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Post by kaijafon on May 21, 2016 11:05:31 GMT -6
oh man! the tension is tight and thick!!! thank you!!!
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Post by mic on May 21, 2016 16:50:26 GMT -6
Chapter 14: part 3: The X
The convoy made wide and hasty turns up the on-ramp. Arthur slowed his pace a little, to allow the stragglers to form up, then he picked up the pace. Martin’s side of 93 was the back side of an old Manchester suburb. Fences and the backs of houses could be seen through the line of trees, but no men on the rocky bluff.
“Brake brake brake!” Arthur shouted into the radio. “Brake brake brake! Spike strip! Form line abreast. All stop. Ready to fire.”
Martin barely had time to grab the corner post before the sudden S-curve and stop maneuver. Both cows were thrown against their stall partitions, but neither fell. Tyler pulled his truck up on the far left of the others. The rocky bluff on the Manchester side was obscured by the trailer next to them. He heard a couple shots. Were they fired by someone in the trucks, or someone outside at the trucks?
The median was a tangle of small bare trees, brush and tall grass that grew up around a ridge of ledge rock. In places, the old bedrock still stood ten feet tall. In other places, it had crumbled, leaving gaps and rubble. Through one of those gaps strode two young men in blue hoodies. Both had pistols held high, like banditoes in an old western. Martin swatted at Charles on the shoulder to get his attention. The lead hoodie walked with a sort of skipping, stiff-legged gait: a swaggering victory strut.
“Now we gonna pop ‘em and get us some nice big wheels, eh bro?” said Hoodie One. Hoodie Two muttered something inarticulate.
“I’ll take right,” whispered Charles. “You take left.”
“Up on the cliff,” blurted Martin’s walkie-talkie. “Two of ‘em behind that lone boulder.”
The two hoodies heard Martin’s radio. They leveled their pistols at the trailer doors. Martin took aim at Hoodie Two. Charles fired, clipping the Hoodie One in the side. The loud report inside the trailer spooked the cow behind Martin. it reared and kicked. Its hoof only grazed Martin’s leg, but it sent him down. His carbine clattered onto the floor beside him. Three shots rang out, punching holes in the metal door, not far from where Martin had been standing.
Martin pulled his carbine close. In a prone position, he propped it up to aim between the lower vent slats of the door. His aim at center mass was hindered by the nervous cow rocking the trailer. While Hoodie Two was momentarily distracted by his cohort doubling over, Martin squeezed off a shot. It hit Hoodie Two high in the shoulder. It spun him half way around. Hoodie Two tried to re-acquire aim on Martin’s muzzle flash with his off hand, but Martin had a second shot off before that. Martin’s second shot hit Hoodie Two in the hip. He went down like a broken chair.
Hoodie One had staggered back into the brush to lean against the median rocks. Charles had a bead on him, but was holding his fire.
“Two bandits in back,” Martin radioed. “Both down, not out…yet.”
“Two more ahead in median,” said Arthur. “Can’t get out. Need to clear those strips!”
“Two up behind boulder on cliff,” said one of the other drivers.
“We’ll keep the front two down,” said Arthur. “Little Dumplings, you keep the high pair down.”
“We need to take these two out of the fight,” Charles said. “I’m gonna throw open the doors. Cover me from the guys up high. Keep their heads down. I’m going out.”
“Need cover fire on the boulder,” Martin radioed. Shots cracked and echoed off the bluff. Sprays of rock dust sparkled around the boulder. Martin saw no heads peeking up. “Okay. Clear!” Martin shouted to Charles.
Charles ran out to kick Hoodie Two’s gun out of reach. Martin kept an eye on the bluff and his sights on Hoodie Two while Charles squat-ran over to Hoodie One. He was leaning against the rocks, bent over, holding his side. Two shots came from the boulder, but did not appear to hit anything nearby. More shots came from the trucks.
Martin ran out to fallen Hoodie Two and dragged him, in jerks and tugs, behind the cover of the trailer. The man was hit in his shoulder joint. The hip shot must have hit a tendon. The young man was trembling. With the barrel of the carbine in the man’s diaphragm, Martin patted the man down. He found a fixed blade in one pocket. In his waistband, he had a small pistol. Martin pocketed both.
He and Charles needed to work their way forward to clear the spike strips, but Martin could not leave the wounded hoodlum unattended. What if the hoodlum was faking incapacitance? The hood strings of the man’s sweatshirt gave Martin an idea. He cut one knob off, pulled the draw string out, then rolled the man on his stomach. Martin’s knee in the man’s back caused significant pain, but there was no time for gentle manners. He tied the man’s wrists together, sending the cord through one of the man’s belt loops.
“Here, this’ll keep your pants up too,” Martin muttered. He then hurried to the median rock that Charles crouched behind.
“Gut shot on that other one,” said Charles. “Don’t know how bad. Got his gun. Tied his hands with my belt. He’s swearing a blue streak, but he’s too shook to fight.”
“This one is out of it too,” Martin said. “Disarmed him and tied him up.”
Shots continued to pop randomly from both the median rocks and the trucks. The convoy was stopped in a hopeless crossfire. Backing up four horse trailers under fire was out of the question.
“We need to take out those guys up front,” said Martin, “Got to clear that obstruction before the guys up on the bluff get reinforcements.”
Charles nodded. “We gotta get everybody off the X.”
The two of them scrambled over a low area in the median rocks. In an ad hoc version of bounds, they took turns standing out of the scrubby brambles to provide cover and see where the other two bandits were. They advanced up along the cut rock face.
When Martin finally saw the two other median bandits, they also saw him. They turned and opened fire. Martin leaned against the rocks, trying to lie as flat as he could. There was not as much outcrop as he wished. Hits on rocks sent dusty fragments into his neck and ear. It stung, but not terribly.
“Arthur,” Martin called into his walkie-talkie. “Cover fire on the two up front.”
Martin heard several shots echo from the other side of the median rocks. The fire at Martin and Charles stopped. One hoodlum returned fire to the trucks. The other watched Martin and Charles for an opportunity to shoot.
Charles pointed to a hunk of rock in the tall grass. It was the size of a bowling ball bag “You go low. I’ll go high,” Charles said. Martin nodded.
“Go!” Charles shouted.
Martin dropped and rolled to get behind the bowling bag rock. He propped the carbine on his free arm beside the rock. The hoodlum fired low, at Martin. A spray of dirt and grass flew up. Charles stepped out of the brush. Both hoodlums saw Charles and turned to fire. Martin squeezed off a quick shot. Nothing changed. He must have missed. He squeezed off two, three, more, not letting the barrel settle much between shots. The hoodlums ducked back. Charles fired as he moved.
One hoodlum slumped against the rocks. The second jumped over the rocks and ran. Arthur or one of the others in the front, must have hit him. He dropped his gun, continued running for another dozen yards, eventually crumbling onto the road.
Martin ran up to the leaning hoodlum, front sight on his face. The young man stared at Martin with wide eyes. He tossed his pistol into the grass and held his uninjured hand up. Martin quickly patted him down, finding only an empty magazine and a small box of rounds. The man had been hit in the arm and thigh. Both shots went straight through. He was hurt, but not badly enough to knock him down. Martin motioned for the man to lay in the grass, which he did.
Martin radioed. “Two up front are down.” He knelt to dig around in the grass with one hand to find the hoodlum’s pistol. It was another one of those 70s guns.
“Cut the spike strips!” Arthur shouted.
Martin peered over the rocks. Stretched across all three lanes were eight-foot boards, two-by-twos, with long nails pounded through them on three sides. The boards were tied together with nylon rope. The hoodlums had planned to immobilize the convoy with flat tires, but Arthur or Edith spotted it in time to pull up short.
“Watch that guy,” Martin said to Charles. Martin reached in his pocket for the fixed blade he took from Hoodie Two. “Cover fire. I’m going to cut the ropes,” he radioed. More shots cracked and popped up from the trucks to the boulder.
Martin ran out, wary eyes on the bluff. As he grabbed the rope to cut it, he realized the whole assembly was not tied down. He could drag it all aside faster. He grabbed the rope between two of the boards and ran toward the bluff, dragging a spiky tail behind him. Charles came around the rocks.
“We’re clear,” said Arthur. “Let’s roll. Keep up some cover fire.”
The Laramie roared past Martin. As it passed, he could see only Arthur and Edith through the bullet-holed windshield. The two smaller trucks formed a line behind. The Silverado veered into the breakdown lane. It’s windshield was pocked with several bullet holes too. Margaret was riding shotgun. She seemed unhurt. Their eyes met for just a moment, but it was long enough. Even that brief glance was an energy drink to his soul. He did not want her to come along if there was going to be any danger. They said they did not expect any danger.
“Jump in!” Tyler radioed.
Martin ran after the trailer. Charles grabbed the open door of the trailer and swung himself in. He held an arm out to help Martin in. A few shots popped from the boulder. Hits landed on the pavement a dozen yards away. Martin jumped in, propelled by Charles’ boost, but his feet slipped in the loose hay. He landed flat on his back. It knocked the wind out of him.
“Are you in?” Tyler asked.
Martin had a hard time getting enough breath to squeak a yes into his walkie-talkie.
“Awwright!” Tyler shouted. “Hold on. We’ve got some catching up to do.” The Silverado clattered loudly as it accelerated. Loose hay and debris slid out the back of the trailer before Charles got the doors closed. The cows scrabbled for footing, but did not fall.
Charles helped Martin up off the floor. “You alright?” Martin could only nod. “Good. Maybe you should sit down for a bit.” Charles kept an eye out of the rear door slats.
“Looks like you got hit.” Charles pointed at Martin’s neck.
“Martin felt his neck. It did not hurt, but he had blood on his hand.
When Martin regained his breath, he radioed, “Tail gunners okay. How is everyone else?” He wondered how Margaret really was. He hoped she kept her head down. Susan was in the lead vehicle. Was she okay? She carried no weapons, so certainly should not have been exposed for anything.
“Me and Edith are okay. Eric’s in second truck. Susan is tending to Landers in our back seat. He’s hit in the arm and back.”
Martin felt a warm rush of relief to hear that Susan was okay. He wondered what happened to Landers.
“Big Dumpling okay,” said Tyler. “Me too,” said Margaret in the background.
Martin was pleased that she sounded confident, not worried or scared. Margaret was a sturdy one.
“Dumpling three,” crackled the radio. “Cuts from flying glass, but okay. Low on ammo, though.”
Ammo? Martin checked his carbine. His magazine was empty. Had he been trying to fire an empty gun? He could not remember. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, but also in a nanosecond. He pulled himself up to standing. His ready-bag sat against the wall, near the door, in cow poop. At least the poop kept it from sliding out of the trailer. Cow poop makes a peculiar silver lining. Sometimes silver linings can be like that. He dug out another magazine. He tried to push it in, but seemed to have little control over his hands. Pirate hooks would have been more useful. Eventually, he got the magazine positioned well enough to push it in until it clicked. From his bag, he pulled out a bandana to hold on his neck.
“Time for a change,” radioed Arthur. “Hold it tight and follow me.”
The trailer shifted right, then took a long left off the exit. Martin held onto the slats with one hand. His breathing sped up. His fingers tightened around the grip of the carbine. Was there another ambush waiting for them? The convoy raced down the empty highways.
“If he’s going the way I think he is,” said Charles, “We’ll be going past Indian Lakes in a bit. Better get back to our posts and keep an eye out.”
The pace slowed to a less frantic speed as the convoy turned onto the smaller roads.
“Look sharp again,” said Arthur. “Going by the Lakes now.”
Martin scanned the brown foliage as it rushed by. He was intent to spot anything amiss. A glimpse of blue amid the brown caught his eye.
“I see one!” Martin shouted. “I’ll get him!” He shouldered the carbine and sighted.
