come on. It’s time to give it the big test.”

Martin yawned hard. He shuffled into the bathroom and splashed a little cold water on his face. It did not help. He was simply sleeping standing up and wet. He poured half a basin full, stuck his face in and blew bubbles. He came up blinking and sputtering. That helped.

Coming out of the bedroom, dressed for the day, he bumped into Trish coming out of their room. “Oh…Martin,” she said. “Soooo…What happened last night? Dustin relieved me on watch instead of you.”

Martin tried to, but could not contain yet another deep yawn. He was also not the brightest bulb in the toolshed when he first woke up. “Dustin wanted to get up early and make wood chips for Tin Man.”

“Oh? Oh I see.” She smiled coyly. “That makes sense, I guess. Well, I have to go fetch some more water.” She rubbed past him, even though there was room enough in the hallway to get by.

Martin guessed that she had not yet looked upon her behavior yesterday with horror as he had imagined. He was going to have to set her straight somehow, and in a way that did not send anyone else in the house into rages. Life’s minefield was getting bigger.

Breakfast was more cheerful than usual. It helped that they had saved up enough eggs that everyone could have one egg to go with their cream of wheat. Adam was less cheerful, despite the egg bonus, but Trish seemed to be trying to cheer him up — that things would get better.

The Perez family waited until everyone else was finished before they came to the table. They shared the contents of a can of corn from their box. They slept on the floor, but Margaret brought them some blankets. They had the blankets all folded neatly. Their things were all packed and in a little pile, as if expecting a truck to come whisk them away at any moment. Martin had no idea where they would end up. He just knew they could not become additions to his already-full household.

Dustin was a kid on Christmas morning. He had chopped up two more buckets of chunks and fueled up Tin Man. It was finally show time. He spun the flywheel while Martin lit the burn chamber. The white smoke started to flow, then turned to blue. Dustin held the lighter to the jet. The blue smoke turned into a little blue flame.

“Okay, dad,” Dustin said. “Today’s the day. Go for it.”

Martin got a firm footing beside the generator. His hand gripped the pull-cord. He nodded to Dustin. Dustin flipped his homemade diverter valve, but kept spinning the flywheel. The jet of blue flame went out. Martin pulled hard on the cord. The generator spun, but only made the muted glug-glug-glug sound of muffled valves opening and closing: no combustion.

Dustin adjusted the air bypass valve. Everyone stood in a semi-circle around Tin Man and the generator. If their experiment failed, they would have a full audience to fail in front of. Martin pulled again: nothing but glug-glug-glug. Dustin spun the flywheel faster and motioned for Martin to try again.

Martin adjusted his footing and pulled. The engine sputtered a few times, but did not catch.

“We got a spark that time! Maybe a bit less air. This might be like the choke or something.” Dustin closed the air valve a little more.

Martin pulled again. The engine sputtered. It ran rough, but kept sputtering. Dustin slowly opened the air valve. The engine smoothed out to run almost like normal. A few skips continued, but it kept running. Dustin leapt around, whooping like a tribesman. Everyone cheered the success and was amused by a joyous Dustin, except Judy. Her smile was more one of embarrassment.

“Let’s try it under load,” shouted Martin. The little generator was very loud — the loudest noise they had heard in a long time. Dustin carried over the battery from his car. He hooked up the little red and black jumpers from the 12 volt ports. The engine labored for a moment, but recovered at a slightly lower tone. The little gauge on the generator indicated 13.1 volts. The battery was charging. Congratulatory high-fives were shared.

“What’s all this?” Nick shouted as he joined the circle of spectators. Martin explained in short, easily-shouted phrases about Tin Man and wood gas.

“Here’s your box,” shouted Margaret. She handed Martin a cardboard box with more jars of salsa and jam. “Good luck trading today.” She gave him a little pat on the arm.

Nick and Martin walked up the road toward town. The sound of the generator carried farther than Martin expected. He looked back. The house was well out of view, but the little generator’s rapid putt-putt-putt carried through the bare trees as if it were only fifty yards away. Silencing that motor would be their next project. Martin could see Adam and Trish take to the road too. Apparently, they were attending the meeting as well.

“That’s pretty cool,” said Nick. “And that thing runs off plain ol’ wood?” Martin nodded. “Think I could bring over my two car batteries to charge them up? I’ve got some little camp things that use 12 volts.”



“I sure hope I can trade for some food at this meeting,” Nick said, mostly to himself. “You said they had food out for trade, like deer meat and cheese and things?”

“They did last Monday,” said Martin. “Who knows what this week will bring.”

When they climbed the stairs of Town Hall, Landers and Haddock were shaking hands as people entered. “Oh, more jam, Simmons?” Landers pointed to the box.

“Yes, sir.”

“I brought a can of beans this time.” Landers winked. “No wife or other…”

“No, just me and my neighbor Nick.”

“Wife or other what?” asked Nick.

“Never mind. Looks like we need to claim some chairs pretty quickly. The room is fuller than last time.”

As they took a pair of seats along the right side, Lance Walker approached Martin with a cardboard box.

“Hey Martin. Wanted to give you back these…um, things…you gave me last night, but figured they’d be best in a box.” Martin looked inside. There lay the strange long-barreled pistol and chunky black pistol from the tuner boys. Carlos’s little revolver sat below them.

“The revolver was neat,” said Lance. “Soviet era army sidearm. Must be forty, fifty years old. The bluing is worn, but otherwise it’s in good shape. Nice wooden grips too. I had only a dozen .32s that fit it. They’re in the little bag there. Hope it helps him out. The other one is a Hi-Point, 9mm. Nothing fancy or interesting. Gun guys tend rag on them all the time, but they work okay. Full magazine on that one.”

“What about the long one?” Martin asked. He wanted to get it out and look at it, but a crowded meeting was not the place. Many people might have weapons hidden away, much like he has his 9mm in his pocket, but waving a gun around was certain to be frowned upon.

“Ah now, that one is a mystery,” said Lance. “I hadn’t seen anything like it since the 70s. Even then, it was rare. It’s a heavy brute. It had only four rounds in it — long ones, like they were magnums or something. Odd size too. Between a .40 and .44. I didn’t have anything that fit it. No idea where they’d get ammo for it, but they must have.”

“Wow, 1970s, huh?” Martin wondered out loud.

“Not that gun. It just looks like one I saw back then. This one’s made new and not all that long ago. Polymer grips still got that smell to ‘em. Not made all that careful either. Machine marks all over inside. Sorry I can’t tell ya more. It’s just an odd duck. Well, better get my seat. Looks like we’re starting.”

Landers rapped on the plastic table. The routine was becoming familiar enough that people quieted down more quickly. Many of the faces showed eager or worried anticipation.

“Thanks for coming everyone,” said Landers. “An even better turnout this week. That’s encouraging.”

“What happened with the FEMA truck?” a man blurted out. Many heads nodded in support of the question.

“We’ll get to that. First, I’d like to let the chiefs give their reports. Chief Burgh?”

The police chief looked more haggard than the week before. The bags under his eyes spoke of less sleep. His uniform lacked the crisp folds and seams it had last week. “Thanks Jeff. We ran out of gas in the town tank for the cruiser, so we’re not doing the patrols anymore. We have made some progress on the radio network. We have workable links between the police station and several points around town. On the board over there, I’ve posted a list of these links like Mr. Merdot here, up on Stockman Hill and Mrs. Church there up at Spring Pond. Check out the list and talk to the link people. You may be able to connect to them, even if you can’t connect to town directly.”

“Also, we’ve had reports of a group of beggars, three men, two women, with shopping carts, making the rounds. Reports are that they forced their way into a home on Walden, roughed up the homeowner and took a quantity of food. Stay careful out there. We won’t be able to assist you, especially the further out from town you live.” The chief sat down heavily.

The fire chief rose to read off a small scrap of paper. “The department is low on fuel too. We responded to one house fire last week. We were able to save most of the structure since the house was just up the highway. The couple in there got out okay. They’ve moved into the back bedroom, since it wasn’t damaged. The other two house fires were reported far too late. They were nothing but burned-out shells. Please be careful with your wood fires and candles. It doesn’t take long for fire to spread. And now that the shelter is closed, there’s nowhere to put you up.”

“Thanks chief,” said Landers. “Yes, Candice. I see your hand, but let’s get back to your question in a minute. We have a related issue we need to discuss first. Before we get to that, we ought to hear what Walter has from the outside world. Walter?”

Walter rose and turned to the crowd. “Yessir, but it ain’t good. Things have been taking a nasty turn out there. Seems that Ohio thing started a bigger fight. In a nutshell, a whole bunch of states in the middle and south have banded together, refusing to comply with the executive orders. States in the northeast and west coast have sided with the president. Lots of harsh words flying both ways.”

“Congress is divided, just like the country. There was some talk of impeachment, but I don’t know if they did that or not. Some congressmen voted to declare Speaker Sunderland as their chief executive. Most of DC still backs the president, but governors of the heartland states have thrown in with the Speaker. Sunderland has started appointing himself cabinet members and such. The president calls them all traitors and rebels. The heartlanders call the president a traitor. So now it seems we have two governments and they’re not playing well with each other.”

“If there’s a sliver lining in all this, it’s that the military voted, if that’s the word for it, to not listen to either side. Some general, I didn’t catch the name, said that all the branches agreed to defend the nation from outside threats, but refuse to interfere in domestic affairs. That Ohio thing gave them a really bad taste.”

“So, the upshot, ladies and gentlemen, is that the rest of the country is too busy fighting among themselves. I kinda doubt we’re on anyone’s aid priority list.”

“Sorry I couldn’t bring better news.” Walter sat down. Sally put her arm around him.

Landers turned to face the audience in general. “Thanks Walter. Speaking of aid, I know that many of you are wondering why the FEMA truck left last Wednesday before everyone in line got a box of food. It’s kinda complicated, but the bottom line is that Mr. Quinn was not happy at how little of the things he wanted done, had been done. He seemed to take a great deal of umbrage at that, and decided to take his truck to Nutfield.”

“So what did you do that made him mad?” asked Peter from the front row.

“Well, he had some lists of things — paperwork — we were supposed to be filling out, and we hadn’t. We had some other lists started which he said were irrelevant.”

“You’re dancing around, Jeff,” admonished Peter. “Come on. Then what didn’t you do?”

Mike Wilder, less inhibited about maintaining decorum, chimed in. “For one thing, Quinn’s information packet said we were to list all the CCL registrations, the 4473s from both of Cheshire’s gun sellers, get the members list from the Rod and Gun Club, and there was a form for the names and addresses of folks who weren’t on the other two lists, but we knew had…collections.”

“The paperwork wasn’t all that clear,” added Haddock, “but it sure sounded like the next step was supposed to be gathering up all the guns. Why else would the form ask for the sizes of securely lockable storage rooms?”

“That’s not so unreasonable,” said Candice. “We’ve already seen where some gun-wielding ruffians have assaulted our people. What if more of these criminals were to gain access to all those guns? No one would be safe.”

“Thank you, Candice,” Landers said with a firm tone. “We certainly don’t want any ‘ruffians’ to get ahold of any guns. I urge you all to be very careful. Don’t open your doors unless you know who is out there, and keep some means of defense close at hand.”

“But,” interrupted Candice. “If people have guns near their doors, the ruffians will have an easier time grabbing them. At least the people who have guns…if they ever needed guns in the first place…should have them safely locked away where the bad people can never get them.”

“Candice. I really didn’t call on you,” scolded Landers. “Wait until I call on you, okay? Thank you.”

Wilder continued. “So that was the first thing Quinn didn’t like. We did not have the gun information started, and I told him we weren’t going to. That soured his mood.”

“He cheered up a bit that we had filled out part of the Available Movable Assets form, though,” said Landers. “It did not take too long to list out the town’s dump truck, the two pickups, cruisers and the fire equipment. We had all those records on file already.”

“I thought he would have been pleased with the lists I had started.” added Haddock, “From the census forms, it seemed like they were asking about our people. So, I made a list of the elderly that needed some medical care, the sick in need of medications, and the medications they needed. I also listed the children and other special needs individuals.”

Landers shook his head. “But that was not what Quinn’s paperwork requested. He was pretty adamant about that. His forms requested the names of healthy men, ages 18 to 40 only, and women ages 14 to 30. He was asking for the opposite of what we expected: the healthy and not the needy.”

Wilder pounded the table. “I was totally against giving him, or anyone else, a list of the young women of this town. I didn’t like it and I told him so.” He pounded the table again.

“Yes, yes,” Landers tried to soothe Wilder. “You certainly did tell him so. I’m afraid our cordial briefing spun out of control after that. He accused us of not complying with federal law and threatened to have us arrested. That did not help Mike’s mood any.” Landers tried a smile to lighten things, but it was far from enough.

“That’s when Quinn announced that our town was out of compliance with federal regulations and therefore not eligible for federal aid, that it was our own fault, and he was taking his truck to Nutfield. I guess he had been in contact with the town councilmen there and they were much more cooperative about filling out his paperwork than we had been. The rest, you all saw.”

The people of the audience silently looked on, as if expected more.

“That’s all, really. Okay Candice. What would you like to say?”

Candice stood, half facing the selectmen, half to the crowd. “This seems to be a dangerous situation, Jeff. I don’t think it’s wise to ignore federal law. You could get in a lot of trouble. And, I don’t think it’s fair to the citizens of this town, who are growing hungrier and hungrier by the day, to let a little paperwork stand in the way between our poor, hungry citizens, and the life-sustaining meals the government wants to give us.”

Landers stood up slowly and with gravitas. “I agree with you Candice…to a degree. This is a very serious matter. People are getting low on supplies. Some are getting hungry. So, we, the board of selectmen of your town, decided that we would seek the will of the people on this question.”

Landers paused, as he studied a folded piece of paper. “I’m going to ask for a vote. Listen carefully and wait until I’ve finished. Please raise your hand to vote YES, if you want us to comply with the federal forms. This may, or may not, restore the flow of federal aid to our town. We cannot guaranty anything. That is totally out of our control. Okay, I’ve finished. Raise your hands if you want us to fill out the forms.”

Several hands went up. Candice’s was the most animated. A few young ones in the middle, and old couple and a woman by herself had their hands raised more tentatively. Martin glanced back to see if Trish and Adam had their hands raised. They did not.

“Okay. Thank you for voting,” said Landers. “We respect everyone’s right to an opinion. Now, still listen carefully and wait until I’ve finished. Please raise your hands if you, the people of Cheshire, vote NO, that you do NOT want us to fill out the federal forms. Keep in mind that in voting ‘no’, it is more than likely that there will be no more federal aid. Okay. I’ve finished. Can I see the show of hands?”

The vote was overwhelming. The people of Cheshire, as hungry as they might soon be, voted no. Unlike some other votes at town meetings, there was no cheering or applauding the results. Everyone knew the seriousness of their choices.

“Okay then,” said Landers gravely. “The No votes have it. Looks like we’re on our own.”

>

[pbbrown0]

I have never understood how some people could devolve from believing that the government should be of the people, by the people, and for the people to believing the people should be of the government, by the government, and for the government.

[mic]

Apr 28, 2016 22:42:35 GMT -6 pbbrown0 said:

I have never understood how some people could devolve from believing that the government should be of the people, by the people, and for the people to believing the people should be of the government, by the government, and for the government.

PB:
If I might be indulged a little soapboxing, I'll suggest that part of the problem has been enabled by our culture's growing philosophy of Professionalism.

By that, I mean, the attitude which thinks that only a Professional is capable of doing (whatever). It could be a second-wave effect of the industrial revolution.  For millennia, people did whatever needed to be done for living, themselves. They raised their food, they cooked it themselves -- often in a house they built themselves. Until the rise of factories, people wore clothes they made themselves.

This was the mindset of the founding fathers. They were of that 'generation' who did things for themselves. They saw government as something the DIY people would do -- for themselves.

Nowadays, Professionalism has infected the American people. People don't change their own oil, (let alone work on their cars), or fix a leaky pipe, or grow their own food. Heck, lots of them don't even cook their own meals anymore. They leave that to The Professionals.  It's even gotten to where the culture (at large) considers it risky to NOT use a Professional. "You're gonna try and fix that yourself? I don't know, man. Sounds like big trouble. Better call someone..."

It was only a matter of time until that Professional attitude applied to governance. Why bother getting to know the issues, understand the problems, reason out solutions? Leave that to the Professional politicians and bureaucrats. That's their job. They're Professionals.  Once that was accepted, the country developed a huge bureaucrat industry. They promised to run things for us, leaving us free to...watch TV (?) or other really important things.

Little surprise, then, that the Professional bureaucrats have worked to convince everyone that everything (and everyone) exists for the sake of the government.

A local-scale version of this in action, that I saw personally, was a local fire department. Fifty years ago, it had been all volunteers, funded by the residents of the area. It worked just fine. But, with the spirit of Professionalism, people felt like 'untrained' volunteers could not do a good enough job of putting out fires. So, professional firefighters were hired. The professionals had an elitist snobbery that eventually pushed out the volunteers. When there were enough of the professionals, they formed a union. They demanded higher wages, and fewer hours. They demanded special equipment to keep them safer. They demanded more training so they could be even MORE professional. Within a decade, the fire department had morphed from: a bunch of local residents dedicated to putting out local fires -- to -- a group of people who demanded wages and services from the people (and sometimes put out a fire).

The lesson? As long as people have the attitude that only Professionals can do things (like understand governance issues), they will continue to vote in Professionals. Those Professionals will always have, as their first priority, to strive to increase their power.

(soapbox off) Thanks for indulging me. :-)

[pbbrown0]

Mic, Anytime you want to climb onto the soapbox, I'd be glad to stay and "give a listen".

I think you are on to something there. I can give countless examples of that pervasive change in mindset within my lifetime. I am currently writing a "How to..." guidebook about one of those major items you just mentioned which families use to do for themselves. The primary message in it is, "You really can do this yourself, and you can do it well, with just a little bit of knowledge passed down from previous generations."

Keep up the good work, my friend.

[mic]

Chapter 12: part 2: Solutions

Landers let everyone contemplate the gravity of their collective ‘no’ vote for what seemed like a long time. Most people had their heads down, deep in thought…or prayer.

“Now that we have all made that decision…”

“And I must say I think it is a mistake,” interrupted Candice.

“Maybe, maybe not,” resumed Landers. “But, the people have spoken. With this decision made, we must address a related item of business: the neediest among us. As you all know, by now, the shelter ran out of fuel a few days ago. We placed all of the people into the homes of kind-hearted residents who had spare rooms, and we thank you all for your generosity.”

“But we still have a problem,” said Wilder. “Since the shelter closed, there have been more families who have since run out of fuel and can’t stay in their homes any longer. Some have run out of both food and fuel. But, there’s no shelter to take them in.”

Martin raised his hand. Landers nodded to him. “Along those lines, yesterday, a family from Manchester arrived. They didn’t plan to stay in Cheshire, but ran out of gas here. I had them at my house last night because they had no where else to go, but I really can’t keep them. My house is already full and what food we have stretched thin.”

Others in the crowd nodded. A few vocalized that they, too, had become recipients of refugees or the wandering poor.

“What do we do with them?” Martin sat down. No one seemed to have an answer.

Lance broke the long silence by clearing his throat.

“Yes Lance?” said Landers.

“When I was a little boy, my grandfather used to threaten me by saying, that if I didn’t behave, he’d take me to the farm. Never made sense to me as a kid. We were already on a farm. His grandfather used to threaten him with the same phrase. But, back in his grandpa’s day, the town actually had a poor farm. That’s where people were sent who went broke, went homeless, or had to work off some community service and such.”

“Work farms?” Candice sounded outraged. “That’s just cruel. This isn’t the middle ages! These poor people have done nothing wrong. They should not be punished, like bad children, simply because times are hard. It’s kicking people when they’re down! Where’s the humanity in that?”

“Times were hard in my grandpa’s day too,” countered Lance. “Not like it was all roses n’ clover back then. People hit tough patches, but there weren’t a bunch of governmental teats to suck on…oh…sorry ladies…I didn’t mean…what I meant was…”

“Go on, Lance,” said Landers.

“Yes, well, I meant that they didn’t have all them federal ‘safety net’ programs back then. The town farm was a way to give people work to cover their keep. Most people, my grandpa said, only worked on the farm for only awhile. Most of ‘em would work hard and earn a bit more, until they were back on their feet.”

“So, guess I’m wondering, since we don’t have any federal anything now, if there was a way to have a town farm again. Give all these people a place to be and something productive to do.” Lance sat down. Heads leaned together. The buzz of many soft conversations filled the room. The selectmen were conferring among each other too.

“It’s an interesting idea, Lance,” said Landers at last, “but we have nowhere we could set up such a farm — especially now with the power out, no fuel and all.”

“We’ve got room.” An old man raised his hand. “Got our big ol’ house. The kids never moved back like we thought. Could double up families in the four bedrooms. Old farmhouse. Every room’s got a fireplace. Had the little barn set up with simple bunk beds for a family reunion a couple years ago. Bunks are still there. People would at least have somewhere dry and sorta warm.”

“That’s awfully generous Don, but you’d have to feed them too.”

“Well, we’ve got a fair amount stored away. The missus and I don’t eat all that much at our age, and I’m confident the Lord will provide more when that runs out. But, a fair day’s work should earn folks a bed and a hot meal.”

“Work doing what?” asked Wilder.

Mr. and Mrs. Webster consulted privately for a moment. “Well, sir, we have the wood my grandson cut down for next year’s firewood. Still just downed trees at this point. Don’t look like he’s gonna be coming to finish cutting it up. They could cut, split and stack.”

“And there’s the hay,” added Mrs. Webster. “The Scott brothers cut and bail hay off our back fields. It’s still all stacked up way out there by the trees. Hauling all that into the barn by hand will be a ton of work without their tractor.”

“We’ll think of something else too,” added Mr. Webster. “Having six kids taught us to think of chores.” The Websters smiled at each other.

“Um…” said a man in brown flannel with his hand raised. Landers pointed his gavel at him. He stood up hesitantly. “I don’t know if this helps or not, but my brother in law works…or used to work, at a dairy farm up in Canterbury. He was telling me how his boss has been really upset lately because he doesn’t have enough hay laid up to feed all his cows for the whole winter. His usual truckloads of Canadian hay didn’t come. Probably never will. He’s all worked up that he’s gonna have to slaughter some of his herd to fit his existing hay supply. The guy loves his cows like pets, you see. Has names for ‘em all.”

“So what are you saying?” asked Landers.

“Well, sir. What if we offered to take in some of his cows — just for the winter maybe — on the Webster’s farm? Give people something to do and provide some milk.” Flannel man sat down, looking like he regretting speaking up.

Milk cows? Martin’s mind took the ball and ran with it. Margaret was looking for more protein sources. It would not be enough for the whole town — or at least those who remained — but it would be something. If the town really was on its own, it would need as much food production as possible. Simply eating out what was in everyone’s pantry was a dead-end strategy — literally.

He knew Margaret was dead set against cows, but thought her childhood skills might be a bargaining chip to securing some renewable food for his household of seven. Margaret would understand, he hoped. They had the others to think of. Cows would be wonderful.

“Oh now, I don’t wanna be the wet blanket,” started Don Webster. “But our farm isn’t set up for cattle. Most we had was a few horses years ago…and a couple pigs.”

“There hasn’t been a dairy farm in Cheshire since the Cauloff’s closed up their operation years ago,” said Wilder.

Martin’s spirits fell for a moment. Then he recognized that these were not deal-breaking problems. These were technicalities. What did it matter if the Webster’s farm was not set up for cows. Maybe it could be. What did it matter that the Cauloff’s stopped running a dairy farm? They, or someone else could start.

“That’s right,” said Red Cauloff. “We sold off our bulk tank and milking equipment years ago. We’re too old to run a dairy anymore.”

So what? Martin thought. Margaret talked about her childhood of milking by hand, cream separators and such. A farm did not absolutely need modern equipment. The old ways would be more work, but they had more people with nothing else to do.

“Did you get rid of everything?” Martin asked.

“Huh? Well, lemme see.” mused Red. “Not the little junky stuff. No one wanted that anyhow. Only the big equipment’s got value. Went to a guy out by Peterborough, I think.”

“So, what is the ‘junky stuff’?”

“Oh, you know. The cans, buckets. The stanchions are too old for anyone to want.”

“Did you have a hand-crank cream separator?” Martin was fishing, but he had an idea.

“Oh sakes yes,” chuckled Mrs. Cauloff. “I was going to make some planters out of those.”

“Okay, so what about this?” Martin addressed the selectmen. “What if we offer to take some of this Canterbury guy’s cows for awhile, so he doesn’t have to kill them, and revive the Cauloff’s dairy farm as a second town farm? They’re just up the road from the Websters, who have hay. They would be producing food that people could buy or trade for, or something. Those are details to be sorted out, but still. It would be a renewable resource we don’t have now. You just said we’re on our own now.”

“I appreciate your thinking, Simmons,” said Landers, “But there’s all kinds of problems with that idea.”

Martin took that as a challenge. More technicalities, I suppose. He crossed his arms. “Oh yeah, like what?”

“Um…well…for one, who knows how to milk cows by hand anymore?”

“My wife, Margaret. She can teach other people too.” Martin cringed inside. He was volunteering Margaret without asking her. He knew how she felt about cows. Still, she would understand.

“And what do you do with the milk afterward?” said Red. “You have to chill it.”

“It’s late October. Chilling should not be a problem. Besides, if everyone is all that hungry, how long would the milk be sitting around anyhow?”

“It won’t be properly pasteurized,” said Candice. “Do you realize what a health risk raw milk poses? This is a fool’s errand, if you ask me. You can’t risk the health of these people on such untreated products.”