“Hey hey hey!” Charles clapped a hand on Martin’s shoulder. The move startled him out of his aim. “You don’t have to shoot everything that moves. That guy’s just watching us: not doing anything. You gotta know when to turn it off, man.”
Charles’ words came like a bucket of ice water. They were off the X. Martin watched the man in the brush as he got smaller in the distance. He was not doing anything but watching: probably nothing more than curious at the sight of four horse trailers going by. He could be a father, or a husband, or simply a guy out looking for beechnuts.
Martin took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. He suddenly felt very cold.
(end of chapter 14)
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Post by pbbrown0 on May 21, 2016 20:02:41 GMT -6
Mic, You are a talented writer. You can write equally well about the personal conundrums of complex relationships, hold the reader's attention through the nuances of humdrum routines of daily life, and capture the frenzied chaos of trying to survive a gunfight. Summa cum laude.
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Post by kaijafon on May 22, 2016 15:16:28 GMT -6
awesome! thanks
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Post by 9idrr on May 22, 2016 15:26:17 GMT -6
Very well written. Keeps me comin' back for more.
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Post by mic on May 26, 2016 19:08:30 GMT -6
Chapter 15: part 1: Cauloff’s Farm
By the time Tyler’s Sierra pulled into the Cauloff farm — the last of the four trucks — the small crowd of townsfolk was running low on enthusiasm. The last applause was more obligatory than eager. The first reluctant cow being coaxed off a trailer captured everyone’s attention. As soon as the trailer stopped, Martin jumped out and ran to the Sierra. He flung open the passenger door.
“We made it!” He held his arms open wide. “You’re okay! This is great!”
Margaret jumped down with a big smile on her face and arms wide. “Martin!” Her smile suddenly dropped away. “Ugh! You smell like manure.” Her arms dropped. She kept her distance.
Martin looked down at his clothes. Bits of hay stuck to him. He did have poop on his boots. He brushed off the hay. “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. I kinda slipped in there and…But never mind that. You’re okay! Thank God for that. That was totally insane back there. And look at Tyler’s truck. It’s a miracle that neither of you were hit. Oh, I would never have asked you to come along if I thought anything like this…”
“It’s okay, Martin. Nobody expected that. We stayed down a lot.”
Martin moved in, for a thankful embrace, but Margaret held his arms, keeping a few inches of air between them. “Please, I don’t want to smell like manure. You know how I feel about that. Still, I am so glad you’re okay. You were taking some huge risks out there, mister. What have I told you about damaging my husband?” She smiled.
“To not to,” Martin said, imitating Mater. Quoting Pixar movies they watched with the kids was almost a shared hobby, even years after the kids had grown and moved away. They could almost recite the entire script from Cars, Toy Story and others.
“At least you were falling with style,” she said. They shared a smile. “A stinky style, but still…”
Margaret looked over Martin’s shoulder and gasped. “What happened to her? There’s blood all over her!”
Martin turned to see that one of the cows being taken out of the trailer ahead of them had blood on her back, running down her side. Margaret rushed over, looking closely at the wound. Her hands moved around the area, not quite touching the cow’s wet hide.
“Mr. Cauloff!” she shouted. “Over here!”
Red Cauloff hurried as much as stiff joints would allow. “Oh my,” he exclaimed. He gingerly felt around the bloody hide. As he got nearer to the top of the cow’s back, she flinched and moaned.
“Hey, you,” he shouted to a man near the trailer door. “Go up to the house and fetch a bucket of warm water…and some towels.” The man ran to the house. Red had one of those authoritative voices.
“Bullet wound,” Red said to himself. “It doesn’t seem too deep, though.”
Martin looked inside the trailer. A jagged hole pierced the roof. “Looks like a shot hit the trailer, then hit the cow,” he said.
“Hmm.” Red gently probed the wound with bare fingers. He pulled out a little lead fragment. “The metal roof must have started the bullet breaking up. Slowed it down a bunch too. This looks like a buckshot wound, but this here’s a hunk of a bullet. We’ll have to get her cleaned out.”
The man returned with the bucket of water and towels. Red turned to Margaret. “I’ve got some medical stuff in my truck over there. Would you fetch me those? Red nylon bag.” Margaret hurried off. Red dabbed around the wound with wet towels.
“She doesn’t seem too bad off,” Red said. “Let’s get her out of the cold.” He told the man with the bucket to help him coax the cow into the barn. Margaret followed them with the red bag.
The bullet hole in the trailer reminded Martin of the holed front end of the Laramie. Susan. Where was she? Martin stood tall, looking around. The dark red truck sat off to the left, behind the black Ford. Martin hurried over.
He stopped for a moment, surveying the many bullet holes in the windshield. The hood was up and Arthur tinkering over the engine. Martin opened the back door.
Susan was bent over Landers, who was turned away and leaning against the far door so Susan could adjust the bandage on his back. When she turned to see who opened the door, she gasped.
“Martin?” she squeaked. She leapt from the back seat, nearly knocking Martin over with a flying hug. “Oh, you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” she said into his shoulder.
Landers turned slowly and gave Martin a wry look, as if to say, ‘house guest, eh?’
Martin could feel a blush coming on. He gently pulled Susan away to stand her at a respectable arm’s length.
“I you heard on the radio,” she continued. “You were out where they were shooting. I was so afraid that I’d lose…Oh no! Look at your neck…and your ear. You’re hurt! Let me get some…”
“No no. I’ll be fine. It’s just a few little scrapes from the rocks. It's not bleeding or anything. I'll be okay. The important question is: how are you?”
“Oh, Martin, I was never so scared in all my life…”
He smiled. “I thought you said you weren’t going to say that anymore,” he said softly.
She chuckled, sniffed, and wiped away the start of a tear. “Yeah. I guess I did. Still. It was awful. I have never been that scared before. They told me to lay down in the backseat floor. You bet I did too. I didn’t see anything. I heard all the shooting: bullets hitting the truck. Look at it! Swiss cheese!”
Martin did not think the truck looked like Swiss cheese, but this was not the time to mince metaphors.
“Yup,” said Arthur, coming around from the front of the truck. “Took a few rounds. One of ‘em smacked the block and some fragment nicked my radiator hose. It was probably the same round that took out my headlight. Lost coolant slow and steady. The engine was starting to run hot near the last there. Still, all in all, we got off easy.”
“That was getting off easy?” Susan argued.
“Well, okay, maybe not ‘easy-peasy,’ but those hoodlum types didn’t seem intent on random destruction. They’d have shot out all the glass and tires and such in pretty short order. I fancy they planned to just get rid of us and take the trucks and maybe the cows too, if they had any idea what was in the trailers. They probably didn’t. But I noticed they weren’t shooting to disable the vehicles so much as just to keep us down.”
“The two guys in back were probably supposed to…” Martin glanced at Susan’s worried face. “…deal with us more directly.”
“That’s kinda what I figured too,” said Arthur. “Good thing you boys were in the back there. Glad you took care of the two in front when you did. There was no way we were going to take out those guys up on the bluff. It was only a matter of time before more of their kind showed up to help ‘em.”
Arthur clapped his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Good work on the bandits up front, and clearing the strips.”
Martin felt embarrassed. He was not sure he actually did much to the two hoodlums up front. All of his shots might have missed. He may have been clicking away with an empty gun, for all he knew. “It was more Charles than me,” he said.
“Ah,” said Arthur. “I’ll have to go thank Charles too.”
“So, what happened to you?” Martin asked Landers.
“Oh, we were trying to keep fire on the boys up on the ridge, but while I was reloading, they got a shot off. It hit the back corner of the cab. Must have deflected it my way. Hit me in the back of this arm, then across the small of my back.”
“It doesn’t look too bad,” Susan added. “A hunk of his arm is kinda torn up, and it looks like a nasty cut across his back. Arthur gave me his first aid kit to help stop the bleeding.”
Landers continued. “I think Eric saw me go down and rushed over to help. They decided to cross-ship me to the Laramie where Miss Susan here could patch me up. You’ve got quite the…house guest…there, Martin.”
“Arthur was telling me what to do,” Susan protested. “I didn’t always know what he was talking about. I’m no nurse. I was telling Mr. Landers about trying to patch you up, Martin, during our walk up here. That’s as much experience as I had being a nurse.”
“She was all kinds of chatty about your adventures getting back to Cheshire,” said Landers with a wink.
Martin felt himself slump. Oh no. What was she saying? “Just trying to help somebody out. Her house burned down, and we had…my wife, Margaret and I, we had an empty room so…”
Eric came trotting over with a plastic bucket full of water. “Here’s the water, dad.”
“Great, great. Pour some of it in the reservoir there. Be careful taking off the cap. It’s still really hot.”
Tyler walked up to the group. “Hey, Mr. Landers. How are you doing? Heard you got hit.”
“Doing pretty well, considering,” Landers said. Susan began to fuss with some loose bandage tape on Landers’ back. “Gotta hold still for the doctor, though.”
“Martin,” Tyler said. “Margaret said to tell you she’s going to give some people a quick lesson on milking. Wants you to come. Probably be fifteen or twenty minutes. I’ll hang around and give you a ride home if you like.”
“That’d be nice. Thanks. I really don’t feel like the walk home.”
“We’d better be getting Landers back to his wife ASAP,” said Arthur. “If she’s been monitoring the radio, she may have heard her husband got shot.”
“We could give Susan a ride home too, right?” said Eric, nodding eagerly.
“I suppose,” said Arthur. “You want to get home a little earlier?” he asked Susan.
Before she could answer, Eric stepped up behind her with a hand on each of her shoulders. “I’m sure she’d like to get home as soon as possible.” He continued nodding.
Susan glanced at Eric’s hands on her shoulders. Martin tried to burn holes in them with his laser vision.
“I guess I could make sure Mr. Landers’ bandages were okay until we drop him off at his house,” she said.
“Atta girl,” beamed Eric.
Atta girl, Martin mocked under his breath. Susan glanced at Martin. Her small smile was quickly replaced by a worried look.
“Um, Martin,” Tyler said. “Margaret said to tell you she's in the milking parlor giving a demonstration. She’s probably already started. I'll hang around until she's done and give you guys a ride home.”
Martin gave his laser vision one more try, but it still did not work. He turned to join Tyler, who had already headed toward the milking house. Martin did not think he would control himself if he saw Eric “help” Susan into the Laramie by pushing on her… Martin shook of that mental image, pulled his head down into his coat collar and walked faster.
Inside the milking parlor, the six cows were spaced out in the stanchions to leave room between them for the novice milkers to watch. Four people stood near Margaret, who stood beside one of the cows. On the other side of the parlor, Red presided over a different group of novices.
“Okay, first thing,” Margaret began her lecture. “They need to be milked twice a day without fail. If you let ‘em go, it will be really painful for them for awhile. That’s bad enough, but then they’ll dry up. That’s normal. The mother dries up when the calf is no longer nursing. We want to keep them producing. Once they dry up, they won’t produce milk again until after they’ve had another calf. There’s no reset switch. So, just get used to it. Twice a day.”
Martin stood by the door, only half listening. On the ride to Cheshire, he had almost talked himself out of loathing Eric’s behavior. He thought that maybe he had misjudged his looking at her as leering. Maybe he really did stumble. But his hands on her shoulders: that seemed far too familiar. He just met her this morning. Was it a first step into bookmarking? Once she had become acclimated to his handling her shoulders or arms, would the rest follow quickly enough? Martin was back to loathing.
“You’ll start with a bucket of warm water with just a little soap in it, like this one. You need to wash down the udder and teats. They’ve been stomping around in poop for ten or twelve hours — probably laying in it — so they’re going to be dirty. Anything you don’t wash off, is likely to fall in your bucket of milk. If you don’t want to drink it: wash it off.”
Maybe Martin has misjudged things. What if while they were driving up to Canterbury, Eric and Susan really did hit it off? Martin did not know. He was not there. What if Susan liked Eric? Maybe he was a really nice guy deep down. Perhaps his advances were not rude and forward, but encouraged by her. Maybe his loathing was misplaced.