“Starvation sounds pretty risky too.” Martin was certain he was not making a friend in Candice. She was glaring at him with the look only Peter earned, thus far.

“No one needs to face starvation,” said Candice. “If we all just reconsider that silly vote and cooperate with the legally appointed authorities, there would be food enough for everyone.” Candice lobbied the crowd. “That’s all we want, right? Meals on our tables, right? Well, they’ll bring them to us. We won’t have to scrimp, or go hungry, or get sick from unprocessed milk!” Candice was working up a good pulpit-pounding cadence. “We don’t have to be hungry. Our children don’t have to cry. We can be safe, and fed, if only we comply with the law! I say we vote again and vote YES this time! Who’s with me?”

The silence was awkward for everyone. Candice’s raised arms slowly sagged like a melting snowman.

“We’re not revisiting the vote, Candice,” said Landers. “The item on the floor right now is whether we should offer to take in that man’s cows.”

“I still say you’d need some electricity,” said Red. “Some of that old hand equipment could help, but it still takes power.”

Nick stood up eagerly. “That’s easy! Martin here just built a machine that makes gas from wood scraps. He was running his generator from it just this morning! It was pretty cool. You could have power.”

Martin pulled Nick back to his seat. “Jeez, Nick,” Martin whispered. “I didn’t want that to be all public. What if someone wants to come steal it, or something?”

“Oh, wow.” Nick looked horrified. “I didn’t think of that. Sorry man. I just thought it would help…I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

Martin sat back in a funk. Doubled-up watches would be tough with who he had to work with. What defensive value would a Susan & Judy team be? Margaret and Dustin would be okay. He certainly was not going to double with Trish. He frowned at the lack of good options.

“Either way, how on earth would you get them all the way from Canterbury?” added Wilder. “Nobody in town as a cattle truck.”

“Horse trailers,” said Martin, still wearing his frown. “I’ve seen a lot of them in town.”

“A horse weighs half what a cow does,” said a man in back. “Horse trailers aren’t built for that kind of load.”

“I’ve seen two-horse trailers. Two horses would then weigh as much has one cow, right? Put one cow in a two-horse trailer. Two cows in a four-horse trailer.”

“I’ve got a four-horse goose-neck and a Sierra 3500, but I kinda ran it to near empty fetching my wife’s horses last week,” said a man in blue. Martin recognized him as Tyler from the funeral.

“I’ve got a four-horser, but my truck’s out of action. Tie rods,” said another man. “The trailer needs the big ball hitch, set real low.”

“My Laramie could pull that, but it’s near empty too. Couldn’t get any diesel once the power went out.”

It occurred to Martin that he was no longer running the furnace at his house, but burning wood alone. He still had a half a tank of fuel oil that was an under-assigned asset.

“Okay, how’s this?” Martin stood up. “I’m willing to supply the fuel to make it happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Heating fuel is diesel fuel, right? I know: road taxes. Never mind. It’ll run a truck. That’s all that matters right now. If we’re going to try to make it through the winter on our own, we need new food sources. These milk cows could be just that. So, I’m willing to invest fifty gallons of my own home heating oil to power these two guys’ diesel trucks up to Canterbury and back.”

Martin’s investment challenge set the room to buzzing. Martin tried to pick out some of the conversations, but it was mostly a crashing chaos of voices. From what little he could hear, the tone seemed positive, so he stood his ground, arms folded.

Two more people volunteered their horse trailers: a two and a three bay unit. Their trucks needed regular gasoline, but a few people stepped up to invest a few gallons each.

“Let’s not get the cart before the horse,” said Landers. “The guy hasn’t said yes to any of this yet. Walter, do you think you could raise somebody up that way to go ask him? Chief? Could he use your radio gear? Good.”

Walter and Chief Burgh hurried out to the little dispatch room downstairs. In the meantime, there followed a convoluted discussion among the various ‘investors’ for return on their investment. For his contribution, Martin was entitled to one sixteenth of whatever the cows produced.

They had trucks and trailers to haul six cows. Martin recalled Margaret’s childhood stories. She told of once getting eight gallons over three milkings a day. Martin scaled that back to account for winter and less-than-optimal feed, to figure that a cow might produce 4 gallons of milk a day. 24 gallons. One sixteenth of that would be a gallon and a half. For seven people, that was not huge, but it was something, and hopefully steady.

More discussion churned over how much fixing-up the Cauloff farm would need to be ready to house cows again.

Landers waved to Martin to come join him at the selectmen’s table. “Simmons. This here is Mr. Ingalls. He’s from the governor’s office. Apparently, the governor has called for a joint meeting of the state senate and house — or at least of as many as can make it — for tomorrow.”

“Governor Vincent sent several staff to tour communities and report back today,” said Ingalls. “The governor has some big decisions coming up and wants to get a feel for how people are holding up during this crisis. I have also been instructed to invite a few people who I think the governor will want to speak to directly. Given your town’s vote just now, I’ve asked Mr. Landers to attend. Based on the discussions after that, I think the governor may want to speak with you too.”

“Really?” Martin had no idea what the governor would want with him. “Sure, I guess, but why would…”

“He said YES!” shouted Walter. He and Chief Burgh came into the room all smiles. “We got ahold of the cow guy. Took a couple links, but he carries an FRS. He was tickled pink. I couldn’t tell him how many we could take. He’s standing by to find out when we could come.”

Landers looked at Ingalls. “The governor wants to talk tomorrow, you say?” Ingall’s nodded. “Well then, Simmons, looks like we have a trip to Concord tomorrow.”

“Tell him tomorrow, Walter, and that we can handle six.”

>

[mic]

Chapter 12: part 3: Deals

The informational meeting had broken up without official adjournment, though no one seemed to notice. They began setting up their tables and boxes. There were many items on the tables, though transactions seemed less brisk.

The man in blue, with the Sierra, approached Martin. “Hey there. Just wanted to say thanks again for saying a few words up at the cemetery the other day.”

“Yeah,” said his brother. “It probably would have made our father madder than hornets to have God-talk said over him, but too bad for him. It made mom happy.”

“No problem,” said Martin. “Glad I could help.”

“So, I had a question for you,” Tyler began. “I hear tell you've made a wood-cooker thing and that you're running your gas generator on it."

Martin sighed. "It's true.” He made a mental note to kick Nick in the shins at the earliest opportunity.

"So, how's that work?" Tyler said.

"It's kinda complicated, but basically, it cooks wood chunks so they release a gas like natural gas. Gasoline engines can burn that gas, so that's what we did. We made a little gasifier to run our little generator.”

“Neat,” Tyler said. “I was wondering if you thought you could make a bigger one that could run my truck."

Martin puzzled for a moment. The principles would be the same. Things would have to be scaled up, but there could be some complications with increased sizes. “I suppose so.” He did not want to say no outright, nor appear too enthusiastic.

“Cool, cool,” said Tyler. “We can talk about it later. We live in that old green house on the highway, just over the hill from you. Charles and I are here trying to barter some alcohol to get some bread. Catch ya later.” The two brothers walked off, engaged in a lively discussion.

Martin found Landers, and traded a jar of jam for his one can of beans. No one else showed much interest in jam. Jerry was there with more goat’s milk, but doing less trading. Fewer people had cash. Their barter goods did not interest him.

Martin glanced around the hall. There were some deals being negotiated, but not as eagerly as the week before. He had been trying to conserve his supply of cash at home, but hearing what the man in the yellow hat said, made him wonder. If people just decided they did not want paper dollars, they would have no value. Susan had been talking about the symbolic nature of fiat currencies. People use them, primarily because they trust that the next person will take them in trade.

Money had been part of collective cultural thinking since Biblical times. It was too much a part of how people mentally organized their universe to not have in some form. He would have to ask Susan about that. After just negotiating a deal to bring some cows to Cheshire, Martin was feeling pretty good. It seemed like there was practically no problem that could not be solved if people just got their minds over old ways of thinking.

He noticed the woman in the corner, still trying to sell her metal knick-knacks. She looked more worried than before. Martin felt bad for her. She was trying to sell useless decorations to people who were trying to scrape up enough food to eat. In normal times, people with disposable income probably bought her tchotckies. The woman was obviously stuck in the old ways of thinking. He wondered if she truly realized that times were no longer normal. Whatever people might put value in — ammo, silver, firewood — he could not see them trading any of those things for craft baubles.

Nick was still talking to the man in the yellow hat, so Martin figured he would let the woman know why no one was buying her ‘cute’ metal items. She did not seem to understand the new utilitarian economy.

“Hi,” Martin felt awkward starting up conversations cold.

The woman looked up. “Oh. Hi!” Her face brightened to a broad smile. In better times she was probably attractive, in a down-to-earth sort of way. Slightly sunken cheeks and tired eyes hinted that the past two weeks without power had been hard on her.

“If you see anything you like,” she said. “Just let me know. I’m willing to haggle.”

The handwritten calligraphy prices on the frilly cards spoke of unrealistic expectations. Twenty dollars for a mama bear and cubs made out of cut copper sheet, embossed from behind to suggest fur. Fifty dollars for an old-fashioned farm windmill made of galvanized sheet and heavy wire. The least expensive item she had on display was a turkey made out of a funnel, with wire feet. It was cleverly made, using some sort of triangular punch to raise little open wedges in the funnel that suggested feathers. Clever or not, it was not worth five dollars to anyone now.

Martin sighed. Who would want any of this junk? They’re looking for food. Martin had a hard time imagining that metal knick-knacks were all the woman had at home to trade. Other people were bringing in extra blankets, hand tools, kids’ winter boots, anything to trade for a pumpkin or a few apples. Household items were at least something that someone might use during the coming winter. Tchotchies? Martin thought the poor woman needed to be clued in. Surely she had some excess tangible good that would be of more value to people. Even cardboard would have some value for starting fireplace fires. Everyone should have cardboard at home.

“These are nice enough…”

“Thanks. I made them myself. I’m a metal artist, you see.” She smiled nervously.

Oh great, he thought. Now I’m going to insult her artist-ness. “I didn’t see too many people checking out your…art…today.”

“No.” Her face fell back into its prior worried look.

“Well, you know, these are kinda hard times for people,” Martin was trying to pick his words carefully.

“I know, I know,” she sounded exasperated. “But, I really need to make some money.”

She wrung her hands together, which caught Martin’s eye. Glancing at her hands revealed that the zipper on her sweater had crept down, revealing abundant cleavage. Martin looked up, startled at the sight. The woman noticed his glance and quickly zipped her sweater up to her neck. They both blushed. Martin was about to try and explain and apologize, but Nick hurried up beside him, gushing with excitement.

“Martin, Martin, Martin,” Nick said.

Martin put down the funnel turkey, delighted at the handy exit to an embarrassing situation. “What’s the rush? Get a good deal on something?

“Actually, trading has been kinda tough. I had no idea prices would be so high. I spent nearly all the cash I had on this deer meat. I didn’t bring anywhere near enough cash. Truth is, I’m not sure how much more we’ve got at home. Maybe Jess has more in her purse.”

“I’ve got a little cash I could loan you,” said Martin.

“No, that’s okay. Actually, what I wanted to ask if you could loan me some ammo.”

“What? Why?”

“I wanted to trade with that guy over there. See him? Yellow hat? He’s got some five-pound bags of flour. Trouble is, he won’t take paper money. Says it’s worthless now. When did dollars become worthless?”

“I didn’t know they did,” said Martin. “If he won’t take cash, then what’s he asking for?

“Silver or Ammo. He said he’d take .45 ACP .308 or 9mm. He wanted 30 rounds of 9mm for a five pound bag of flour. I only have seventeen in my magazine. You carry a 9, right? Could you loan me thirteen rounds? I’ll pay you back as soon as we get home. I swear.”

“But then you’ll have nothing in your gun. We just ran into those tuner boys yesterday, and you want to go around unarmed?”

“I know, I know, but that’s just an hour’s walk. Five pounds of flour is, like, a week’s worth of something to feed the kids. That seems worth the risk to me.”

“Okay, but 30 rounds for five pounds of flour? That sounds kinda steep,” Martin said.

“I thought so too,” said Nick, “But he’s the only one trading flour. Even one bag of flour will be a big help for Jess and the kids. Besides…” Nick leaned close to whisper discretely. “I’ve got two full ammo cans of FMJ at home, just no extra on me right now.”

“That’s what he’s asking for? FMJ?” Martin asked.

“He didn’t say, but that’s what he had in the coffee can, so I just assumed that’s the kind he meant.”

“Well then, let’s go see what this is all about,” said Martin.



“Hi. I’m back,” Nick said to the man in the yellow hat.

“I hear you’re asking 30 rounds of 9mm for five pounds of flour,” Martin said.

“That’s the price,” said Yellow Hat with a tone that excluded haggling.

Martin pulled Nick aside. He dug the Hi-Point’s magazine out of the box and emptied it into Nick’s hand. “Your seventeen, plus ten from the tuner boys makes twenty-seven.” Martin took one of the hollow points out of his magazine. “Let’s try this.”

“How about this?” Martin asked Yellow Hat. “Twenty-seven jacketed 9 mil, and one…nickel-plated deep hollow point…+P.” Nick held up the pile of twenty-seven rounds in his open hands. Martin held up the silvery hollow-point, in the way someone might hold up a pearl. Martin twisted it a few half-rotations, so the chrome-like shine could glint in Yellow Hat’s eye. All those years of watching television ads were not entirely wasted.

Yellow Hat eyed the pile and the pearl for a moment. He snatched the pearl. “Deal.”

Nick smiled broadly. “Thanks man.”

On the way out, Martin handed Nick two hollow-points. “Here. You shouldn’t be totally unarmed on the way home. We can settle up the ammo later.”



“Hi. I’m back,” Nick said to the man in the yellow hat.

“I hear you’re asking 30 rounds of 9mm for five pounds of flour,” Martin said.

“That’s the price,” said Yellow Hat with a tone that defied haggling.

Martin pulled Nick aside. He dug the Hi-Point’s magazine out of the box and emptied it into Nick’s hand. “Your seventeen, plus ten from the tuner boys is twenty-seven.” Martin took one of the hollow points out of his magazine. “Let’s try this.”

“How’s this?” Martin asked Yellow Hat. “Twenty-seven jacketed and one…nickel-plated, deep hollow point…+P.” Nick held the pile of twenty-seven in open hands. Martin held the single, silvery, hollow point, in the way someone might hold up a pearl. Martin twisted it a few half-rotations, so the chrome-like shine could glint in Yellow Hat’s eye. All those childhood years of watching television ads were not entirely wasted.

Yellow Hat eyed the pile and the pearl for a moment. He snatched the pearl. “Deal.”

Nick smiled broadly. “Thanks man.”

On the way out, Martin handed two hollow points to Nick. “Here. You shouldn’t be totally unarmed on the way home. We can settle up the ammo later.”



“But why the Perez family?” Susan asked.

“Because the house and our food supply, can’t handle the extra.” Martin did not look up, but continued to rummage through Dustin’s pile of scrap metal parts.

“I understand all that, but if someone needs to go live at that town farm thing, why not the Dunans?” Susan nodded in agreement with her own conclusion.

“I know you’re not very fond of Trish,” began Martin. He held up one promising piece but shook his head and dropped it.

“Are you?” she asked with an implied suspicion.

“No,” he said with finality.

“I didn’t think so. And I know you’re not keen on Adam either,” she said. “So this should be a no-brainer. Have them move to this town farm thing, and let the Perez family go in the corner bedroom.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, but it’s not as simple as that.”



“We can’t do that, Martin,” Margaret had that hint of whine in her voice when she thought his ideas were bad. “We can’t just evict the Dunans. We said we’d take them in. We committed ourselves. It’s only been a few days and then we boot them out? How would that look to everyone?”

“I know we said we’d take them in, but is that supposed to mean forever?” Martin countered. “They both have their…problems, like Adam tending to sleep on watch. And she’s not much of a worker, you said so yourself.”

“Adam promised it would never happen again, right?” Margaret said. “They’re just young, and not used to having to get by. They’ll be okay.”

“Why are you defending them?”

“I’m not defending them, Martin. It’s just that we can’t ship them off after a couple days when we said we’d take them in. We made a commitment. We have to keep it.”

Martin sighed in resignation. Commitments.




“We really thank you, Mr. Martin, for finding us a place to stay,” said Carlos. The four of them walked along the side of the highway.

Martin forced a small chuckle. “Don’t thank me yet. We haven’t seen it. It’s not too far of a walk, but I wanted to see it for myself and make some introductions, if necessary.”

“Even if it is just a barn, we will be happy. We did not have anywhere to go when we left Manchester. I could only imagine us living in our car.”

“Hopefully, the Webster’s place will be a step up from that, though I’m not sure what they’ll have for accommodations. It sounded like there would be a bed, but maybe not much beyond that,” Martin said.

“Anything is a gift from God,” said Carlos. “What we had in the apartment was not much, but we had to leave all those things.”

“But I made sure I packed my race car,” said Lucas. He swung his backpack around and dug in the front pocket. He handed it to Martin.

“Wow. That’s a really nice race car,” said Martin.

“I know!” Lucas beamed. “Papa made it himself, didn’t you Papa?”

Carlos smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “Yes I did.” He patted Lucas. “They let me keep the wood scraps from the jobs. I find some good ones and take them home.”

“Cool.” Martin turned the wooden car over a few times, studying the many small parts. “How did you make the tires?”

“Oh, those were the cutouts from when they used their hole saws on the cabinets. I thought the plywood grain looked like tire treads,” said Carlos. “A little sanding, a little black paint. I have tires.”

“Papa painted it red. It’s my Ferrari.” Lucas took back the toy car and did an eight-year-old’s best rendition of high-rev engine whine, downshifting for a turn.

“Lucas loves the Formula One.”

Lucas spent the rest of their walk to the Webster farm recounting the exciting moments from the past F1 season and what he thought was wrong with the rules.



“Oh, hello,” purred Candice. Her smile was clearly on the condescending side as she ‘greeted’ Martin. “What do you want…here, today?” She tried to soften her tone when she saw that Martin was not alone.

“This is the Perez family,” Martin motioned to them, again standing in a tight cluster. “They recently fled gang violence in Manchester…”

“Oh my!” gasped Candice. “How awful.”

“But they ran out of gas here in Cheshire. They don’t have anywhere to stay, so I thought, what with the Town Farm decision yesterday, that…”

“Of course!” Candice’s smile shifted back over the line to compassionate. “You poor souls. Come in, come in. We’re just getting another family settled. I’ll go get Mr. Webster.” Candice hurried off.

“Mrs. Webster seems like a nice lady,” said Carlos.

“Um. That’s not Mrs. Webster. Candice is a lady in town who…um, likes to help.” Martin parsed his words carefully.

Don Webster appeared in the doorway. He was a little man, slightly stooped. “Hello, hello. Come on in.” He motioned with his free arm as he held the door open wide. “I’ll show you up to your room.”

They made their way through the low-ceilinged old house to a narrow stairway. Martin carried the Perez family’s box of food, over Anna’s objections. Martin could tell it was getting heavy for her a mile back up the road.

“This is the room you’ll be sharing with the Frennault family.” Mr. and Mrs. Frennault sat on the tall narrow bed. Their four-year-old daughter clung to her mother’s leg as if it conferred invisibility.

“We have two cots set up here on this side,” continued Don. “You can rig up a blanket or something to separate your halves of the room if you like, but that’s up to you. I’ve explained to the Frennaults about how to use the little fireplace, so you can ask them. I’ll repeat that this log rack here is your day’s worth of firewood. You can refill it each morning, but that’s all you all get for the day. Use it sparingly. We don’t have all that much wood for all the fireplaces.”

Candice arrived with a colorful sleeping bag and an armload of bedding. “These are for your cots, and here is something for your son. I hope it’s not too child-like for such a grown up young man.” She beamed her best compassion-smile at Lucas. He smiled back, happy with the promotion.

Don leaned out of the door to point down the hallway. “Down there is the little bathroom for the upstairs rooms. You’ll be sharing that with everybody else up here. For now, use the bucket to flush, but it’s your responsibility to refill the bucket. Mrs. Webster and I are getting too old to haul buckets or firewood.”

“What about their food?” Martin asked.

“Oh, I should have had you leave that downstairs. Another rule is, I’m afraid, is that we can’t keep everyone’s food separated. Far too hard to keep track of it all. So, it’s all going in one big pantry. Are you folks okay with that?”

Carlos and Anna nodded.

“So far, we’re planning two meals a day,” said Mr. Webster. “But that’s a work in progress and will probably change as we get more people.”

Martin gave them a smile in lieu of a wave as he left. Candice was busy interviewing them about dietary concerns. Downstairs, the kitchen was cramped. The boxes of food stacked along the walls suggested that the residents of the Cheshire Town Farm would not go hungry — for a little while, at least.

On the way back, Martin decided to use the short cut that Holly showed them. The leaves on the vestigial old road were still damp. While walking quietly along, he was lost in his own thoughts. Would he catch Adam sleeping on watch again? How would he tell Trish, nicely, to stop flirting for food. How would he tell Margaret about the red bra incident? Those all seemed like manageable issues, even if thorny. What about Susan? That seemed like a problem too vague to even start solving.

A faint clanking broke his train of thought. He stopped to listen more attentively, but it did not repeat. He stood still longer, waiting for something else — a second shot, as it were. A faint sound of voices was barely audible and too brief to locate. He mused about how far sounds could carry once the leaves were off the trees. Who knew how far away the source had been. It had to be fairly far, as there was nothing but forest, swamp and a pond between Wilson Hill and Stockman Hill.

(end chapter 12)

[headlesshorseman]

Thank you.

It sounds like some of Martin's neighbors are slow learners.

[kaijafon]

oh wow! thanks for all the new! made me want to slap a couple of those silly women!!!! so glad that not all of us women are like that!!!!

[pbbrown0]

Carlos really has his head screwed on straight. He is in serious need of help for his family, but he gets it, that no one "owes him" anything. He really appreciates that every tiny bit of help he receives is a gift.

[mic]

Chapter 13: part 1: To Concord



After the sun rose above the bare trees, a tan Sierra with a four-horse trailer pulled on the road in front of the Simmons house. The driver introduced himself as Tyler Hendricks. His brother Charles came along to ride shotgun — literally.

Draining the Simmons’ house fuel oil tank was not a fast process. The little fittings were not designed to move large volumes. By patient bucket-brigades with small buckets, fuel was transferred to the Sierra. Tyler calculated that they might need seven gallons to make the round trip with a heavy load. Ten allowed a margin for peace-of-mind.

Before they had finished, a dark red Laramie pulled up with the second four-horse trailer in tow. Arthur Emulari had his wife and adult son, Eric, along. Both carried long guns. Arthur wore a shoulder holster.

“Are you guys expecting this to be that dangerous of a trip?” Martin asked.

“Not really,” said Arthur. “Certainly not like we had in Iraq, right Tyler?“

“Nah. Nothing like that,” said Tyler with a shake of his head. “That was a war zone, crawling with hostiles. Still, stands to reason that a convoy of four pickups pulling horse trailers might arouse curiosity among the greedy or desperate.”

“Oh well, I was just wondering,” Martin said. “Because, I was thinking of having my wife come along. She grew up with cows, so thought she could give Mr. Cauloff a hand checking them out, but I don’t want her coming if you guys are expecting trouble.”

“I don’t expect big trouble,” said Arthur. “After all, I brought Edith along with me, didn’t I?” Edith, standing on the other side of the truck, heard her name. She gave Arthur a little wave. “Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she’s got a keen eye with iron sights, too.” He winked.

“You should bring along something beside your sidearm,” Arthur said to Martin. “Just in case.”

“Like a carbine?”

“Yeah. That would be good. Don’t expect much for trouble in the first place, but if it does come, it’ll probably be close quarters anyhow. Not much need for long scopes and sniper rifles.”

Two more trucks and trailers clanged and rattled down the dirt road to join the first two. All the drivers, shotguns, Landers and Martin gathered around the hood of the Sierra. Arthur spread out a map. He handed out copies to each driver.

“I figure to go up this way,” he traced his finger along the map.

“Past Indian Lakes?” Tyler asked.

“I know there’s talk of troublesome types up there, but the alternatives are going through Nutfield — which is probably worse — or, going the long way around, and we don’t want to spend the fuel for that. Coming back, I figure to come down 3A and on the other side of the lakes, so we don’t use the same road twice.”

“What’s everybody got for radios?” Tyler asked. People dug in their coats, producing an assortment of radio gear. They all agreed upon a few channels.

Arthur proposed a set of call signs, but the driver of the black truck demurred. “That doesn’t sound very serious.”

“That’s the idea,” said Arthur. “You go around sounding all ninja-ops and people start getting curious. Better to be underestimated.” Arthur was chosen as convoy leader, since his Laramie was the biggest and he had the most actual experience in convoys.




“I’m going to take the carbine,” Martin told Dustin. “And one of the walkies,” He took two extra magazines from the safe shelf. “Think you’ll be okay with your shotgun?”

“Sure. I kinda prefer it anyhow. Expecting trouble?” Dustin asked.

“They don’t think so, but I’d hate to run into some ‘ruffians’ and have this thing here at home.” Martin pocketed a half a box of extra rounds too. He closed the safe and handed Dustin the key. “This should just be a day trip. While we’re gone, keep your shotgun handy at all times. Keep the Hi-Point on you too. Issue only the .22 revolver to Adam and Trish for their watches.”

“What about Susan?” Dustin asked.

“What about me?” Susan stood in the doorway.

“Oh, we were discussing the upcoming watches, but you just got off,” said Martin.