“But, before you wash the udder, check out her tail. Tails get pooped on pretty regularly. People like to think cows are dumb, but they’re not. They’re smart and they can be mean. They somehow know if they’ve got a poopy tail and when you sit down to milk them, they’ll smack you with it — just for fun. Cows don’t get a lot of fun, but that’s one thing they do like. So, if you see a poopy tail, wash that after you’ve used the clean water on the udder.”
The way Susan looked at his hands on her shoulders, though. That did not look like a welcoming look or an accepting look. She looked surprised and a little taken aback. Martin placed Eric’s file in the Dangerous Predators drawer — in a red folder.
“After you’ve washed her down, you sit on your little stool, like this. Be careful not to sit too close to her knee, or she’ll knock you over. Set your milk bucket in like this so you can grip it with your knees, or she’ll shift her footing and kick it over.”
Martin knew that Susan needed more in her world than chores around the Simmons house, but the options for a fuller, richer lifestyle were pretty slim with the power out. Chores and just trying to get by took a lot of time. Man’s oldest sport — “conquering” women — did not require electricity, of course. But, by God, Martin was not going to tolerate Eric entertaining himself at Susan’s expense. She was a decent woman who had already been dealt a bad hand. She did not need any more losers.
“If you’ve got some hand lotion or petroleum jelly, rub a little on your hand so you don’t irritate her with friction. This is just being nice. Don’t use so much that it falls off your hand, into the bucket. Remember, you’re planning on drinking that.”
Susan deserved someone who would be there to take care of her: protect her. Martin had spent the last twenty three years working hard at being the proper protector and provider for Margaret. She deserved that. Every woman deserves a guy who is dedicated to protecting her and providing for her. Not some jerk looking to use her.
“You’ll know she’s let down her milk and ready to be milked when her udder is nice and round.” Margaret sat back on her stool. “Sometimes, though, she’s keeping her gut sucked in, so she’s not letting down her milk. It’s kinda like a guy sucking in his gut while a tailor measures his waist. Cows do the same, especially if they’re not comfortable: new place, new milker, etc. That’s like this girl here. But here’s what I do. Give ‘em a little elbow in the side like this. Ha! See? See how nice and round the udder is now?”
Martin fumed at his lack of any real authority to reprimand, or better yet, punch Eric’s lights out for behaving badly. Selfish scoundrels needed a darn good thrashing. Martin still felt rage at how her former boyfriend had treated her. He could just imagine that if he ever met that Mark character, he would want to pummel him into the sidewalk. That Mark was a total jerk who took advantage of Susan’s trusting nature. But, why did Martin feel entitled to that rage?
“Hold the teat like this. See? Wrap your fingers around like this. You don’t pull down like it’s a bell rope or anything. It’s more of a gentle squeeze with just a little pull…like this…see?” A thin jet of white squirted into the can, making a hollow spattering sound in the empty bucket. “You keep doing this until the milk seems to not be coming as strong. The udder above the teat will start to sag and look deflated. That’s how you know you’re pretty much done.” Margaret went to work with a teat in each hand, alternating squirts into her bucket.
Why did the jerks of the world have to go around preying on the nice girls? Why did they have to terrorize the good girls? Susan was nice. She had spunk and a terrific pioneer spirit that was worth a cow’s weight in gold. How could Martin stand by and watch some hormonally over-charged beast trample a pretty flower garden? Maybe that was just the way fallen human nature is, but Martin did not feel like he had to stand for it.
“Okay.” Margaret stood up. “I did these two teats. You sit down and do this one.” She watched a middle-aged woman sit down nervously on the stool. Her hands were frozen just inches from the teats.
“You won’t break her,” Margaret assured her. “And if you act scared, she’s going to get nervous too. After all, if you’re scared, she’ll think maybe she should be too. It’s a predator-prey instinct thing. So, be slow and gentle, but firm. If you’re calm, she’s more likely to relax.”
The lady worked on one teat. When she got a stream of milk in her bucket, she looked at everyone with a huge smile. They each took a turn until the cow’s udder hung limp.
“I think they’ll get it,” Margaret told Martin. “They’re really stiff and clumsy about it, but that’ll come. I never thought I would be milking cows again, but it was kind of fun teaching these people how to. And lookee here. I got almost a gallon we can take home right now. I’m going to have to bring bottles with me each day. The Cauloff’s don’t have that many. Are you ready to go, Tyler?”
Tyler and Charles sat up front. They chatted about how to patch up the bullet holes in the fender and hood. Some clear tape might keep the wind from blowing through the windshield holes.
“This has all been so overwhelming,” Margaret said to Martin. “I haven’t let myself really think about it all. That was nothing like going to the range to practice. It just seems so unreal…like a movie. But it wasn’t. You were out there. Sorry if I seemed…” She looked over at Martin who was staring into his lap.
“You’ve been awfully quiet, Martin,” Margaret said.
Martin was not sure how to answer her without sounding snarky. He was not sure where to even begin a conversation. There were so many topics swirling around in his head: all incomplete.
“You’ll just have to give him a little space,” Charles said over his shoulder. “He just shot a guy today, maybe two. It usually takes a man a little while to process something like that.”
“Oh yeah.” Margaret sat back, holding her bucket on her lap.
Oh great, Martin thought. I haven’t even THOUGHT about that guy. I’m too fixated on pummeling Eric. But, I DID shoot that man. How could I not think of that? That reminder sent Martin into a dark cave. Who was that young man? Did he get help from his companions? Or, did he bleed to death on the cold pavement?
When Martin practiced at the range, he wondered if he would ever be able to shoot a person. Targets were one thing, but a real person? He had imagined that he might freeze up, conflicted at the critical moment. Or, that he would try to be merciful and aim to wound instead of kill. His thinking was all wrong. There had been no time to think about it. The whole situation pounced on him like a mountain lion. People who moralized about thinking twice or carefully weighing the matter had obviously never been there.
There was no time for moralizing dilemmas. He shot to kill. It turned out he did not kill him — right away, anyhow — but at that critical moment, he shot to kill. Did that make him a killer? How was he any different than the hoodlums?
That realization pulled him deeper into the cave. He had quickly decided to end someone’s life. He failed, but that did not change his intentions. Part of him wanted to believe that the young man was a vile offender who had done many evil deeds and deserved to die. But, how did Martin know any of that? What if he was the younger brother of a gang member who, until today, had been a good student in school, did chores for his mother and wanted to be a diesel mechanic someday — but his brother brought him along on this ambush?
Martin had to shake away that line of thought. If he allowed himself to, he could turn the young hoodlum into the purest innocent babe that ever lived. Babe or not, he had a gun and he and his buddy said they planned to kill people. Margaret would have been one of the first. Babe or not, Martin was not going to allow anyone to hurt Margaret — or Susan — or anyone in his group. If anyone threatened his people, they would simply have to die.
He felt like he had just discovered a hole in his soul.
---
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Post by kaijafon on May 26, 2016 20:14:28 GMT -6
me thinks he is way too invested in Susan.... I wonder where that will lead? Plural wives? lol! Thanks for the style on how you intertwined Margaret's and Martin's scenes. love that!
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Post by pbbrown0 on May 26, 2016 23:14:08 GMT -6
I am sorry, Kaijafon. I am afraid you are misinterpreting Martin and Margaret.
Not all men are the same. Some are sheep, some are wolves, and some are sheep dogs. For sheep dogs the protective instinct is even stronger than the survival instinct. In case you were not aware, instinct will trump social conventions and logic when emotions run high. In PLAN B when Martin crossed paths with an naive/defenseless Susan, who was stumbling into one dangerous situation after another, his protection instincts kicked him hard, even when social and moral conventions were telling him it was wrong to take any risks or feel anything for any woman other than his wife. With the continued and growing stresses of the collapse of conventional safety and especially with the "shot" of adrenaline that Martin just had it is not surprising that his emotions are "out of bounds".
Margaret is an intelligent, capable but foolish, self serving woman. She is in the midst of growing dangers and deepening shortages, and she has a husband who is an exceptional provider and protector, who just risked his life to protect her and the very things she needs to survive. He rushes to her excited and relieved that she is safe, and she holds him back, dismisses his concerns, and even misses the blood on his neck because she can smell manure. She even scolds him for taking too many risks that might have damaged her husband? (His taking those very risks, incidentally, almost certainly saved her life. That is a simple reality of the tactical death trap they were caught in.) She shows no concern for why he is bloody, or how her neighbor who took a bullet is doing, but is concerned about one of the cows. Then she summons him to watch her put herself on center stage for the whole community. When she steps off the stage, what she notices about her husband is that he is too quiet.(Not enough praise for her performance?)
Martin is clearly a giver and a protector struggling with moral conundrums. Margaret is a self serving taker who is taking from Martin so she can appear to to others to be a giver while withholding recognition from the one who gives to her. Please pardon my rant, but in this classic Greek tragedy Margaret is the antagonist who deserves a visitation from the Greek goddess, Nemesis. (Nemesis was the Greek's version of Karma, withdrawing good fortune from those who received more than they justly deserved, and restoring good fortune to those to whom it had been unjustly denied.)
Mic, you are amazing me.
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Post by headlesshorseman on May 27, 2016 6:59:59 GMT -6
Right pbbrown. Margaret is one who gives in order to be seen giving. She resents the fact that Martin gets dirty while doing his job. She probably doesn't like the the fact that he get calluses on his hands cutting firewood that SHE gives away.
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Post by mic on May 27, 2016 10:13:08 GMT -6
Hey guys, thanks for the feedback.
Seems I've let you form a rather negative opinion of Margaret. Might need to address that. She's not supposed to be the Nemesis.
In that last installment, she wasn't demanding that Martin watch her demonstrate milking. More like she was making sure Martin knew where to find her, as they were going to be given a ride home via Tyler. Think I'll go revise that line.
Then too, I had intended that Margaret was not fully processing the enormity of the event they just survived. A hint of crisis-denial as a coping mechanism. Granted, she does have an emotional dislike for her dairy-farm childhood. She is, however, a bit prone to allow 'business' distractions to put Martin "on hold". Again, no so much out of meanness as a familiar complacency that middle-aged marriages can lapse into. They take each others' presence so much for granted that other things get immediate priority.
Again, thanks for the very useful feedback. I made a few tweaks to the last installment. Let me know if they help. :-)
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Post by mic on May 28, 2016 9:39:29 GMT -6
Chapter 15: part 2: Expulsion
The next day, Martin sought refuge in work. The Hendricks said they would bring over Charles’ old crew cab, but they did not say when. In the meantime, Martin could begin calculations based on scaling up Tin Man’s specs to the crew cab’s engine displacement.
“Oh, hey Dad,” Dustin said. “Mom said I might find you in the garage.”
Martin did not look up from his makeshift drawing table.
“Ah. Working on that bigger gasifier idea, huh?”
Martin was not in the mood for conversation.
“So, what happened up in Concord, huh? Judy was up on the ridge in Baldwin’s meadow with the crank radio. She picked up a Mass station and it sounded like things could get pretty bad.”
“Probably.”
“Probably? More like for-certain. They read some statement from Governor Baylach saying that our governor broke the law, violated federal procedures, or something, and how federal aid can’t get shipped up here until all that gets fixed the way the feds want it. There was something about a council of governors to decide what to do about us. Then there was some other guy, Judy didn’t pay attention to who he was, who said that all aid would be cut off to New Hampshire — even by outside organizations or individuals — and that when people were suffering, it was Governor Vincent’s fault and how the people of New Hampshire should impeach Vincent, or something.”
“So, let’s not suffer. That’ll mess up their plans,” Martin muttered. “Look here.” Martin pointed to his drawings. “We’ll need a metal vessel about this big, maybe a big metal trash can or a forty-gallon drum, and another one about this big. Did you remember seeing anything like them at the dump?”
“I don’t remember. I wasn’t looking for anything that big, so I didn’t notice.”
“Well, your watch isn’t until midnight, so how about you ride up and check things out. You don’t have to bring anything back, just see what’s there. Here’s a list of desirable stuff. See what you can locate.”
“Okay, cool. I’ll get right on that, but first…I, um…”
“What?”
“While you were gone, I kinda had a little weirdness with the Dunans.”
“What kind of weird?” Martin turned to face Dustin squarely.
“Well, it’s kind of embarrassing…but, I was out there, looking through the junk for strapping and such, and well, Mrs. Dunan came up and she…”
“Was she asking for extra food?”
“No…not exactly. She was just being really over-friendly: complimenting me on stuff and kinda swishing her hair back and forth: smiling a lot…” Dustin leaned closer to Martin so he could whisper. “She wears a red bra and I think she wanted me to know that…for some reason. She was just kinda swinging around all prancy-like and her coat kept gaping open…”
“Oh really?” Martin said flatly.
“Yeah, really. It was really weird. I thought I was getting pranked or something. Then she looked at her watch, zipped up her coat and went inside. I totally do not understand women.”
“That part is understandable, just not good.”
“No, but then later, Judy told me she surprised Mr. Dunan in the kitchen yesterday. He was looking through the pantry. Judy said he was acting all nervous. He said he was doing an inventory because Mom told him to do one, but once Judy was there, he just left. He didn’t have any paper or a clipboard or anything. It turns out that while he was in the kitchen was the exact same time that Mrs. Dunan was acting all weird. I think they were up to something.”
“Hmmm.” Martin frowned at the floor.
“Well, I’d better get going to the dump so I can get back before dark. See ya.”
Martin continued to adjust his new gasifier plans, calculating the flow rate of tubing and inlet openings. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Susan cautiously peek around the corner. She stood in the door awhile.
“Um…” she began timidly. “Are you angry with me?” she asked.
“No.” Martin continued to punch numbers in his little calculator.
“Because yesterday…I didn’t know they were going to drive to their house first. I thought they were going to drop me off here, but they didn’t.”
Martin really did not want to know. Susan was in charge of her own social life. He had nothing to say about it. It was not like she was fourteen. She was thirty five and perfectly capable of sorting out her own social circumstances. He was just providing a room for her during the outage.
“Then Mr. and Mrs. Emulari unhitched the trailer and told Eric to drive me home. I don’t know the roads around here. I had no idea it was the long way around.”
Martin could feel his rage growing. He did not want to hear any more, but could not tell her that. “I have to go check my snares,” he said. He slung the carbine over his shoulder, put on his cap and gloves and strode out of the garage.
In the woods, there was a calming silence. He could be hundreds of miles from all that plagued him, for all he knew. That was a comforting thought. The bait was still there for all of his snares. Nothing had been disturbed. Perhaps he had caught the last squirrel. That was disquieting.
Martin checked the flower pot under the two beeches. The flatbread was gone. In its place sat a half-dozen cracked acorns and a root of some kind. It tasted slightly sweet. Andy was at least trying to barter.
Martin took the long way home, along the fire trail. There were no other animal sounds. Even the wind was absent from the branches. The peace of the woods whispered escape from the heavy weight he felt.
Coming in through the downstairs door, he heard Margaret laugh in the kitchen above. He had not heard her laugh in quite awhile. He wondered what she found amusing. He walked quietly up the stairs so he could hear whatever the funny story was.
“That sounds interesting, but also like a whole lot of work,” Margaret said with a little chuckle.
Margaret was at the far counter, kneading dough. Standing beside her — too close beside her for Martin’s temperament — was Adam. Their backs were toward him, so they did not see him arrive.
“Oh, I can tell you don’t mind a little…workout…now and then.” Adam’s eyes darted from her chest to her face and back.
Martin could feel his jaw muscles tightening. He silently moved closer. He had no moral authority to object to Eric oogling Susan, but he had every right to object to someone oogling his wife that way. He was not sure how he would object, but he planned to do something once he was in range. He took his hand off the grip of the Hi-Point in his pocket. Society might have deteriorated, but things were not full-on lawless. ‘Thou shalt not murder’ was still one of the Ten Commandments.
“You really don’t get the recognition you deserve around here,” Adam said. “I mean, you put all this time into the meals…”
“It’s not just me,” Margaret said. “Judy helps a lot, so do others.”
“Oh I know,” purred Adam. “But it’s really you that keeps things running around here. I just wanted you to know that I recognize all you do. I mean, Martin is always out in the woods, or messing around with that crazy smoker thing.”
Martin stepped behind them. Leering was not grounds for killing a man, but it was sufficient for a beating just shy of death. Ever since the trip to Canterbury, Martin had become a spring wound tight: pent up with rage over events he had no say in. Here was something he did have a say in.
“He has a lot to do.” Margaret brushed the hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“Yeah, but he talks to that Susan person way more than he talks to you.” Adam moved a little closer so Margaret’s elbow brushed his as she kneaded the dough. “I don’t think that’s right. You deserve attention too.” He stroked the back of her arm.
The spring snapped.
“Gaaagh!” Martin shouted as he grabbed Adam by the collar and hair. He pulled him backwards and threw him onto the kitchen floor.
“Martin!” Margaret screamed. “What are you doing?”
“What I should have done earlier,” Martin said with a tight jaw. Adam recovered from the shock of being thrown down and was scrambling backwards: eyes wide. Martin grabbed Adam by his belt buckle and neck of his sweatshirt. He pulled Adam off the floor, his face close to Adam’s. “Get out of here.”
“What are you doing, man?” Adam whined. “What’s gotten into you?”
“You did.” Martin threw him onto the floor again. “Now, get your stuff. You’re getting out of here before I do something permanent…”
“What do you mean?”
Martin pointed down the hallway. “Get your stuff. All your stuff. You are out of this house.”
“But where would we…”
“Get your stuff!” Martin shouted. “Or I might change my mind, and you’ll never leave this property. Understand me?”
“Martin!” Margaret rushed up beside him. “What are you doing? What’s the matter with you?”
“I might have to put up with a lot of things,” Martin told her, “but I don’t have to put up with that! They are out of here. Both of them. Right now.” Martin kicked Adam in the leg. “Get up and get your stuff packed.”
Trish came up the stairs. “What’s all this shouting? Adam? Why are you on the floor?”
“You too,” said Martin. “Get your stuff packed. I’m getting the truck. You are both going to be in it in five minutes if I have to throw you in. Whatever you don’t have with you in five minutes, stays here, but you are both out of here. Now get going!”
“But Martinnnn,” Trish tried to sound alluring, and pulled her collar open a bit. She was too upset to play the temptress well.
“No ‘but Martin.’ Get your stuff and be down there in five minutes or I’m throwing you out the window. Either way, you are gone.”
Martin stomped down the stairs to the garage. Margaret followed him.
“What’s gotten into you? He was just talking…”
“I heard what he said. I saw how he looked at you. I don’t have to stand for it…not in my own house.”
“I knew his game,” Margaret said. “He was just buttering me up to get some extra food. That’s all he was doing. You don’t think I took his silly flattery seriously, do you?”
“Then why are you trying to keep him here?”
“What? What you saying?”
Martin had to stop and take a deep breath and let it out slowly. He held her face so he could look her in the eye. He was talking to his wife, not the frustrating world. “Kitkat, I’m sorry.” He had not used her pet name in years. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean how that sounded. I really didn’t. In all our years, you’ve never once made me wonder…”
“Of course not! And you’ve been my totally safe guy all these years, but now you’re acting crazy.”
“I know. I know. And I’m sorry if I’ve freaked you out. It’s just that…things are going to get tougher around here with no prospect of outside aid. We’re going to be under even more pressure. The last thing this house needs is a couple of trouble makers.”
“He just said one stupid…”
“Oh no. It’s more than that. I caught Adam sleeping on watch. If it happens this early, I can’t trust him. Dustin and Judy both said the Dunans were acting suspiciously while we were gone. Trish has tried buttering me up like Adam was trying on you.”
“What? You never said anything about that.”
“I had hoped it was just a young-and-foolish moment, like you said: that wouldn’t happen again. But trouble keeps happening. They’re just out of here.”
“But you can’t just kick them out, Martin. Where will they go? It’s almost winter.”
“Right now, I wouldn’t mind throwing them in a pit…”
“Martin!” she scolded in horror.
“I’m not going to. I’m taking them to the Town Farm. They can take care of them. I’m through with them.”
Martin pulled his truck into the middle of the driveway. Driving the Dunans to the Town Farm would use up a gallon of what gasoline he had left in the tank — gasoline that was not replaceable. It seemed worth every drop to be rid of the two of them.
“Time’s up,” Martin growled. He grabbed the two suitcases off the bed, even though they were not fully zipped shut.
“Hey,” complained Adam. “We weren’t done.”
“Yes you are. Get going.”
Adam and Trish hurried down the hallway ahead of Martin: a minimalist version of Pamplona. In the driveway, Martin threw the two suitcases into the pickup bed. “Now get in.” He pointed to the bed.
“Hey.” Adam tried to muster some indignation. “We came with two boxes of food.”
“And you’ve eaten that much since you got here. Now get in that truck before I break you in half.” Martin could feel his fists trembling. He wanted very badly to pummel Adam until his own fists bled. So much was going wrong in Martin’s life, and someone needed to pay. He did not mind if Adam turned out to be that someone.
Judy and Susan looked on, from a safe distance. Margaret implored — with dough-caked hands — for Martin to calm down and not do anything rash.
Martin drove faster than was prudent on a rough dirt road. He did not particularly care if the two of them bounced out.
Martin’s truck slid to a stop in the gravel driveway of the Webster farm. He hurried around, flung open the tailgate and jumped up. Adam and Trish slowly stood up. Martin picked up one suitcase and flung it to the grass near the back door. The second one followed.
“Get out,” Martin growled at Trish. “This is where you’re staying now.” As much as his anger wanted to throw her out, she was still a woman and he refused to lay a hand on her. She quickly scrambled down the tailgate.
“Hey, man,” Adam stood as imposingly as he could. “I don’t have to stand for this treatment.”
“No, you don’t,” Martin said. He grabbed Adam’s shoulder and a hip and tossed him over the pickup bed wall.
“What’s going on out here?” demanded Candice. “Oh my. What IS going on out here?”
“You have two new residents for the Town Farm,” Martin said.
“What?” Candice turned to the Dunans. “What went wrong?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Martin. “They are now homeless, so take them in, or let them sleep in the woods. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m done with them.”
“Oh, no no no,” Candice turned on her condescending smile. “The Webster farm is quite full. There’s no room. You’ll have to take them back.”
“They are not coming back to my house,” Martin seethed. Just then, he saw Lucas peeking cautiously around the open door. “Lucas. Is your papa upstairs?” Lucas nodded. “Tell him to come down here for a minute, would you?” Lucas disappeared.
“Your attitude, Mr. Simmons, is quite barbaric. In these troubled times, we all have to work together. We can’t let petty feelings…”
“Carlos,” Martin ignored Candice. “Would you rather stay here, or come live at my house? You need to decide right now.”
Carlos needed no time. “We will come with you, Mr. Martin. I will go tell Anna.”
“There you go,” Martin addressed Candice. “Now the farm has an opening.”
Candice tried to loom over Martin so she could look down at him. “Who stays here and who doesn’t is not your decision, Mr. Simmons. I insist that you stop this neanderthal behavior right now.”
“Candice. I have never once laid a hand on a woman in anger. I do not want you to be the first. Now stand aside.”
Carlos, Anna and Lucas hurried out the door, but stopped, realizing they did not know where they were hurrying to.
“Put your bags in the back of my truck,” Martin said. “I have room for one inside with me. Who will it be?”