“I’d better get out and see where the Dunans are,” Dustin said. “Haven’t seen them for awhile. Take it easy, dad. Come back with a cow, eh?” He winked.

“You know your mother won’t let me have a cow.” He winked back.

“I just got done with my shift,” Susan said. “All those trucks and trailers: that looks like quite the caravan. Everyone has guns to go get some cows? I didn’t know this was going to be a dangerous trip.”

“The others were saying that they didn’t really expect trouble. They figured the risks were low, since they were going to take different routes up and back,” Martin said. “One of them has his wife and son along, so he obviously wasn’t too worried. I asked about Margaret coming along too. They didn’t seemed concerned.”

“Oh, well, then…could I come too?” Susan asked somewhat sheepishly.

“What?” Martin was taken aback. He already had mental images of her staying in the house, where it was safe. “I don’t know…I mean….what if there was some trouble. I think it would be better if you stayed here.”

“Why? You just said they didn’t expect trouble, and that guy had along his wife and son, and you even said she was going. So, you must not think there’ll be any danger either.”

“But.” Martin had already removed his only viable objection. He still did not like the idea of her coming along, though precisely why remained out of focus.

She could see his argument was out of ammunition, but took pity. “If you’d really rather I stayed here, then I will.”

He wanted to say, ‘Good, that’s what I want,’ but that was not true either. The trip seemed like an adventure. After the adventures they had shared on the walk up to New Hampshire, sharing another had its appeal. But, he could not say that out loud.

“I just don’t get why you’d want to come?” he said. Perhaps she had some unrealistic expectation which he could disqualify.

“I’m not sure either. It just sounds like…I don’t know…kind of an adventure.”

Martin cringed inside. She was not supposed to agree with his unspoken notions.

“I mean, things are pretty quiet around here,” she went on. “Not that I’m complaining. I mean, quiet is good, and I don’t mind the chores or doing watch or even learning to shoot. But, those are routine things. This is something different…and what are you doing? Why are you closing your eyes like that?”

“Never mind,” said Martin. “I have my reasons. I have no solid reason why you should not come along.” He knew kryptonite was in the room.

“It looks weird to have you talking to me with your eyes shut like that.”

“I suppose it does, but that’s how it has to be,” he said. “Whether you can come along or not really isn’t up to me. It’s not my convoy. You’ll have to go ask Tyler and Arthur. They’re heading up the trip.”




“Well, there’s no room in Mr. Hendrick’s truck,” Margaret said, shaking her head in veto. “The two brothers in the front, you and me in the back. Our bags take up the middle space.”

It did not take a rocket scientist to see that Margaret did not want there to be any room in Tyler’s truck. So, Martin scuttled suggesting that the bags could ride in the pickup bed or in the trailer. Such ‘helpful’ suggestions would not be appreciated.

“Mr. Landers and the other guy are in the gray truck,” Margaret continued. “Mr. Cauloff and the other driver are in the black one…”

“She could ride with us, said Arthur. “We’ve got room for one more.” They turned and walked toward their truck.

“Oh cool!” Susan beamed and bounced on her toes subtly. “Thank you, thank you.” She seemed unsure who to thank. She flashed a little smile at Martin, then hurried to catch up with the Emulari family. She climbed into the back seat of the dark red Laramie.

Martin turned to Dustin. “You’re the Duty Officer until I get back, understand?” Dustin nodded. Martin made eye contact with Adam, Trish and Judy who stood behind him. “He’s in charge until we get back. Just do your part.”

Margaret tossed her day bag into the back seat of the Sierra. “Why did she want to come along?”

“I tried to suggest she stay here, but she wanted some adventure, or something.” Martin tossed in his bag and climbed in the other side. Tyler and Charles studied their small map, noting the waypoints marked in red. After a quick radio check-in from each truck, the Cheshire Cow Convoy started to roll.



“You know how I feel about cows,” Margaret said quietly. She continued to watch the bare trees glide by.

“I know,” said Martin. “But you said we needed more protein sources.”

“We do. I’m just not thrilled. When I graduated high school, I couldn’t wait to get off the farm. When I left for college, I had truly hoped I had seen the last of tending cows.”

“This is Big Apple to dumplings.” hissed the walkie-talkie on the dashboard. “We’re coming up on Indian Lakes in a bit. All eyes peeled.”

“Charles and I will take the front quarters,” Tyler said over his shoulder. “You two take rear quarters. Call ‘em out if you see anything.”

There was not much to see for several miles: bare branches, naked tree trunks and the occasional house that looked abandoned.

The radio hissed: “Alert, sight four people in woods on left. Fifteen yards in. Go porcupine.”

“We see ‘em too,” replied one of the trucks ahead.

“We’re going porcupine,” said Tyler. “Windows down. Guns ready. Barrels visible. Charles, Martin, keep eyes on your quarters. Don’t want any surprises cuz we’re all looking on one side.”

Cold air rushed through the cab of the truck. Martin braced himself against the seat back of the front seat. His hand, under the foregrip of his carbine, rested on the open window sill. Margaret set herself in position against the driver’s seat, the way she saw Martin brace himself. She held her pistol at high ready as she looked over her shoulder to get a look at the people in the woods.

She’s a cool cucumber, Martin thought as he watched Margaret scanning the woods for a first glimpse. Margaret was never one to utter girly screams. Even when she spotted a spider — which she hated — discovering one was stated as a matter-of-fact problem to be solved. ‘Martin. I have something for you to deal with.’ He knew that meant she had found a spider. At least he was of value to her as spider cleanup. Now with even the prospect of ‘ruffians’, Martin could see her head scanning in the same quick sweeps that she did when on spider-alert. This time, however, she was ready to face these spiders with one in the chamber and the safety off.

Martin wondered if Susan was regretting her desire for adventure.

Tyler keyed his radio. “Big dumpling sees ‘em too.”

“They’re not doing anything,” Margaret said. “They’re just watching us go past.”

“That’s good,” said Tyler. “Stay sharp, though. They could still be eyes for a group further up.”

If they were part of a group further up the road, that second group never showed itself. The rest of the route through the Indian Lakes area had no more sightings. Nonetheless, it made Martin and the others too busy being alert to make conversation.

After waypoint four, Arthur called off the porcupine. It felt good to get the windows back up. Arthur kept a brisk pace, so the windchill was stiffening hands and drying out eyes.

93 seemed safer, as the brush line was farther from the pavement. Buildings were farther away too. Being more exposed made them vulnerable to snipers, if there were any. Martin hoped the element of surprise would mean no one was in a sniper position. The sheet metal of the truck would not stop bullets. Pickups were not Humvees.

Martin smiled to himself, recalling that he had never seen 93 empty. Even coming home on the last flight in: 93 always had traffic. When traffic was heavy, three lanes seemed almost claustrophobic for lack of maneuvering room.

As the caravan of trucks and trailers headed north, 93 seemed like an extravagant waste of pavement. They were the only thing on the road. Modern highway engineering had pulled nature away from the road, and erected sound barrier walls between traffic and homes, there was nothing to see. No one called out any sightings all the way past Manchester. It was not hard to imagine that they were the only people on the planet.



“Hey,” Margaret called out. “I see a guy up on the rocks there, in the median. Look.”

Martin’s eyes followed her pointed finger. There was a man, crouched down within a v-notch of the granite bluff in the median — what remained of a solid-rock hill blasted away to make room for a flat interstate. Martin only got a glimpse before they had driven past and the trailer obscured his view.

“I didn’t see anything,” said Tyler. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“I saw him too,” said Martin. “One guy in a gray hoodie with blue sleeves.”

“That’s what I saw,” said Margaret. “I didn’t see any guns or anything, just that one guy.”

Tyler keyed his radio. “Did any of you spot anyone on port side, a second ago, on top of the rocks in the median?”

“Negative, Big Dumpling,” said one of the others.

“Negative,” said Arthur.

“Looks like a we had a brief sighting,” Tyler radioed. “Keep eyes peeled up there.”

There were no more sightings. They blew through the empty toll station. The highway up to Concord was just as empty, with nothing but trees to see. It seemed more like off-peak tourist season than post-apocalyptic.

“Coming up on waypoint fifteen,” crackled the radio.

“We’re almost to Concord,” Tyler said. “We’ll be back in the land of people again, so keep eyes on your quarters.”


Where 93 had been desolate landscape, Concord was a kicked hornet’s nest. People seemed to be walking everywhere. The convoy of four trucks and trailers garnered more than a few comments, stares and pointing. The streets looked normal, still lined with many parked cars. Whether any of them were still drivable or sat in the same parking spot for the past two weeks, was not obvious. The absence of functioning traffic lights was about the only outward flaw in the appearance of normal.

The radio on the dash hissed. “Let’s go around this block up left here, and all pull up in a line on Capitol Street. It looked like there was room there for all of us.”

“Roger that,” crackled the other drivers.

They stowed their long guns before getting out of the trucks. People walking on the sidewalks stopped to stare. Martin noticed that there were no cars driving on the roads: only parked ones. Perhaps they had not seen moving vehicles for several days and this was a novelty. The people seemed more apprehensive than scheming.

The convoy’s occupants gathered in a largish cluster on the sidewalk near the State House building. Several small side conversations started, but were interrupted by a man rushing up to them.

“You’re late!” said Mr. Ingalls. “Thank goodness you made it, but there isn’t much time. Quickly, come this way.” He waved for Martin and Landers to follow him. The others in their party began to follow too, but Ingalls held up his hand. “I’m sorry. It’s rather crowded inside already. I must ask you all to wait out here.” He turned attention to Martin and Landers again, dissatisfied that they had stopped. “This way. Come on, come on.” Ingalls hurried up the granite steps.

>

[headlesshorseman]

Thank you Mic. I smell a rat somewhere. Great chapter.

[pbbrown0]

Headlesshorseman is right. The Devil is in the details.

Thank you Mic.

[kaijafon]

weird way to pick up cows.... lol! thanks

[mic]

Chapter 13: part 2: At the State House

The lobby of the State House was full of people, all bundled up in winter coats and hats. Ingalls led them around tall white columns and into a hallway. “There’s already a couple groups in with the governor now. If we hurry, we can be ready when they’re done.”

The hallways felt all the more narrow with the knots of people chatting together. It seemed like every linear foot of wall space was taken up by portraits of stern looking men in 1700s or 1800s attire. The white walls and floors helped reflect what little light came through the tall windows in rooms off the hallway.

“Wait over there,” said Ingalls. “It looks like the governor isn’t done with the last group yet. I’ll go in and see. You can have a seat if you like.” Ingalls pointed to some high-backed leather chairs along the wall. More knots of people carried on their conversations in the waiting room, despite Ingalls, Martin and Landers walking through, interrupting them.

“Any ideas what this is all about?” Martin asked Landers.

“I didn’t get much out of Ingalls yesterday, but connecting the dots, I’d guess the state is in some kind of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble? And what would it have to do with us?”

“Not sure,” said Landers. “This outage has everything scrambled. That governor’s statement I read yesterday, sounded like the state was hamstrung to much of anything.”

“I got that,” said Martin. “But why ask us up here?”

“Maybe they just wanted to impound our trucks and trailers and this was a ruse to get us to deliver them.” Landers tried to chuckle.

Martin frowned. He had not thought of the state trying to impound whatever it wanted. They were not his trucks or trailers, but the effrontery raised hackles. Yet, he had seen nothing to raise suspicions. The state seemed more fuddled and impotent than devious. They also left a sizable party with the vehicles. He should have heard something on his walkie-talkie if there was trouble.

Landers noticed that Martin was not chuckling along. “Sorry, guess I don’t have Hooper’s sense of humor.”

The tall double doors opened. A cluster of people, still engaged in conversations, ambled slowly through the doorway. Ingalls, the governor and a pair of other staffers were chatting. Martin recognized the two men coming out of the governor’s office.

“Leo?” Martin said. He walked closer to them. “Leo Walsh? And David?”

Leo looked at Martin blankly. No mental caller-ID was coming up for him. David, on the other hand, smiled broadly. “Hey! You’re that Marvin guy.”

“Martin.”

“Yeah yeah. Martin. Hey Leo, it’s that Martin guy we let ride on our running boards. Remember?”

The light bulb went on. “Oh yeah. Hey. What are you doing up here? I thought you and your girlfriend lived in Andover, or something. Is she okay? Seemed kind of a nervous nelly.”

Landers gave Martin a raised eyebrow.

Thanks for that, Leo, Martin winced. “Oh, you mean Susan. She’s good, but she’s not my…”

“So did you get asked to talk to the governor too?” Leo looked around the paneled room. “This is kinda the big time, eh?”

Martin nodded. “What did they ask you about?”

“A couple of days ago, we were hauling in a couple of hoods who broke into a house.”

David interrupted. “We think they were behind a string of break-ins.”

“Hey. I’m telling it,” Leo insisted. “Anyhow, we had ‘em zip-tied and handing them over to the police when this guy comes up and asks what we were doing. We told about organizing neighborhood militias, though the official-types shy away from that word. Too scary, I guess. They like to call us Citizen Defense Groups.”