Lucas lobbied to ride in the bed. Carlos agreed, so long as he could supervise. Anna was the reluctant winner of the upholstered seat. Martin drove carefully back to his house. Anna did not say anything, she only smiled somewhat nervously.
(end chapter 15)
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Post by kaijafon on May 28, 2016 15:14:51 GMT -6
YES!!!! awesome!!! wonderful! I see much better things happening now at 'home'! thank you so much!
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Post by headlesshorseman on May 28, 2016 15:34:24 GMT -6
Good for Martin!
Thank you Mic.
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Post by mic on May 30, 2016 18:39:16 GMT -6
Chapter 16: Part 1: Recalculating
“There should be plenty of room for the three of you in here.” Martin swung the bedroom door wide. “We can rig up something better than a sleeping bag on the floor for Lucas.”
“This is very nice, already,” said Carlos. “Do not go to extra troubles. Thank you very much, Mr. Martin. We will work hard. You will see.”
“I’m not worried,” Martin said with a chuckle. “Margaret, do we still have that inflatable camp pad?”
“Yes, on the metal shelves in the garage,” she said. “Why don’t you come help me find it.”
“You just said you knew…” he began, but stopped. He knew that look. “Oh, um…yeah. I’ll give you a hand. The top three drawers of the dresser are empty, Carlos. Feel free to put your things in there. We’ll be back in a bit.”
Martin was both dreading and looking forward to some talk-time with Margaret.
Once the door to the garage clicked shut behind them, she turned. “Okay, Martin. What’s going on?”
“Nothing? We told Landers we’d take someone in,” he said. “We did. I just changed who.”
“Yes, and I would have appreciated you consulting me on something like that, but I mean, what’s going on with you? Ever since that trip up to Canterbury, you’ve been acting…well…not like yourself. This isn’t about that silly gun trade, either.”
“Well, you know. these are stressful times,” Martin said, looking at the floor. “The outage, the shortages…”
“That’s not it,” she interrupted. “I mean the way you blew up at the Dunans and threw them out. I’ve never seen you like that.”
“I’ve never caught some guy trying to schmooze you before either. I didn’t have to stand quietly by while some guy…”
“Okay, okay.” Margaret held up her palms to quell the flood. “I can appreciate that, and part of me is kinda flattered at you turning into the jealous-neanderthal, but still, part of me was kinda frightened. You’ve always been my stable, reliable, solid…”
“You’re describing a rock. Rocks are boring.”
“Not boring,” she countered. “Stable. That means a lot to me. Remember that time we got stuck in that elevator? Total darkness. And that one guy was starting to panic, so you gave him a glow stick.”
“It was supposed to go in my truck, but I forgot to take it out of my bag.”
“Whatever. You kept talking softly about nothing in particular and he calmed down. He even did pretty good at twenty questions.”
“All that proves is that boring can be calming,” Martin said.
“Pftt.” Margaret rolled her eyes. “Then, what about when we were staying at that bed and breakfast in Vermont for our anniversary? Huh? In the middle of the night we woke up to smoke in our room. Everyone else was bumbling around in the dark wondering who to call, or where the fire exits were, but you went calmly from room to room, looking for the source.”
Martin shrugged. “It wasn’t the smoke of a structure fire: no stink of burning paint or rubber, just wood smoke. And that’s all it was, too. A log rolled out of someone’s fireplace in the night. The smoke wasn’t going up the chimney. It wasn’t a crisis.”
“That’s my point, Martin. Everyone else thought it was a crisis. When other people are freaking out and panicking, you don’t. That’s my Martin. But, ever since Canterbury, you haven’t been yourself.”
Martin let out a long sigh. “I know, but I don’t really understand it myself.” Was he really angry at Eric, or angry at himself for being angry? It made no sense. “Maybe it was that whole ambush thing,” he offered. “All that shooting.”
“That’s not it either,” she said flatly. “You were acting strange before that happened.”
“None of this is like I figured,” he said. “I used to imagine that if the power went out for a long time, it would be just you and me. We’d get by. We’d melt snow if we had to. We’d get by on jerky, wheat mush and fires only once a day, if we had to, but we’d beat it.”
Margaret smiled sympathetically.
“But it isn’t just you and me,” he continued. “The house is full of people. We don’t have enough supplies for everyone to last all winter. That’s got me all tied up. People like the Dunans were just too much trouble. She was bad enough, but I didn’t have to put up with his…”
She squeezed his arm to interrupt. “I know, Martin. I know. But that was nothing serious. You don’t think I was seriously charmed by him, do you?”
Martin hung his head. A part of him worried that she did enjoy being fawned over. The past many years of marriage could be described as well-managed or organized, but not particularly full of fawning.
“You were laughing,” he said. “You don’t laugh much these days.”
Margaret chuckled. “Yes, but more at him than he imagined. Young men do incredibly stupid things, sometimes. His skiing adventures sounded more like a narrow escape from Darwinism to me, and a whole lot of pointless work. It’s hard not to laugh at stupid.”
“I wasn’t charmed by him,” she continued. “Being lied to is not charming. I knew he was just buttering me up as a ploy to wheedle some extra food.”
“Still, I think he was right that you and I don’t talk enough.”
“We’re busy, especially now,” she said. “Things need to get done. There isn’t a lot of time for talking.”
“Should we be that busy?”
“Maybe not, but in our current situation, we are. Here’s the inflatable pad. You take it up to Carlos and Anna. With Lucas, we have one more to feed. I’ve got to go do some recalculating at the pantry.”
“Okay,” Martin said. “The air mattress works fine. What’s with all the papers? How much recalculating of the food supply will it take?”
Margaret sat at the table with her papers and books arrayed around her. “I needed to do a review and rebalancing anyhow. Lucas might be small, but young boys tend to eat as much as an adult anyhow. Eight will use things up faster than seven. I’m trying to figure out how much faster.”
“What’s with the cans and boxes all over the counters?”
Margaret did not look up. “Refreshing the inventory, too.”
Martin spotted an odd little can among the familiar cans of veggies. Hominy. It was one of the few cans that Susan got from their last grocery run. Susan. She had come a long way since that first day in Cheshire. She had been through a lot, just to get up to New Hampshire. He could almost hear her saying… He shook his head vigorously. He needed to think of other things. He focused on the little can in his hands.
“What the heck is hominy? From the picture on the can, they look kinda like a bean thing.”
“No. It’s a corn thing,” said Margaret.
Martin mumbled to himself. “Funny looking corn.” He carried the can to his office. He forgot to knock.
“Oh. Martin,” Susan said with pleasant surprise.
“Whoops. Sorry,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “I should have knocked.”
“That’s okay, because I kinda wanted to…”
“I just came in to get a book.” She sounded like she wanted to talk, but he was not ready for that. When he allowed himself to think about her, his thoughts quickly became like three fat hens trying to get through the same small coop door at the same time. His anger had proven to him that he was deep inside foreign territory. He wanted to get back to familiar territory. Talking with her at that moment would not help that plan. “Ah. This is the book. Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be going now.”
“But…”
Martin pulled the door shut behind him. He blew out a sigh and shook his head to chase away the three fat hens. He would have to be more careful in the future.
He pulled out the chair opposite Margaret. His book was one of the encyclopedias he bought when Dustin was two years old. It seemed like a great idea at the time: a tool for future homework, reports, projects. By the time the kids were in school, however, Google had rendered the encyclopedia set a quaint anachronism: the eight-track-tape of information systems. Martin used it more than they ever did. Even so, it was set of books that would never wear out.
Homestead. Homing. Hominid. Hominy: a corn dish traditionally prepared by boiling the corn in a dilute lye solution made from wood-ash leachings until the hulls could be easily removed by hand flushed away with running water…Wood-ash is still often employed in this process to impart calcium to the kernels.
“Ever made hominy?” he asked.
“No. Never cooked with it either.”
“Hmmm.” Martin had plenty of wood ash in the bin. He had those two bags of feed corn he planned to coarse-grind into scratch for the chickens. Making hominy seemed like an experiment worth indulging in. The caustic nature of lye meant he should use one of the stainless steel pots. He sorted out a cup of whole kernels. He sifted out a cup of wood ashes. Would the little black bits matter? He had no idea. He added a cup of water and stirred. One to one to one seemed like it would be a handy ratio, but he had no idea if it was right or not.
“What are you doing?” Margaret asked.
“Hopefully, making hominy, but it looks more like molten mud,” he said. The wet ash stirred like mud.
“Really? That looks disgusting.”
“Hmm. It kinda does. I guess it needs more water. The book did say ‘dilute lye solution’. Looks like it needs some more ‘dilute,’ I think.” The added water turned the mud into gray soup. The hard corn rattled and scraped on the pot as he stirred.
“And how long does that take?” Margaret asked.
“No idea. I’m figuring this out as I go. The book just said ‘boiled’ and that the hulls could be rubbed off by hand. Guess it needs to go awhile. Give it a stir now and then? I need to show Carlos and Anna around before I add them to the watch rotation.
While Martin was showing Carlos around the property for his first patrol, an old white F350 lumbered down the road. Enough chrome trim had fallen off over the years, to give the truck the awkward plainness of an aging Hollywood star without makeup. Martin met Charles at the end of the driveway, waving and pointing to the best parking spot.
“Hey Charles,” Martin had to shout over the noisy engine. It clattered like a furious six cylinder sewing machine. “Over there will be good.”
“Hey Martin.” Charles rolled out of the driver’s door. “What do you think? Huh? Old Henry will work, right?”
Martin walked all the way around the tired crew cab. A homemade flatbed with stake sides had replaced the pickup bed years ago. They could set up the gasifier in the flatbed, but they would need to pipe the gas up to the engine. The long delivery tubes might help with the cooling. “Not much rust for it’s age,” Martin said. He hoped Charles would not interpret his comment as a dig. Men tend to grow fond of their trucks.
“No.” Charles beamed. “We don’t take him out on the salty roads. Just boppin’ around the farm. Just put in a new clutch a few years ago.”
“What’s all this in the back?” Martin asked.
“Oh, that. We guessed at some of the junk you might need.” Charles hefted himself up into the bed. “We had this little barrel out back. Hydraulic fluid, originally. We had this trash bin, too. We used it for deer guts and stuff, so it kinda stinks. Got some black pipe and ductwork scraps. Not sure if you could use this stuff or not.”
“We could. That big trash can is perfect. We couldn’t find anything like that at the dump. Who throws away trash cans, eh?” Martin waved to Dustin as he came around the corner of the house. “Hey Dustin, come see what Charles brought. Big trash can! Maybe Judy can take over the watch for a little while and help him get this stuff unloaded. Where is she?”
“She’s up on meadow with the radio again.”
“Well, call her in for a half hour or so. Have her watch out back while we’re busy out front here.”
Dustin keyed the walkie talkie. Judy did not sound happy about the interruption of her news searching, but trudged down the hill.
Martin showed Carlos and Lucas his brush pile and explained what he wanted to see for wood chunks and chips. It would take awhile to amass enough chunks to fuel up a larger gasifier. Tin Man would need fuel to run some of the power tools too.
“Dad,” said Dustin. “We’ve got lots of parts to work with, and probably enough sheet metal screws, but we don’t have enough JB Weld or anything like that for a project this size. Too many seams to seal.”
“JB Weld?” Charles asked. “Why don’t you just really weld the joints? Sure, some of it’s galvanized , but you could grind that back.”
“I don’t have a welder.” Martin looked over his shoulder. “But Nick does. I saw him using it to make the pipe rack on his truck. I’ll go ask him about that. But first, I need to check on something.”
“So, how’s the hominy?” Martin asked.
“No idea, Dr. Science,” quipped Margaret. “It’s your experiment, not mine.”
“That’s no way for a lab assistant to talk. Where would Dr. Frankenstein be if Igor…Whoa. It’s kinda back to looking like mud again. You stirred it, right?” Margaret nodded without looking up. Martin studied the bubbling mud as he stirred. The kernels did not rattle or scrape. They were puffy and rounder. He could see what looked like soft beetle backs in the mud. Hulls?