David interrupted again. “But CDG sounds lame, like a food additive or something.” Leo shushed him.

“Gangs were taking over our part of Manchester. The meth-heads and addicts going nuts from lack of a fix were trouble enough, but that was more like animal control. The real trouble was the gangs. They’d organized themselves into two coalitions.”

“The blues and and the crowns?” Martin asked.

“Yeah. You live in Manchester too?”

“No, just heard about them. It sounded kinda brutal.”

“Oh yeah. They’d been shaking people down for food and fuel and being pretty rough about it. So, me and David figured two could play at that organizing game. We got together our like-minded neighbors. A united resistance, and all that. Regular patrols was the key: boots on the ground and eyes everywhere.”

“That,” David added, “and a couple squads of muscle on call. Outnumber ‘em when we needed to.”

“The governor was asking how we did it and if we would train others to do it too. The state doesn’t have enough police or even National Guard to really stop the gangs. They’re like cockroaches.”

“I still say they’re like mold,” said David.

Leo gave his brother a large eye-roll. “Like mold,” he repeated with scorn. “I can’t believe you actually said that to the governor. Mold just sits there. It’s not creepy or crawly. It just sits there. It’s not scary.”

“Maybe, but it grows all silent like, taking over behind the walls, and before you know it, it’s all over the place and it can be deadly! I say the gangs are like mold.” David nodded.

“Oh never mind with your mold.” Leo swatted David with his ball cap.

“Gentlemen,” said Ingalls. “Please come in.” He motioned for Landers and Martin to enter the office.”

“Hey, take care, Leo,” Martin waved. The Walsh brothers waved back.


The long office had high ceilings and dark wood wainscoting. Workmen were tinkering on the central fireplace, perhaps to return it to functionality. The governor stood near a propane heater in the corner of the room. Ingalls made the introductions.

“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” said Governor Vincent. “And especially on such short notice. I imagine your curious why I asked you here. I don’t have too much time before I will address a joint session, so I’ll give you a very brief summary to set up my questions to you both.”

“As you know, we’re all in this power outage crisis and it’s causing a lot of hardship for the people of New Hampshire. Federal agencies have offered aid, as we expected they would. That is what they’re there for, after all.”

“However, we have been notified that the aid comes with new emergency procedures. Not simply strings attached, but entire procedural expectations which concern me greatly.”

“We had a bit of a run-in with a FEMA man named Quinn,” Landers said. “We were supposed to turn over some information that we didn’t think we should…”

“So Ingalls told me. This is on that order, but of greater scope. It is within my power as governor to authorize the new emergency measures, or decline them. However, I am going to go before a joint session to request a non-binding vote to see what the legislature thinks.”

“Then why are we here?” Martin asked. He felt impertinent, but still wondered what he had to do with any of what the governor said.

“Ah. Cut to the chase. Here it is. As you know, I’m not particularly popular with my own party, let alone the other guys. Frankly — and you never heard me say this — I don’t put too much stock in what the legislature thinks about all this. Too many of them are busy-bodies or fuddy-duddies who are either afraid of their own shadows or angry about someone else’s shadow.”

“So, over the past few days, I had my staff tour the state and get a firsthand feel for how the people feel. I asked them to gather up some key people for some followup questions. That’s of more value to me than the party drama that passes for oxygen around here.”

“Mr. Landers, your townspeople voted to decline federal aid, knowing it would be very rough on them.” Landers nodded. “How widespread would you say that sentiment is?”

Landers looked down and slowly pulled at his white beard. “We’re just one small town, mind you, but, from what I know of people in the towns around Cheshire, there’s a lot of that same feeling. Most of us have always wished that the state would just butt out… no offense…”

“None taken.”

“…and let people get on with their lives. They’d rather scrape by than bow and beg.”

“Thank you,” said the governor. “Mr. Simmons, Ingalls tells me you’re an innovator and have a get-things-done attitude.”

“Well, I don’t know…”

“I’m not asking you. That’s what Ingalls said in his report. My question to you is are you innovating for just yourself?”

Martin wondered what that meant. He had always planned ways in which he and Margaret would get by in troubled times. He did not have a strong empathetic nature that felt bad for the grasshoppers of the world. Most of the grasshoppers were not the innocent victims of bad luck, but fools who presumed good luck had no end.

Taking in his son and his wife was not caring for others. They were family. Taking in the Dunans might count as caring for others, but he disliked them, so how caring was he really? Then there was taking in Susan. Was he really just taking in a hapless stranger, or was that somehow still a selfish act? “I don’t know?”

“Well, you need to decide. If I do not authorize the federal emergency measures, a lot of people in the state are going to be lacking food and supplies. I’m not suggesting that you, somehow, personally provide for them. But, if they can see that someone is solving problems, it can give them hope. People with hope can endure much. People in despair are doomed.”

A woman with a clipboard walked up, apprehensive to interrupt. “Governor, they’re taking their seats.”

“Thank you Stephanie. Just a minute.”

“So let me repeat my question.” The governor looked Martin firmly in the eyes. “Are you solving problems only for yourself, or are you willing to figure things out for others too?”

Martin had only imagined solving his own household problems: food, fuel, security. Yet, even that included six others beside himself. Margaret was helping the Walkers get their wood stove back in shape. She and Martin were helping the Oldhams. Leaving bread for Andy seemed un-selfish. The trip to fetch six cows was to benefit both his own house, but others as well.

“Others,” he said. “I guess.”

“Good. They’re going to need it.” The governor took the clipboard from the woman and studied the papers. Other staffers gathered around, effectively squeezing out Martin and Landers.

“Is that all?” Martin pulled on Ingalls’ sleeve. “What’s next?”

“The District One Assistant Admin wants to address the legislators before the governor asks them for their joint resolution.”

“Have we got time to stay and watch?” Martin asked Landers.

He looked at his watch. “We didn’t have a set time for getting to Canterbury, so I guess for a little while. We still have to get up there, loaded and back before dark.”

“Could we watch?” Martin asked Ingalls.

“Sure. I’m going up to the gallery anyhow. Follow me.” Ingalls led them through the nearly-empty white corridors, up an ornate flight of stairs, to a mezzanine overlooking the House Chamber.

All the gallery seats were filled. The air was stale. Landers spotted some open wall space on the right side where they could stand. Despite travel difficulties for those who lived far from Concord, most of the seats on the House floor were filled with representatives, senators or other officials. Several state police troopers stood along the back wall, with their hands on the grips of ARs.

The collision of conversations on both the House floor and the gallery, produced a roar akin to standing beside a busy highway. The Speaker rapped his gavel on the big wooden desk. Several loud clacks rang through the room. People began to quiet down.

“You need a desk like that,” Martin said.

“I’d love one,” said Landers. “As long as you can get it to fold up and fit in the storage room.”

The Speaker introduced Mr. Kelein, the Assistant Regional Administrator for FEMA District 1. The man was tallish, and slender, but looked emaciated behind the massive wood furniture.

“Thank you, Governor Vincent, Senators, Representatives and distinguished guests.”

This sounds long already, Martin thought.

Kelein spoke in flowery circles that boiled down to disagreeing that Governor Vincent should have bothered asking for the legislature’s referendum as the decision belonged to the governor alone. The undertone was that the FEMA officials at the District Office did not appreciate local politicians meddling in the complicated roll-out of their procedures. It was all phrased politely, and diplomatically: a skill that Kelein clearly practiced. Yet, Martin had heard enough politicial-ese over the years to decode the actual message: This is all a waste of time. Just sign the papers and let us get on with our job.

“These new procedures,” Kelein explained, “stem from extensive computer modeling by the agency: models of resource movement and human behavior. Events of this magnitude go far beyond the measures required for regional events, like Hurricanes Katrina or Sandy. These are extraordinary events which require extra-ordinary measures to ensure the health and safety of the population.”

Kelein pointed over his shoulder, as if gesturing to a PowerPoint slide that was not there. “Our simulations clearly show that in the wake of an event such as this, your people will face privations and scarcity which no modern civilized population should have to endure. The Agency is tasked with providing subsistence needs: Food, water and much-needed services, but there are other challenges which must also be addressed.”

He gripped the lectern with both hands and leaned forward. His voice grew louder. “In times like these, criminal elements will seize opportunities to prey upon the weak and vulnerable. Thefts, violence and assaults will increase: assaults on your wives and daughters. Law enforcement will be overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the event. Women and small children: at the mercy of bands of cruel criminals.” He waved one arm high over his head for emphasis.

Kelein paused to let the horror of his word pictures get a good seat. He resumed in a softer, more paternal tone. “The Agency has foreseen all that and we don’t want any of those bad things to happen to you. We have developed procedures to ensure that your women and children are safe and sheltered: warm and fed. All we need, to begin taking care of your people, is for Governor Vincent to authorize our simple emergency measures. That’s all. Our response teams will jump into action and truckloads of desperately-needed aid will begin to roll, bringing hot meals to the hungry, safety for the vulnerable. After all, isn’t that what you, the guardians of your people, truly want? That’s what the Agency wants too. The governors of all the other states in District 1 have already signed the authorization. Their people are receiving hot meals. When your governor signs, you can too.”

Martin noticed Quinn and a few other men, dressed in black, standing by the side door. They were nodding along with Kelein’s speech.

“So,” concluded Kelein. “I urge you, the elected representatives of the people of this state, to fulfill your sacred trust, to do what is best for your constituents. Approve this referendum. Encourage your governor to sign the authorization. Let us provide and protect. Thank you.”

Kelein left the lectern to mediocre applause. Quinn and the men in black tried to boost the average with exaggerated enthusiasm. They shook hands eagerly with Kelein as he exited. They high-fived each other.

Governor Vincent returned to the lectern, holding a thick binder. The applause died down quickly. “Ladies and gentlemen, before I ask for your referendum, you should know that this first of several volumes of the new emergency procedures reveals the price for the provision and protection Mr. Kelein spoke of.”

“State laws and local regulation will be suspended, replaced by a Regional Code of Conduct, overseen by a Conduct Committee. It says the suspension is temporary, but there is no description of how or when local laws return. Your police and fire departments will no longer be your own, but come under the command of their Operations Directors. They could decide, as we’ve seen in Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island, to order all law enforcement personnel into selected urban safe-zones that this book calls Cantons.”

The governor flipped open the binder. “There are procedures in here for impounding urban housing and relocating people within the Cantons. Distribution of aid is described as only within the Cantons.”

Martin could see Quinn frowning and shaking his head. The other men in black looked upset. Perhaps the contents of the binder were not supposed to be discussed publicly.

“In short,” the governor continued, “the people will be given aid in exchange for their freedom. I’ll close by quoting Franklin. ‘Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.’ Mr. Speaker, please call the vote.”

The hall broke into dozens of shouts and protestations. It was hard to pick out individual statements. Some urged the governor not to sign. Others insisted that the people needed food and feared the bands of criminals. The Speaker’s gavel only slowly restored order. The attempt at a voice vote failed miserably. It was too clamorous and too close to call. The vote by sign was just as noisy but raised hands could be counted. There were many hands raised for ‘yes’: to authorize aid. Quinn looked pleased.

The call for ‘no’ votes brought up many more hands. Even without the official counting, it was clear that majority decided they did not want the aid. Perhaps the price was too high. New Hampshire would fend for itself.

Martin could hear Quinn’s voice booming through the din. “You’ll regret this!” Quinn shouted. “You’ll be changing your tune soon enough. Mark my words! When all hell breaks loose in your little towns…people are starving…being attacked, you’ll be begging us to save you. Mark my words!”

“We’d better be going,” said Landers. He and Martin joined the river of people slowly making their way out. The hallways were choked with all the senators and representatives, still debating the vote.

There were crowds on the plaza and sidewalks too. Martin could see Red Cauloff, Tyler and Charles, leaning against their trucks. He looked up and down the busy sidewalk, but did not see Susan.

“What took so long?” Margaret asked. “What did the governor want with you?”

“The question was: was I solving problems for myself or for others?”

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘others’, but I’m not sure if that’s true. Mostly, I want to make sure our house is taken care of. I felt pretty selfish. But then I thought of you helping the Walkers, and the Oldhams. Seems like it’s mostly you helping others.”

“What about you leaving bread for that Andy kid, or taking Judy up to listen to Walter’s radio? That’s caring about others,” Margaret said.

“I didn’t think of those.”

“Well, you still did them, so I guess you answered right. But that doesn’t sound like it would have taken that long.”

“Oh, then Landers and I stayed to hear how the legislature voted on accepting federal aid or not.”

Margaret climbed into the back seat of the Sierra. “And?”

“It’s still up to the governor, but it sounds like ‘not’ to me. If they turn down federal aid, we’ll have to get by on whatever we have. So, as much as you don’t like cows, it sounds like we’re going to need them more than we thought.”

(end chapter 13)

[kaijafon]

thanks! I'm really getting interested in how he solves the Margaret/Susan problem. lol!