He rinsed the kernels in a bowl of water. Rubbing the kernels between his hands created more beetle backs that stuck to his fingers. More water. More rubbing. More rinsing. Eventually, the colander held puffy round kernels that resembled those printed on the can label.
“Pozole?” asked Anna.
Martin jumped. “Whoa. I didn’t know you were back there.”
“Sorry, Mr. Martin,” said Lucas. “Mama said she smelled something and wanted to come see.”
Martin stepped aside and tilted the colander so Anna could see better. She took a kernel and ate it slowly. She smiled broadly. She spoke to Lucas. Martin still did not understand Spanish beyond the few obvious words and his one special, pointless word: peligro.
“Mama said you made pozole. It smelled like how her grandmother used to make it. She said it tastes like grandmother’s too.”
“Really?” Martin stared at his colander of puffy yellow kernels. “What did they do with them?”
After a bit of muted dialogue between Lucas and Anna, Lucas listed off more dish names than Martin’s memory could hold. “Okay, okay. I get the idea. Margaret, do you have any listings for hominy in your nutrition books?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Apparently, we can make hominy — or pozole. I’ve got those two bags of corn down in the garage. We should figure that into your calculations. That’s got to help. One cup of dry corn yielded about a cup and three quarters of hominy. Should be filling, if nothing else.”
“Really? Let me try this hominy stuff.” Margaret came around the counter. “Hmm. Interesting. Not much to it, but a bit of salt, maybe a touch of butter…”
“Mama said you can also mash up the pozole while it is soft and make a dough for tortillas.”
Martin studied the wet hominy for a moment. “So, Margaret,” Martin said. “How about if you only recalculate with one of the bags of corn. I might need the other one for something else.”
Martin made sure to clear his throat loudly a few times as he walked up to the Oldham’s home. No one liked being surprised. Nick looked relieved that it was only Martin at his door. Jess’s worried look had become her new default. The kids were quieter than Martin could remember them being. Martin asked about Nick’s welder.
Once in the garage, Martin asked quietly, “So, how are things going?”
“Oh, pretty good.” Nick avoided eye contact.
“Come on, Nick. Really. How’s your food holding out? Jess still looks worried.”
“Well, truth is, Jess figures we’ve only got a week’s worth left. She and I have been cutting back to leave more for the kids, but…”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Martin whispered.
Nick looked away to fuss with the welder. “I figured I’d find some bigger game in the woods any day now. I saw some turkey tracks the other day.” His shoulders sagged. “But I haven’t even been close to getting anything big like that. I shot cardinal three days ago, using Teddy’s pellet gun. I breasted it out in the woods: told them it was a dove. I haven’t seen anything else in the woods all week.”
“Yeah. I haven’t gotten anything in my snares for a week either,” said Martin. He needed to get the conversation off of food. “So I was thinking that we use your welder. It needs about the max our generator will produce, but it should work.”
“You want to borrow it?”
“Well, no. I don’t know how to weld. I was thinking that if you were to help us make this bigger gasifier — you know, be our official welder — that you should get, like, paid for the work.”
“What?”
“Well, not money, per se. I mean, I don’t have buckets of money, and what would you do with it now anyhow, but I do have some corn. We just figured out how to make hominy out of feed corn. You’ve got wood ashes. You can make it too. Hominy isn’t exciting, but it’s food. What do you think?”
Nick stared into the middle distance. “How do we figure out wages in corn?”
Martin shrugged. “What if we just start with a day’s work equalling enough corn to feed your family for a day?” Martin had imagined saving up all the welding to do in once session, to conserve wood fuel in Tin Man, but that would not help out Nick and Jess very much. Instead, Martin figured to have Nick on hand for several days, doing a bit of welding each day and calling it a full day of work.
Nick sat up straight and smiled slightly. “Cool. I’ll be bringing home the bacon — or corn — again. You’ve got a deal.”
Martin was gambling that Tyler and Charles’ plan to become trucking entrepreneurs would actually pay off: that his quarter share of their enterprise would amount to anything. If it did not, he was bargaining away half of his new-found food source.
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Post by headlesshorseman on May 30, 2016 20:09:13 GMT -6
Hominy is good in soup or stew too. I can remember watching the adults making it a wash pot full at the time. Lime works as good as lye. It is less dangerous too. It won't burn the skin as quick if some gets on you.
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Post by kaijafon on May 31, 2016 15:10:05 GMT -6
thank you!
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Post by mic on Jun 3, 2016 14:26:55 GMT -6
Chapter 16: part 2: Plans and Confrontation
“Hey, Lance,” called Martin. “Come on over.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over Tin Man, the generator and Nick’s welder.
“I can see you’re busy,” said Lance. “But, I got some news on that other odd gun you found.” He held up the cardboard box in his arms.
“That’s okay. I’m mostly just watching.” Martin pointed to the next seam waiting to be welded. Nick nodded. Lance and Martin walked further from the generator. Lance set the box on a half-consumed pallet of firewood.
“So, pretty weird finding two of those old guns, eh?” Martin said.
“Remember, I said they ain’t old.” Lance wagged his finger. “Just an old design. They’re both pretty new. I left this one disassembled for show-n-tell.”
“Custom, handmade things?” Martin guessed.
“I’d have guessed that too, based on the first one, but look in here.” Lance held the bolt upside down. “See those machine marks? That little ridge there? Well, I would have guessed this was hand machined and the maker just didn’t get his second pass quite lined up with his first. But that first gun had exactly the same little ridge.”
“And look in here.” Lance held up the frame. “See these wavy lines? The first gun had ‘em too. They’re chatter from side cutting — travel too fast, or too few flutes.”
“Meaning what?” Martin was more familiar with working in wood, not machining metal.
“That these two were CNC machined, and whoever wrote the program didn’t clean it up. Machinists tend to be perfectionists, you know? This was more of a bean-counter product. And those chatter marks. That’s a bean-counter sign too. Less-expensive two-flute cutter, running faster than it should be.”
“Meaning that they were supposed to be cheap?” Martin wondered out loud.
“That’s my guess,” Lance said with a nod. “And probably not worried about long term reliability. The bolt rails fit kinda loose. That’ll cause trouble down the line.”
“And that ain’t all.” Lance dug in the box. “That little box of rounds you gave me. Really odd. First off, they’re close to being a .41 JMP, but not quite. See that little shoulder? I bet even a real .41 JMP wouldn’t sit in there right.”
“Hmmm,” Martin held the little white box close to his eyes. “This little box was designed to hold only five of these odd .41 caliber rounds. Who produces five-round boxes?”
“Oh yeah, and I took one of them rounds apart.” Lance pulled out an envelope. “Cast lead bullet, but even though it’s a magnum case, the powder load was light.”
“So these things look all killa bad, but don’t have much bite?” Martin asked.
Lance could only shrug. “I don’t get it. Maybe the thugs found somebody’s inventory of a bad product that didn’t sell.”
Tyler walked up, interrupting their theorizing. “Hey you guys. I’m going around the area telling guys that there’s a meeting at 2:00 up at Gene Merdot’s place. You’re supposed to come.”
“Me?” Martin asked.
“All of you,” said Tyler. “I guess we’re organizing a neighborhood watch thing. All the able-bodied men around Stockman Hill are supposed to come. You’re also supposed to bring your preferred long gun with you, and whatever you’ve got for two-way radio. I’m off to get Charles. Don’t forget: 2:00, Merdot’s house up on the top of the hill.”
Martin and Dustin took seats in the back row of the eclectic mix of chairs in Gene’s living room. Tyler and Charles were up front. Lance sat at the end of one of the curved rows. Nick was there, as was Micky Baldwin. Lyle Talbot sat up front, along with three other men that Martin did not recognize.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” said Gene. “Chief Burgh wants people to organize local defense groups in case trouble comes looking. You boys had quite a run-in with some rascals up in Manchester. Could be they’ll come looking to even the score.”
Martin thought it was unlikely the thugs would come all the way out to Cheshire. How would they know where the convoy of trailers was going? Nonetheless, a local defense group would be good for all sorts of possible troubles.
“And, speaking of troubles, I’ve got some news to pass along from Walter, before we get started,” Gene said. He read from notes he had taken. “You all probably heard about that plane with food aid crashing at Manchester airport. Well, turns out it wasn’t a crash. Apparently, it landed okay in Manchester, but lots of people heard it was coming too. Thousands rushed out onto the runway. I guess no one wanted to miss out on a share. Two people were killed when the jet’s wheels ran over them. They stormed the plane and somehow it caught fire. It burned to the ground right there in the middle of the runway.”
“Walter also told about a cargo ship of aid came from Georgia. The president said it was aiding criminals and ordered sanctions. Before it could get into Portsmouth, a Coast Guard cutter out of Boston intercepted it.”
“The point is, it doesn’t look like any help will be coming from anywhere else,” said Gene. “People desperate enough to mob a jet and set it on fire are still around here. So, Chief’s plan is to have us organize into some neighborhood defense groups in case trouble comes looking for us. He has picked out a few of us to be company commanders.”
“Companies?” scoffed Lyle. “We don’t even make up a platoon, let alone a company.”
“We can’t get too hung up on Army definitions,” said Gene. “We are what we are. If it helps, think of us more like a fire company. Anyhow, I know ‘company commander’ sounds all highfalutin’, but the fact is, we got picked because we have good radios and live on hilltops where we can act as local communication hubs. So, I’m the hub for the Stockman Hill area. Did you all bring your radios?” Everyone held up something.
“Good. The basic deal is that we’ll have a common channel that all of you will monitor. Even with your little FRS radios, you should be able to pick up my base station. We’ll test that later. Next item of business is figuring out some patrols. Lyle, here, has the most recent military experience. His last tour was training the Afghans. So, I’ve tapped him to head up the tactical stuff. Lyle?”
Lyle stood and faced the group. “Let’s start with what you all have for weapons. Everyone stand up and present arms.”
Tyler and Charles stood in a crisp military style. Martin tried to copy them, but he was pretty sure he was doing it wrong. Dustin tried too, but was never satisfied with how his hands held his shotgun. Everyone else looked casual. Lyle walked along the line of standing men, studying the various guns. The more he assessed the collection, the more disappointed he looked.
“Aw man, this is about as bad as it gets.” Lyle turned to Gene. “We’ve got one of almost every caliber. and not a single AR or AK in the bunch, beside mine. We can’t even put together an effective fire time with this flea market collection.”
Martin thought Lyle was expecting too much from townsfolk. Maybe it would have been handy if everyone had ARs and boxes 5.56, but a volley of .30-30, .270, .308, 12 gauge and whatever, could cause plenty of damage too.
“We’ll have to work with it,” said Gene. “I’ll bet that with some training…”
Lyle interrupted. “Training? There’s no way to train these guys? They’re old, overweight or soft. They wouldn’t last ten minutes in basic.”
Martin was losing his patience with Lyle. For some people, things are always ‘impossible’ if they aren’t already perfect.
“There’s no way to schedule patrols with this bunch,” said Lyle. “I’d be better off running patrols on my own. I’ll bet none of these guys even know how to…”
“Bah…” snapped Martin. He backed off his tone. If they were going to be a team, they had to start getting along.“…it can’t be that bad. Sure, we’re not Army Rangers back from two tours, but we’re are all we’ve got. You trained Afghans. We’re your new Afghans. We’ll never be Rangers, but do the best you can.”
Lyle was clearly not happy with Martin contradicting him. “I’ll bet half of you couldn’t survive even a one mile hike with a full ruck.”
Martin had run across such professional snobbery before. It was that same irritating elitism that made doctors assume no one could take an aspirin without consulting ‘a medical professional’, or plumbers assume that no one knew how to use a wrench but a ‘certified professional.’