[pbbrown0]

Concise and to the point. Of course, N.H has a long history of resisting urbanization.

[headlesshorseman]

Thank you for a great chapter.

The serving of pottage that Esau received was not free either.

[pbbrown0]

Very astute, Headlesshorseman. That one is worth a lot of chuckles. You'd think we'd learn, after this long.

[mic]

Chapter 14: part 1: Canterbury Tails



The group agreed to mix up their convoy route before leaving Cheshire. They planned to avoid staying on one highway for too long, to be less predictable. 93 was the easiest road for making good time and good mileage. It was also best for fully heavy loads. Arthur suggested they not stay on 93 too long in one stretch, and not to use the same stretches on the northbound and southbound trips.

Arthur wanted to save 93-south for the first leg of the trip home. It would be easier for pulling a heavy load. This meant that the convoy of trucks need to follow a backroad route north. They took highway 132 north out of Concord. Trees and houses stood very close to the side of the road. The people in the trucks remained watchful, but the mood was more relaxed-vigilance than red-alert. Nobody was visible, either on the road or around the tidy houses. The advantage of the smaller, twisty roads was that the convoy was not visible to any one spot for even a half a minute. Only the periodic radio checks broke the silence.

After awhile, even the taciturn Hendricks brothers seemed to crave a little sound beside diesel rumble and the whine of the tires. Charles tried the radio, but had difficulty finding a station. He did find a faint AM station, apparently out of Concord which reported on the legislature's referendum. The station announced that Governor Vincent chose not to authorize the federal emergency measures. The radio host, who apparently would have voted yes, got into a lively debate with a guest who agreed with the governor. Freedom versus food. The two of them did little beyond chasing their own political tails before the station faded out.

Tyler wondered aloud about whether he and his household had enough food to get through the winter. The Hendricks were getting an eighth share of the milk production -- whatever that amounted to. It was a help, but still not enough. Now that the governor turned down federal aid, Tyler wondered where the additional food would come from later in the winter.

"Hard to imagine," Tyler said, "that there's enough groceries stashed in all the pantries in New Hampshire to feed everybody for a whole winter. Something new's gotta come from somewhere else, or lots of folks are just gonna starve.”

“That’s why we were thinking of you making a wood gas thing for his truck,” Charles said.

"This truck? It's a diesel. That won’t work. It needs to be a low-compression engine, preferably a carbureted one." Martin thought about what up-scaling Tin Man would entail. "I guess it would need to be an engine that didn't have a fussy management computer either. You know, the kind that regulates the spark based on a bunch of sensors. Wood gas bypasses the usual gasoline system, so some of those sensors won't be happy. They’d probably keep it from running.”

Tyler did not like that news. "Well, shoot. I was liking the idea of keeping my Silverado running."

"For what?"

"Business. Charles and I don't have our old jobs anymore. Working around the farm is good and all, but the farm won't supply everything. Heck, nobody's farm's gonna produce everything they need. So, this trip to get some cows and your gasifier thing has me thinking. Everybody's gonna run out of gasoline pretty soon, if they haven't already. But, what if I had a truck that still ran? Powered by one of your gasifier things, I could be THE guy to haul stuff around the state."

"What stuff?" Charles asked. “You were just saying how there wasn’t enough stuff in everyone's pantries to get 'em through the winter. What's to haul?"

"I was thinking about firewood, mostly. Lots of people out in the sticks -- too far to carry a cord of wood by hand. Could barter them for stuff."

“But they won’t have stuff to barter with,” Charles countered. “Their cupboards will be bare, remember?”

"What about fish?" Martin asked. "You think the fishermen along the coast are still catching fish? If so, where are they going to sell them? Without trucks, how far could their fish get?"

"Hey, now yer talkin'. I'll bet folks along the coast are getting sick and tired of eating fish. I could haul stuff like our extra milk and eggs, maybe a whole chicken or two to the coast and trade for fish. Bet they'd trade two for one: a four pound fryer for eight pounds of fish. We come ahead. That's an input into the supplies."

"That's all fine," said Charles, "But his gas thingy won't work on your Silverado, remember?" Tyler frowned. He liked his Silverado. “But hey, what about my old beater, huh?”

"That old thing? It'll rattle the teeth out of your head," protested Tyler.

"Bah. Just a little timing gear noise is all. That old straight-six will pull stumps, I tell ya. Won't win any races, but it'll always get you there. Hey Martin, I've got an '81 F250 crew cab. It's one of the 300 cube engines: got a carburetor, old-style spark and no computers. We just use it to haul the hay wagon and dirty chores like that. Maybe that'll work?"

"Could be," said Martin, "but that'll take a lot more figuring and fussing. 300 cubic inches, eh? The burner and chamber will have to be a lot bigger unit to generate enough gas to feed an engine that size. There may be some other issues too. Sounds like a lot of work. I don’t want to sound all selfish about it, but what's in it for me?"

The Hendricks brothers conferred between themselves. They did not have a big surplus of anything. They had a good harvest of hay laid up, but Martin did not need thousands of dollars worth of hay. They planned to barter their hay with the many folks who had horses in town during the winter.

They settled on trading for a share of their future profits as trucker-traders. Margaret thought it sounded too much like the cartoon character Wimpy promising to pay Popeye on Tuesday for a hamburger today. Martin agreed that there was the potential for a poor return on their labor investment.

Being all in the same truck meant that none of their conversations were particularly private. Margaret’s reservations prompted Tyler to make his terms more enticing. A quarter of whatever profit they made might still turn out to be nothing, but Martin felt it was worth the risk. He would need help with a project of that size. He wondered what compensation he might have to offer the helpers. Would they be willing to gamble time and effort for possible payback ‘on Tuesday’?

“Checkpoint 20,” crackled the radio.

“Looks like we’re about to make the turn onto the farmer’s road,” said Tyler.

The caravan turned off the highway and threaded down the cracked blacktop road. Near the end of the road sat the low buildings of Winton Carlyle’s dairy farm. The empty trailers made considerable noise over the uneven pavement, so Winton and his family were already outside to greet the convoy.

Everyone climbed out of the trucks and stretched. Martin wondered how Susan was faring with her adventure. Had the false-alarm vigilance at Indian Lakes worried her? Apparently not. She was smiling and busily engaged conversation with Eric Emulari.

Winton gathered his family and remaining workers around. The handshaking and introductions took awhile. Martin knew he would not remember all the names.
“I can’t thank you all enough, Winton said. “I’ve been worried sick about my ladies. The hay problem was going to be an issue later, but with the machinery down, we have to milk ‘em by hand and I’m short half my usual crew. Poor ladies get real sore when we can’t get to them fast enough. Seems like we’re milking around the clock and never get ahead. I hate to see ‘em suffer.”

Winton gave the group a quick tour of his small-scale dairy and store. Red and Margaret went with Winton to look at the cattle that might be loaned.

Martin and Landers stood near the trucks. “Mr. Carlyle was saying he’s found a couple temporary homes for a few more of his herd,” Landers said. “With us taking six, he thinks he can feed and manage what’s left. The deal is that we have to bring them back when this outage thing is over. They’re just on loan.”

“Even if we only get to keep them through the winter,” Martin said. “The food input is a big deal.”

“I sure hope they’re getting the Cauloff farm ready,” Landers said. “Having some dairy cows in town won’t feed everyone, but it will be a morale booster. I wonder if we’re going to be able to really take care of them.”

“Margaret did say she’d help train people to milk by hand, but I agree. It’s going to be a lot of work. Margaret can’t do it all. She’ll try, but a lot of other people are going to have to step up,” Martin said.

“Looks like your…house guest has made a new friend,” Landers said. He tipped his head toward the dark red Laramie. Susan leaned against the trailer while Eric was busy telling her some story with animated arm gestures. Susan chuckled from time to time.

“It would seem so,” Martin said.

One of Winton’s crew walked past Martin and Landers with a milk can on a two-wheel dolly. The can appeared to be partially filled, from the way the dolly moved and how the man had to push it. He was walking toward the river, which piqued Martin’s curiosity. Signs on the road said ‘dead end’. The last house was boarded up with plywood. Where was the man taking the milk can?

Martin caught up with the man as he was passing the Laramie. “Excuse me,” Martin said. “But, could I ask where you’re going with that? It doesn’t look like there’s anything at the end of your road.” Martin wondered if it was old milk or some cast-off material. It might not be fit for human consumption, but it might be food for chickens. They had trucks and trailers. Perhaps he might score some free chicken food to help extend his feed supply.

“Going across the river,” the man said. “We cross the old bridge and sell some milk to folks in Boscawen.”

“Old bridge?” Susan perked up.

“Yeah,” said the man. “They closed it years ago, and it’s kinda falling apart, but it’s good enough for walking across, so we do.”

“Ooo. I want to see,” she said. Susan, Eric, Martin and Landers all followed the man down the weedy pavement.

Past the imposing “Bridge Closed” sign and a veritable hedge of brush that had grown up behind it, stretched the rusty skeleton of an old truss bridge. The road surface was gone. Only the wooden timber cross ties remained. Winton, or his crew, had laid down sheets of plywood on the timbers to create a walkable path across the old bridge. The worker trundled his load around the jersey barrier and out across the plywood path. Martin stayed up on the higher ground to watch the man cross. Susan, Eric and Landers went down to the jersey barrier.

“That’s so cool,” Susan said. “This reminds me of the old bridge up the road from my house when I was growing up.”

“That sounds fascinating,” said Eric.

Martin noticed Eric was a half step behind Susan, looking her over, top to bottom. In her short jacket, her curves were evident. The way his eyes moved reminded Martin of times on the bus when, in the row ahead of him, a pretty girl sat next to a guy. The girl would close her eyes and maybe doze off. The guys would often keep looking over at the girl, eyes scanning up and down. It was the same way he had seen guys scanning every inch of the expensive Italian sports cars at the car shows. It was the look of ‘man, I really want to drive that.’

Susan had not noticed that Eric had stepped up very close behind her. She was focused on the old bridge. “When I was a kid, we used to ride our bikes across a bridge like this one. On the other side was this Christian summer camp thing. They’d always give us ice cream. We were so mad when the town closed the bridge. Stupid town didn’t want to pay insurance on the bridge so they just closed it. It was a perfectly good bridge! Tightwads. Made us so mad.”

“Really,” said Eric. “That would make me very angry too. I know just how you feel.”

Martin could feel himself getting angry. Susan was no sports car to be test driven.

“Even after they welded on these big steel plates,” Susan continued, “ we would just climb around and lift our bikes over the railing. Stupid town. Don’t mess with a kid’s ice cream.”

Someone called to them from the farm. It was time to load the cattle. Martin intentionally hung back. He caught Eric getting a couple more looks at Susan’s backside. He even faked a stumble so he could bump into her. She thought nothing of it, apologizing for being in his way. Martin noticed his fists clenched in his pockets.

The drivers had pulled their rigs around so that the trailers faced the dirt road to the barns. Winton and his wife led the cows, two-by-two, to the trailers. The first two were a brown swiss named Heidi and a large Holstein named Gertrude. A farm hand had two square hay bales on a cart as their travel snacks. Cows are not fast walkers when they do not want to be. The loading was taking a long time. Eric was telling Susan another story that required pantomime. She was amused. Martin was not.

Margaret came out of the little dairy store with a box. She looked excited. “You’ll never guess what I got.” Martin was in no mood for guessing games. “Okay, fine, don’t guess. You’d never get it anyway.”

She opened the box to reveal a half dozen small glass bottles. “Rennet! Can you believe it? They had rennet and were willing to trade some away.” Martin was not connecting the dots. “Cheese, Martin. With rennet, we can make cheese out of the milk we get. We probably won’t be able to drink it all, so rather than have it go bad or just feed it to the chickens, we can make cheese so we have something for later.”

Martin finally tuned in to what Margaret was saying. “Really? Why would they trade that away? They would want it for the same reason you do. What did you have to trade?”

“Oh, I traded my pistol for it.”

“You WHAT?” Martin did a poor job of covering up his shock and outrage. “You loved that gun. I paid over five hundred dollars for that.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “I know, Martin. You say that every time I don’t clean it.”

“But…but, now you don’t have a gun. It’s not like we can go buy you another one.” Martin flailed his arms. “What are you going to carry now, huh?”

“You’ll let me use yours,” she said sweetly. “I like yours too. I know you’ll let me use it. You can use that chunky one you got from those hoodlums when we get home.”

“That’s not the point!” Martin raised his voice.

“I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about.” Now Margaret was getting defensive. “You have a safe full of guns. We needed a way to time-shift our food supply more than we needed that one gun. Besides, you got two from the hoodlums, so you’re actually one ahead. Sheesh. Calm down.”

“I AM calm,” he half-shouted.

“Oh right,” she snarked back. “Well, when you’ve cooled off, you’ll see this was a better deal than you think. We’ve got guns. What we won’t have is long-term food.”

“Okay everyone,” shouted Arthur. “Huddle up here for a little briefing before we head back home.” Everyone gathered around the hood of Arthur’s Laramie. He had his map spread out and traced the homebound loop. “I figure we can take 93 as far south as Concord before really encounter much of anyone. Then we go almost all the way past Concord, so if anyone’s watching, it looks to them like we’re taking 93 all the way, but here, at checkpoint D, we turn off and take 3A south. That’s a pretty sparse stretch of industrial sites. Should be pretty empty. Take that down to Hooksett and then back roads to the other side of Indian Lakes.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Martin could see Eric leaning against Susan, as if intent to see the map. Susan did not seem to notice. Martin did. He doesn’t need to see the map. He’s not driving. Martin’s mood grew darker.

“Okay, everyone. Saddle up,” said Arthur. “If all goes well, we should be home in just a little while.”

>

[headlesshorseman]

Thanks Mic. It looks like the price of rennet just went up. that may have been a good buy.

[mic]

Chapter 14: part 2: Detour

Martin cleared the round out of the chamber of his pistol before handing it to Margaret. He fished out the two magazines from his pockets. She smiled slightly: there was no question that he would let her use his pistol. As he took his seat in the Silverado, he checked the action of his carbine. Margaret was correct. Her trade had not left her defenseless. They had three guns between the two of them. She was thinking more as a team than he was.

“Um…look,” she began cautiously, “I can tell you’re still kind of upset over my trading my pistol.” She waited for a response, but got none. “And I’ll admit I was a little impulsive and rash. But I had no idea the Carlyle farm had a little dairy operation too. No one said anything about that.” She allowed for a response again. “Or…I would have brought along things to trade with, if I had known.”

Martin was not particularly upset that Margaret had traded away her pistol. He was more upset over something else. She was right, as usual. They did have enough weapons at home to equip everyone in the house. His collection was not the idealized high power arsenal that people argued about on the forums, but then, the Simmons house was not likely to be repelling a platoon of jihadists either. For local trouble, like the shopping cart beggars, his gun assortment was sufficient.

Margaret was also right that his battlefield pickups had almost compensated for her trade. The strange gun was little help. It needed ammo he did not have. The HiPoint was a caliber he had plenty of. But, it had only the one ten-round magazine. The HiPoint was not an even swap for his 9, with its multiple seventeen-round magazines. Still, for local ruffians, the HiPoint was a serviceable tool. Martin did actually feel a little better that Margaret now carried his 9. Her favorite packed less punch, which was probably why she liked it better. In the peculiar times they were living in now, he preferred that she pack more punch. There was some comfort in that thought.

“Real rennet is not going to be easy to come by anymore,” Margaret continued. “Heck, it was hard to come by before all this. Now? Well, that’s why I kinda jumped on it. Truth is, I’m not sure what I might have brought up to trade with the Carlyles that they would have wanted. Mrs. Carlyle was saying how they were pretty well set for carbs and canned veggies. With cows, of course, they weren’t short for proteins, either. They wouldn’t have wanted any jam.” She waited for him to respond, but he continued to glower out the window: watching his quarter.

She touched his arm, as if to console him. “I know you’re still angry right now, but you’ll see, Martin. It will be for the best. Making cheese — I think I remember what we used to do, anyhow — that’ll be a big help for getting us through the winter. You’ll see.”

He was not angry at her. He fancied he was angry at Eric, but perhaps more with himself. Martin knew she was right about the gun and the cheese. Being able to preserve any excess milk would extend their protein supply. How much, was in question, but it had to help. He would have told her all that, but his mind was clouded with other thoughts while he watched his quarter of the bleak landscape roll by.

Why had he gotten so angry at Eric’s behavior? Susan is an attractive woman. Did he expect that a young man would not notice? What business was it of his if someone did? Martin was not her brother, or any other form of family member to have any grounds to object about some other man’s attentions. He was just a bank customer. She was just a teller. She needed a place to live after her house burned down. He happened to have a spare room. That was all. He had no right to object to anything, and yet, he was objecting. That bothered him.

He looked over at Margaret, dutifully watching her quarter with his pistol at a casual low-ready. He wanted to tell her everything. He missed their long chats over almost anything: Plato, politics, who was the best James Bond. That was before the kids got to the age of soccer tournaments and music lessons, which meant booster clubs, fundraisers and PTA meetings. That led to youth group outings at the church, which grew into Ladies’ Aid projects which absorbed a good deal of Margaret’s time. Whenever he and Margaret were alone together — which was rare — it seemed like all they ever talked about was the kids’ activities.

The back seat of the Hendricks’ truck was not a good place to start a heart-to-heart conversation. He also realized that he was not sure exactly what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her about Trish’s stupid flirt. Margaret would probably think it was hilarious — a young blonde flirting with him. It was quite absurd. Margaret had said the Dunans were just young and foolish, that they would wise up quickly. Perhaps Trish’s flirts were just her flavor of young and foolish. Adam’s could be sleeping on watch. Perhaps they would grow up quickly as the new reality dawned upon them. Maybe Martin was making too much out of both of them.

He could probably talk to Margaret about the Dunans’ silly behaviors and even get a shared laugh out of it all. The Dunans, however, were not what had him in a dark mood, however. It was Eric’s behavior back at Winton’s farm. If he brought up Eric’s behavior, he could just about hear Margaret telling him that it was none of his business. Susan was a grown woman who could sort out her own social life. In fact, Margaret would probably see Eric’s attentions as a good thing: that Susan needed a social life.

Yet, what kind of social life does libidinous opportunism make? Martin spiraled back into disliking how Eric went about his attentions. What Martin saw was not the proper respect a man should show a woman. Susan did not need a new jerk to replace her old jerk boyfriend. A decent man would not leer at a woman’s backside and say obsequious things to curry favor. That was just not right. Martin fancied that he was objecting to Eric’s disregard for proper gentlemanly behavior. Yet, that was not quite it either.

“Check point C,” the radio crackled. “All you dumplings okay back there?”

Each of the drivers checked in. The taller buildings of Concord were coming into view.

“Look sharp, and remember everyone, switch to channel B once we make the turn at checkpoint D.”

Martin shook off his darker thoughts so he could concentrate on watching his quarter more carefully. His quarter faced the city. There was no activity to be seen from 93. The city looked like it always did from 93, like a scale model. There were no cars on the highway. Nothing was moving on the cross roads either. Martin checked the roof tops as they rolled by, to see if there were scouts watching them pass. He saw none.

“Check point D,” said Arthur.

Charles tuned the radio to the new channel. Everyone checked in. The trucks all made slow turns with their heavy loads. No one wanted to topple one of their cows. Martin continued to watch for any activity, but saw none: no cars on the roads, no pedestrians.

The feeder road that led to Route 3A did not feel as claustrophobic as Route 132 had, though it had its moments. Small businesses rolled by. Curls of smoke from chimneys of tidy houses testified to someone being home, though no one was visible. Route 3A, itself, was a mix of thick woods, isolated 19th century farm houses, and open tracts. Some of the open spaces were abandoned hay fields waiting for the doom of the progress: bulldozers. Some of the open spaces had already suffered the bulldozers and become staging yards or storage areas for construction firms.

Martin tried to keep his attention focused on watching his quarter. Being the last set of eyes to see that side of the road meant it was unlikely he would see something the other right-side watchers had missed. Nonetheless, there was always the possibility of someone, concealed from the others, peeking out too soon as they passed. That was what happened to Margaret when they saw the man in blue and gray in the median of 93 on the way up. He tried to use vigilance as a wall against his cluttered thoughts, with mixed results.

The forest and open commercial lots were giving way to tighter-spaced houses. He reasoned that they must be getting close to the little town of Hooksett. Sidewalks were a clear sign of suburbia.

“Checkpoint E, people,” radioed Arthur. “Gentle left here. Keep it tight, everyone.”

Martin noticed how the utilitarian houses from the middle 1800s — plain boxy things — had been gussied up with gingerbread trim in the Victorian era. It reminded him of the old neighborhood in Somerville where Susan’s apartment had been. Getting kicked out by her old boyfriend, then losing her apartment to a fire, was quite a blow. She had been through a lot of turmoil already. The last thing she needed was some slathering jerk scheming to make a score. That was totally not fair to her…

“Alert, people. Hold up. Slow up. Something’s not right up ahead.”

All ears were turned to the radio. Tyler and Charles tried to peer around the horse trailer ahead of them, to little avail.

“Not liking this,” radioed Arthur. “New plan. Follow me. Keep it tight, people, bear left. Follow me. Keep it tight.”

The trailer ahead of them started to pull away quickly. Tyler had to accelerate as quickly as a heavy load would allow — and so as to not topple his cargo. The convoy turned left just before going onto the Hooksett bridge. As they went down the sloping road, Martin caught just a glimpse of a barricade across the far end of the bridge. Two abandoned vehicles sat along the railings near the middle of the bridge.

Arthur turned a harder right. The other trucks followed in close order. After passing under the Hooksett bridge, Arthur accelerated. Tyler sped up and closed the gap. Everyone wanted to know why the change of route, but engaging in radio chatter was not the thing to do at the time. Arthur was trying to get them all clear of the bridge area.

“Okay, dumplings. Wide spot, on left. Pull in, two-by-two. Drivers. Meet in the middle. The rest of you, take corners and watch for anything.”

Tyler turned into the paved wide spot to the left of the highway. He turned faster than he should have. Martin had to hang on to Charles’ seat back. He wondered if the cows were knocked over by such things. He felt no loud thumps. Perhaps cows in trailers go into a wide-stance-mode so they are more stable. Cows probably do not like tipping over. Tyler pulled up to the right of the truck with Landers in it. The four drivers hurried to meet in the middle of the four trucks.

Martin and Charles hopped out. Charles climbed behind the Silverado’s bed, eyes on the wooded embankment across the road. Martin jogged behind the trailer to take cover and watch the road behind them. Margaret joined him. He motioned for her to take cover at the corner of the adjacent trailer and keep an eye on the wooded riverbank. The look on her face was only partially fear at the prospect of trouble. The rest of her expression was all business. If there were spiders, she was going to squash them. She peeked with minimum exposure, the 9mm racked and at low-extended-ready. Martin sighted over the top of his carbine while looking for any sign of movement between the scrubby pines down the road.

“Martin, come here!” Arthur boomed. Martin ran to join the meeting.

“I didn’t like what I saw, back there, so we’ve got to change our route. I didn’t want to go back onto 93, but it’s either that or go into Manchester — which I like even less. We could be headed into trouble, and can’t afford to have any blind spots. You and Charles, ride in Tyler’s trailer. You’ll be our rear guard — our tail gunners.”

“Okay! Back in, everyone!” boomed Arthur.

Martin grabbed his ready-bag from the back seat as he told Charles about their new assignment. Margaret gave him a worried look. He squeezed her hand. “You take care of Tyler, okay? He’s a worry-wort.” He smiled.

“You’re a goof.” She mustered a slight smile.

Before Martin and Charles had the trailer doors closed, Tyler was pulling away to catch up with Landers’ truck.

“What the heck was all that about?” Charles asked.

“I guess Edith spotted something on the bridge with her binoculars, just as we came over that last rise. I got just a quick look at it too. There was a barricade of junk across the road on the far side of the bridge. The two cars still out on the bridge looked suspicious to Arthur, so he decided to change our route.”

“But that was the only other bridge across the river,” Charles said. “…without going into Manchester, that is. He’s not taking us into Manchester is he?”

“No. 3A goes under 93. He figures to get onto 93 at Exit 10. That’ll get us over the river. Then get off at Exit 8. He didn’t like going back on 93, but it was better than whatever might have been waiting on that bridge.” Martin pulled his stocking cap down tighter and zipped up his coat. The cold wind whistled through the open-slat trailer.

“Wasn’t it around Exit 9 that you saw that guy on the rocks?” Charles asked.

“Yes it was.” Martin held his walkie-talkie close. “Hey, um..Big Apple, this is Tail-gunner One. New route takes us by previous sighting. Keep sharp eye out in the Balboas.”

“Balboas?” Charles asked.

“Rocky Balboa. The guy was in the rocks. Get it?”

“I didn’t. Sure hope Arthur does.”

“Well, we can’t just say things outright,” Martin complained.

“Yeah and if he didn’t get it, then what good was it? Huh?”

“Roger on the Balboas, Tail Gunner One. Nice call.”

Martin smiled at Charles, who could only shrug. Sometimes obtuse movie references worked. Sometimes it did not.

Martin had to smile at movie references as code. Arthur looked like a Rocky fan. When Martin had tried a reference to an old Bogart movie, Susan did not get it. Susan. He wondered how she was doing. She was in the lead vehicle. Was all this freaking her out? Was that stupid Eric doing anything to calm her, or was he just trying to look down her shirt like the guys on the buses did to the pretty women beside them? Martin could feel his jaw clinching.

“This is it, Dumplings. Follow me. Keep tight and when we get topside, stay in center.”


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