As much as Martin wanted to get snarky with Lyle, he knew diplomacy was required. “Of course none of us will ever be in shape like you, or match your skills, or training. We’re just homeowners who had desk jobs. We know that. Sure, if a platoon of Russian paratroopers attacked us, we’d be doomed. And maybe right now, even a ragtag band of raider-thugs from Indian Lakes could probably wipe us out too. Just do what you can to improve our odds.”
“I might not have been a Ranger,” Charles grumbled with sarcasm, “but Bosnia was no spring break.”
“I can’t run or carry a load,” said Lance, “But, I can still shoot, or I could man a radio. I’ve probably repaired more guns than you’ve ever seen.”
“And, sure, I’m kinda overweight,” said a man Martin did not recognize, “but I walk two miles a day and I carried a deer a mile out of the woods last season.”
Others in the group nodded. They knew they were not military professionals, but they were willing to do what they could. They were defending their homes and families. A vested interest is a motivator.
After establishing some common radio channels, the group gathered around a dining room table with a hand-drawn map of their area. Red squares marked their houses. A star marked Gene’s house.
“This area here is what the Stockman Hill company covers.” Gene traced his finger along a dotted line. “We adjoin the Wilson Hill group over here, Center group, and Pond Farm back here. Beyond them are Bell Hill, South Farms, East End and North Forks. Our area goes east, to the Sanford line. These here are the three roads into our Stockman Hill zone. The road in from Sanford is our loose thread. We’re first line on that one.”
Lyle stepped up to the table. “You’ll all be responsible for the section of perimeter near your houses.”
Martin noticed the thin red dotted line for his house extended from the swamp between his house and Nick’s, out beyond the gravel pit and near Walden Road. It was a bigger area to cover than they had been. He imagined he might have to send two-man patrols out that far. Would he send the women out there? Perhaps pair a man and a woman for daylight sweeps. How to handle night watches that far out seemed a tough problem.
“Even so,” continued Lyle, “…there’s sections, here, here and over here, are beyond our occupied houses. We’ll all have to take turns running patrols in these uncovered areas. Write your names on this pad here. I’ll work up a rotation figuring on two-man patrols.”
Lyle told everyone to come back the next day for some drills and practice doing two-man patrols. As the men filtered out of Gene’s house they seemed somber. Even though it was their home area, they would all be venturing farther from home than they had been.
Tyler and Charles peeled away toward their house, promising to come by Martin’s later to resume work on the truck. Nick headed down the hill. Martin and Dustin waved to Micky as the two of them crossed the meadow. Martin had much on his mind. He and Dustin could not cover all the patrols that would be required. Carlos and Anna needed to be added to the rotation.
“Mrs. Simmons said to tell you she went to the dairy,” said Judy. “She would be back before dark.”
“Thanks Judy,” said Martin. “Would you get Mrs. Perez and take her with you on your watch? We’ll need to be covering a bit wider area nowadays. I don’t want anyone out of sight of the house alone.” Judy looked concerned at the change, but nodded and walked back up to the house. “And make sure you take one of the walkie-talkies,” called Martin.
“Dustin, how about you get the .22s out and see how Carlos is with some target practice. We need to add him to the wider patrols roster. Better get him up to speed. I’m going to set some parts ready for Nick to weld when he comes over later.”
Martin surveyed the partially-assembled gasifier. It seemed daunting task to make that Rube Goldberg collection of scraps actually power an F350. He tried not to let the work ahead intimidate him. Instead, he would focus on bending up a collection of brackets which would support the vortex filter and cooling tubes.
“Hello, Mr. Simmons,” called a voice. It was Eric. Martin decided to look too busy to talk.
“We just got done having a meeting of the Bell Hill Company,” Eric said. “My dad was named Company Commander.” Pride was obvious in his voice.
Martin let the conversation die, hoping Eric would go away.
“Say…” Eric fished around. “Would Susan be doing anything right now?”
“Yes. She’s busy.”
“Oh, well, I was just on my way…to do…something for my dad, and thought I might stop by and say hi.”
Martin continued to let the conversation die. He was trying not to get angry, but it seemed to take a great deal of effort to suppress.
“Susan was saying…on the way up to Canterbury…how her house burned down in Boston and you offered to give her a room.” He waited for Martin to reply, but none came. “So, she’s not like, a relative, or old friend or anything.” Martin did not look up.
“She was saying how your house is kinda crowded…so, I was thinking that…maybe she could stay at our house. There’s an empty room right next to mine.”
A fox volunteering to mind the chickens, Martin thought. He could feel the lava welling up beneath the cone, but kept his peace.
Eric, taking Martin’s silence as affirmation, began to relax. “It sure would be nice to have her around, you know? She’s quite the looker. Really nice too. Yeah…I could tell she likes me. We really hit it off. I’ve got a way with women, you know? In college, I scored with half the girls in Alpha Phi. They had a thing for me, I guess.”
Martin tried to ignore Eric, but it was not working. Lava was rising. The metal angle stock at his side was starting to look like a suitable truncheon.
“They say it’s gonna be a cold winter,” Eric continued. “Bet I could get her hot enough to heat the whole house,” he chuckled.
Martin stood up quickly with a two-foot section of metal clenched in his fist. “She is not here,” he growled. “You had better move along.” His laser vision was still not working, but a steel bar to the side of his head would suffice.
“Huh? Hey man, what’s wrong?” Eric’s eyes caught the way Martin held the steel. “I just wanted to say hi to Susan is all.”
Martin’s head swirled with things he might say in reply: that Eric should never talk that way about any woman, or that he should never talk that way about Susan, or that he should stop being so full of himself. All of them seemed like floodgates that would be impossible to close.
“Susan is not available.” Martin intended that in both the immediate sense and the long-term. He realized he still had to work with Arthur and the Bell Hill Company at some point, so he could not afford to burn any bridges. “You should be moving along.”
“Oh, um…okay.” Eric backed away, cautiously. “Well, tell Susan I stopped by?”
Martin stood motionless. He had no intention of passing along any of Eric’s messages.
“Well, guess I’ll be going,” Eric said.
Martin watched Eric walk up the road until he disappeared behind the hemlocks.
The thought of Susan trapped in the Emulari house, prey for a slimy predator, finally pushed the lava to the surface. Martin turned and beat the steel bar against a concrete block, over and over. It clanged and rang like a blacksmith’s shop. He knew his tantrum was a futile gesture. He could not protect Susan from every creep out there. He beat on the block over that frustration.
Martin was angry at himself, too. He was married to Margaret and had no valid reason to feel so protective over Susan. He beat on the block to vent that anger too. Martin stopped when he broke the block. The bar was bent into a question mark. His palm was cut and bleeding, but he did not care. The exhaustion felt good.
Martin sat on an inverted paint can, trying to focus his mind on constructive matters. He carefully bent straps of metal into brackets to match his wooden template. He was lining up the next wave of things for Nick to weld.
Susan stepped around the back of the truck. She stood there for a minute, expecting Martin to look up, or in some way acknowledge her arrival. He noticed her shadow, but kept his focus on the metal he was carefully bending. He hoped she would move on when she saw how busy he was. He was not yet calmed down, so thought it best not to talk.
Susan cleared her throat. “I heard you down here working.” She was not going away.
Martin looked up, pretending to be startled. “Oh, um. Hey. Didn’t see you there. No time to talk now. Sorry.” He stood up quickly, sending the small metal brackets clanging to the pavement. “Got to go check my snares now.” He took a stride to get past her.
She stood in his way. “No you don’t. You just checked them earlier.”
“Oh? I meant to say that I had to take some bread out for Andy, he’s depending on me to…” He tried to step around her.
She shifted sideways to block his path. “You did that earlier too.” Susan pulled the wooden bench around so that it trapped Martin between the truck and the partially assembled gasifier structures. She sat in the middle of the bench.
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes, you did. Martin, you’ve been avoiding me ever since that trip to get the cows.”
“No I haven’t. I’ve just been busy.”
“You’ve been making yourself busy. Look, if I did something to make you angry at me, I want you to at least tell me what I did.”
“You didn’t do anything. You’ve always been…I’m not angry at you. Don’t be silly.”
“Then why can’t you look me in the eye?”
“That doesn’t mean anything…I just don’t think it…” Martin began to pace back and forth like a tiger in a cage.
“Then why won’t you look me in the eye and tell me what I did?”
“Because you’ll do that look thing,” he blurted, waving an accusing finger over his shoulder.
“What look thing?”
Martin’s chuckle was slightly manic. “Oh yeah. ‘What look thing.’ Your eyes will get that sad puzzled look and it’s totally not fair. At least kryptonite was a mineral you could put in a lead box, but that look….”
“Lead box?” What are you talking about? Okay. Never mind. Fine. Don’t look at me, but just tell me why you’re angry at me?”
“Uggghh! It’s not you.” He paced faster. The cage was getting smaller.
“If you’re not angry with me, then why have you been avoiding me?”
Martin threw up his arms in frustration. “It’s Eric. Okay? I’m mad at Eric. There. Fine. I said it. It’s not you.”
“Eric? What did he do?”
Martin laughed with more manic. “Oh ho ho, what wouldn’t he do? He stopped by here a little while ago. He was asking for you.”
“He did?”
“Yes. I told him you were unavailable and he had to just move on.” Martin paced with fists clenched at his side. “He probably thought I was some sort of locker room pal of his or something, the way he said…” Martin bit his lip.
“Said what?”
Martin waved his arms as if to fend off an invisible bee. “Never mind. He should never talk like that about you. Oh, and it wasn’t like he just made one stupid comment either, if that’s what you’re thinking. Oh no. Up at the farm in Canterbury, he didn’t think I noticed, but I did. I saw the way he looked at you with that wolfish, devouring sort of look…oohhh that made me angry. But then, faking a stumble so he could paw you: like he didn’t think anyone would see how obvious he was?” Martin paced faster.
“So, you’ve been angry at Eric all this time?”
“Yes. No. Sort of. Not just him. I’ve been angry at myself too! Being angry at Eric for being a lecherous jerk is not my place. You’re a perfectly capable woman with your own life to tend to. It’s not my job to beat lecherous jerks into a bloody pulp.” Martin studied his fists as if they held an invisible victim.
“It’s not my job. It’s your life. I have no place meddling in your life, yet in my fevered little brain that’s exactly what I keep doing and I am angry at myself for it. And that Mark character!” He spun around and pointed at her. “If I ever meet him, I think I’d just have to take him down and beat him senseless for…”
“Mark?”
“Yes. And he’ll have every stitch coming, too. He had no right to treat you that way.”
“You’ve still been thinking about that?”
“He took advantage of you and that makes me furious too. I mean, I know there are idiot-jerk-face guys out there, but why do they have to be rotten to the nice girls? Huh? It’s just not right.”
He shook his fist at the air. “Any guy lucky enough to have a wonderful woman like you as a girlfriend should never behave like that. He should take care of you: help you to grow: protect you, not go around…why are you smiling? You should be screaming at me for being a meddlesome jerk for trying to interfere with your life.”
Susan sat very still, hands clasped together in her lap, looking him in the eye.
“See? Just like I told you.” Martin pointed at her with both hands. “You’re doing it right now. You’ve got that look. I’m raving like a mad man about things that are absolutely none of my business and instead of telling me to butt out, you’re smiling with that look. WHY IN BLAZES ARE YOU SMILING?” he demanded.
“Because of why you’re so angry,” she said.
Martin froze. His rage imploded. The truth he had been running from, caught him and mugged him. He cared for Susan more deeply than a man determined to be faithfully married should.
Denial, however, has an inertia of its own. He turned away, waving off a whole swarm of invisible bees. “No no no no no. It’s not that. I’m angry because guys shouldn’t be such selfish jerks. I’m angry because Eric is one of those jerks and I don’t want to see him turn out to be another Mark. I’m angry that Mark ever existed at all, and because I…”
Susan’s smile widened. A small tear began to roll down her cheek.
“I shouldn’t be…I have no business thinking…” He stopped pacing: suddenly feeling weak. He collapsed onto the bench like a pile of dumped laundry. His head felt like it weighed fifty pounds. He buried his face in his hands. “Oh God,” he moaned.
Susan sniffed and wiped her cheek. “I don’t mind. Really, I don’t.”
Martin continued to moan into his hands. “Ohhh…this is bad.”
“I don’t think so,” she said quietly. “I’ve never been so happy.”
“But, I can’t make you happy. Don’t you see? I can’t do anything…for you.”
“You already have,” Susan whispered close.
(end chapter 16)
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Post by kaijafon on Jun 3, 2016 18:20:49 GMT -6
oh noooeesss! and the web tightens! poor fella! thank you for the moar!!!
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Post by headlesshorseman on Jun 3, 2016 19:59:55 GMT -6
He doesn't have an up side in this.
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Post by 9idrr on Jun 3, 2016 21:13:31 GMT -6
Thanks for the update. This really don't look too good for poor Marty, huh?
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Post by pbbrown0 on Jun 3, 2016 21:32:18 GMT -6
I have a hunch the mic has some unexpected twists still up his sleeve ^-^
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Post by biggkidd on Jun 6, 2016 16:54:02 GMT -6
Doing a great job you seem to have a natural talent for storytelling.
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Post by mic on Jun 7, 2016 18:02:49 GMT -6
Chapter 17: part 1: A Call to Arms
It was Martin’s turn to grind the wheat. There was not much to do on the new gasifier until Dustin, Carlos and Lucas got more fuel chipped up. While Martin cranked the handle of the mill clamped to the end of the counter, Susan and Judy were rinsing the latest batch of hominy. Their backs were to Martin.
Margaret and Anna were doing laundry in the dining room. It was more disruptive to have all the clothes piled around the center of the house, but it was warmer and involved less hauling of water up and down the stairs. Margaret and Anna managed to communicate their cooperative tasks with simple words and pointing. Through the rhythmic splash and squish sounds of the plunger in the bucket, Judy and Susan carried on their soft conversation.
“I would have been sooo scared,” Judy said. She poured a thin stream of warm water into the bowl of hominy.
“Oh I was,” said Susan. She swished and massaged the hominy between her fingers. “But once Mr. Landers was in the truck, I was too busy tending to his wounds. Before all the shooting, though, it was kind of boring.”
“Boring? You said that Eric guy was telling you all kinds of adventure stories.”
“He was, but he’s thirty-two and living in his parents’ basement. You know how sometimes you can tell when there’s something a little off when someone is telling you a story?”
Judy nodded knowingly. She paused to let Susan pour off the cloudy water.
“His stories had that ‘something’. They sounded highly enhanced, like he was rewriting his rather-ordinary life into an action film. If he saw a squirrel, he’d turn it into a lion.”
Judy laughed as she began gently pouring more warm water. “My Dustin is just the opposite. If he was chased home by a bear, he’d say ‘Oh, I saw an animal in the woods today.’ or something like that.”
Susan laughed too. “Funny you should mention being chased by a bear. That was one of Eric’s stories. While I was listening, I was trying to do a sort of reverse filtering to what you say Dustin does. I wondered if he had been chased by a squirrel, but enhanced the tale for public consumption. The image of Eric being chased by a squirrel was almost too funny to keep a straight face to.” Both women laughed.
“I was listening attentively to his stories,” Susan said. “I kind of had to. His parents were in the front seat of the truck, after all.” Susan leaned closer to Judy. In a stage whisper she said. “But, I think Eric thought that meant that I liked him.”
“No.” Judy stopped pouring, but resumed.
“Yes, but I really don’t.” Susan turned her head so she could catch Martin’s eye. “No way. Eric is a self-centered player. I could see that all along. He’s not my type at all.” She held his eye while she said that.
Martin smiled, but pretended not to be listening, as he poured more wheat into the mill.
Judy commiserated. “Most of the guys in high school were losers and players. College was worse. They don’t get better when they’re drunk. Dustin was just so down-to-earth. He was a keeper. It’s hard to find a decent guy out there.”
“Yeah.” Susan turned back to massage the hominy pile again. “And when you do, they’re already taken.”
Judy chuckled.
“Okay, dad,” said Dustin as he got to the top of the stairs. “We’ve got the hopper loaded with enough for the next test. Carlos and Lucas chipped up more before they took their turn at patrol.”
Tyler and Charles took a break from fitting the long transfer tube to the truck. Everyone gathered around the gasifier.
“Time to find out if the new filter works,” said Martin. “Are you ready?”
Charles nodded. Tyler nodded too. Nick gave a thumbs up. Martin pushed the burning roll of paper into the fire chamber of the new gasifier. He waved his arm to Dustin, who turned on the small electric fan. Once satisfied that the tinder and chips were burning on their own, he closed the door.
White smoke streamed out of the jet. As the burner cooked off enough gasses, the smoke began to turn blue. Dustin lit the jet, which sputtered with a nearly invisible flame. No one cheered this time. It was the fifth time they had test-fired the burner. Getting a flame was not the problem.
“Okay,” Martin said. “Blow it out.”
Dustin blew out the flame and quickly covered the jet with a white cloth bag. The thin fabric ballooned out from the pressure.
“That’s enough.” Martin closed the air intake. Dustin shut off the fan and closed a damper. It would take many long minutes before the fire would suffocate itself.
Dustin took off the cloth bag. He looked in with eager anticipation, but his expression fell. “Same thing,” he said. He turned the bag inside out to show the men who gathered around to see. In addition to fine soot, larger flecks of carbon speckled the bag.
Charles kicked the ground. “Man! I was certain the extra filter material would have caught all that.”
“We can’t add more,” said Martin. “We were close to creating a back pressure obstruction already.”
“We’ve got to find a way to get those heavy solids out,” said Tyler. “We can’t be putting that into the engine or we’ll ruin it in just a few hours.”
The men stood in silent frustration, staring at the gasifier. Martin stared, hoping a shaft of sunbeam would shine on the part that needed changing, followed by a faint heavenly chorus.
No divine sunbeams shone.
Margaret broke their contemplation. She hurried over with the walkie-talkie in her hand. “Martin. It’s Mr. Merdot.”
“Simmons here, go ahead,” Martin said into the radio.
“Sounds like trouble might be coming. Chief Burgh said he got a call from Longmeadow. Three cars full of young men went right through town. Didn’t do anything, but they’re headed our way.”
“Did he say what kind of cars? Or what they were wearing?” Martin asked.
“Negative.”
“Well, ask him. It might be important.”
“Roger. Stand by,” crackled the radio.
Martin turned to Tyler and Charles. “I’m wondering if it’s that gang that chased Carlos out here. Maybe the same gang that tried to ambush us.”
“How would they know where we went?” asked Tyler.
“Maybe it’s some other gang out on a random raid,” guessed Nick.
The radio hissed. “Longmeadow said three hotrods. Guys in blue or gray hoodies.”
“Thanks Gene,” said Martin. “This might be the same gang that tried to jump us. Better let Burgh know.”
“Roger that. Your wife said you’ve got some of our guys at your house. I’m calling the others. Meet Chief in town.”
“Roger. Out,” said Martin.
“Why would the same gang be driving way out here?” Tyler asked. “There’s plenty of other targets between us and Manchester.”
“I know,” said Martin. “But if they skipped Longmeadow and drove through. I think they’re coming here. Maybe after us to get even for their guys we shot.”
“Well, too bad for them for trying to ambush us,” said Charles. “But, I still don’t get how would they know where we are.”
“Maybe they don’t know it’s us out here and are just looking to raid fresher victims,” said Martin. “Either way, we’re going to have to go meet them up the road and not wait for them to come to us. Three cars…could be twelve to fifteen of them. Dustin, fetch me the extra magazines and two boxes of rounds from the safe.”
“You want me to load up my shotgun with slugs?” Dustin asked.
“I do, but you’re not coming.”
“What?” Dustin sounded disappointed.
“You need to stay here and head up home defense if necessary. We don’t know if these guys will stay together or break up.” Martin turned to Margaret’. “Call in Carlos and Lucas from their patrol. Everyone needs to be home and in a defensive watch position.”
As Dustin trotted off, Martin turned to the others. “Help me get the battery back in my truck. It’s still got a couple gallons in it. Nick, how about if you run home and get your rifle and extra ammo. We can drive by your house to pick you up as we loop around to Tyler’s house so they can get more too.”
Margaret stood nearby with wide worried eyes. “Aren’t there enough men on that side of town to deal with them?”
“Maybe,” said Martin. “We might just be backup or something, but we need to be ready. Hopefully, we can stop them early before they get out here. Dustin is staying here with you. Have everyone take their corners. Don’t go shooting anything that moves, but keep a sharp eye out. I’ll take this walkie with us. When Carlos and Lucas get in, keep that walkie with you, monitor channel 7.”
Dustin trotted up carrying a small range nylon bag. Martin thanked him and slung it over his shoulder.
“Okay guys, lets go,” Martin said.
“No more running after bad guys,” said Margaret. Her stern facade did not disguise her worry. “You be careful.”
Martin smiled and squeezed her hand. Tyler and Charles climbed in the back of Martin’s truck. Nick met them at the end of his driveway. Martin stopped the truck in the middle of the road in front of Tyler’s house. There was precious little traffic those days. They ran inside, emerging only minutes later with backpacks slung over their shoulders. Charles was tucking a 1911 into his waistband.
Martin’s radio crackled. “They left the Dexter house,” said Burgh. “Repeat. All suspect have left Dexter’s house. Crossed road. Behind Fenton’s.”
“That’s next door to Aunt June!” exclaimed Charles. “Come on, man. Hurry up!”
As they rolled past the center of town, gunfire could be heard. The police cruiser and a pickup were parked across the road. Men crouched behind the vehicles. Burgh motioned for the four of them to keep down. Martin and Charles crouch-ran to Burgh. Tyler and Nick stayed with the truck.
“How many do you have?” asked Burgh.
“Four. We’ve got long guns and sidearms,” said Charles.
Shots popped from the windows of the Fenton house. Everyone crouched a little lower.
“These guys hit just about every house along this road. We count thirteen of them,” said Burgh. “They overpower one house at a time. Near as we can tell, they’ve been stealing food, loading it into their cars. No word from the homes they’ve already hit. Not sure if anyone’s hurt or…we just don’t know yet.”
More shots came from the Fenton house. Men behind a stone planter across the street returned fire.
“They got done ransacking the Dexters’ place when we came up,” said Burgh. “Don’t think they were expecting concentrated resistance. Now they’re holed up in the Fentons’ house.’”
“My Aunt June is right next door,” said Charles. He looked coiled to jump and run. “We’ve got to get her and Uncle Aaron out of there.”
“Too dangerous right now. We’re working on that,” said Burgh. “I know Aaron. He won’t take any silly chances. He’s probably got June down in their cellar. I’ve got the Bell Hill group on that side of the road and the Wilson Hill group coming up the back side over here. Center’s got the road closed off, and South Farms said they’re sending five guys. Those boys aren’t getting any further into town.”
“Where do you want us?” Martin asked. “Should we, maybe, go around and block off the road on the other side? What if they make a run for it?”
“Excellent idea,” said Burgh. “If North Forks comes through, we’ll have plenty of people here. Might send more out to you. Get going.”
Martin and Tyler ran back to the truck. “Get back in the back,” Martin said. “We’re going around to cut them off.”
Charles got in the front seat with Martin. “Come on, man. Hurry up. I don’t want those guys getting away.”
>
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Post by kaijafon on Jun 7, 2016 18:39:41 GMT -6
Thanks so much!
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Post by headlesshorseman on Jun 7, 2016 19:25:34 GMT -6
Thanks.
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