“Where’s Kate?” asked Samantha.
“We’ve talked about this at length, and we’re on the same sheet of music,” said Alex.
“It’ll be tight, Alex, but we’ve done the math,” said Charlie. “I know some great hunting spots less than a half-hour away. Isolated places that people can’t get to without a car. As long as we save some gas for the trip, we’ll come back with a lot of meat.”
“I think you’re overestimating what we can bring in with hunting. The winter was a bust,” said Alex.
“We just need to get far enough away from the lakes. Away from the people. One moose represents about three hundred pounds of meat.”
“Good heavens,” said Samantha, shivering.
“Don’t knock it, Sam. Done right, moose is good eating. Right, Linda?”
“You’ve never dressed a moose…or shot one,” said his wife.
“I’ll figure it out if I bag one,” he mumbled, knowing that the odds of finding a moose were slim to none.
“Anyway. I’m talking about a contingency plan, in case the math doesn’t work out.”
Another thought hit Charlie like a bolt of lightning. “We can use the sailboat for fishing, especially in the fall. I know how to cut and dry fish. That’s how they used to survive the winters in Iceland and Norway.”
“The contingency plan involves the sailboat,” said Alex.
“I thought Kate talked you out of sailing to the Caribbean,” said Linda.
“She did, after I talked myself out of it,” he said.
“Then why the sudden one-eighty? We have a good plan. The storm set us back a little, but that three weeks isn’t going to make or break us,” said Ed.
“I agree, but if we have a serious shortfall from the harvest, the group will be better off with fewer people to feed,” said Alex, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “And everyone remaining behind can squeeze into the other house.”
“Why would we do that?” asked Ed.
Charlie understood immediately. “Damn it. You think of everything, don’t you? I can’t believe I missed that.”
“Missed what?” Samantha demanded.
“So we can defend ourselves. This whole neighborhood’s gonna run out of food!” yelled Charlie.
“Keep it down,” hissed Alex, looking around the yard.
“Sorry. Sorry,” whispered Charlie.
“Let’s limit this discussion to the adults, for obvious reasons. Even if we manage a strong harvest and shoot a moose, I think we need to consider moving everyone into the bigger of the two houses. Possibly right after the last food comes out of the ground. Just to be safe,” said Alex.
“Maybe we should have a community meeting. Try to encourage everyone to raise food, hunt, fish—whatever it takes,” said Linda.
“That’ll draw too much attention to our own food security efforts. I’d prefer nobody had a full picture of what we’re trying to accomplish. We barely have enough seeds for our own gardens.”
“It’ll be hard to hide what we’re doing. We’ll probably have to triple the square footage of our current beds. We barely have a tenth of an acre tilled as it is. Homesteading wisdom dictates anywhere between a half-acre to an acre to feed one person for a year,” said Charlie.
“We only have three-quarters of an acre between the two lots, anyway,” said Ed.
“We’ll keep to ourselves as much as possible,” said Alex.
“What about the community watch idea? I still think we should post people at the entrance to the neighborhood. Probably another group along the lake as well once the ice clears. Our gardening efforts are likely to draw attention from the houses across the water,” said Charlie.
“We’ll have to put some serious thought into that. I like the idea of a shared security arrangement, but we simply can’t extend that sense of community to our food. If security becomes an issue, we can move everyone over to our house earlier and post a sentry team to watch over the gardens here.”
“It’ll be crowded over there,” said Ed.
“You won’t notice the difference. If anything, you’ll have a little more room and a lot more privacy,” said Alex, nodding at the house.
He was right about that. Charlie’s open-concept A-frame cottage appeared to be designed specifically without privacy in mind. The single bedroom loft was open to the family room below. Even a whispered conversation could be overheard from the lower level. The house Alex’s family occupied had more of a traditional layout, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms. They could easily fit into the house without a problem. The logistics of feeding and keeping nineteen people busy in a confined space during the winter would be a challenge, but they’d work it out. They always did.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Charlie.
“I hope we can stay together,” Ed said, patting Alex on the shoulder.
Alex’s distant look focused, and a warm grin broke through his ominous façade. It was good to see the old Alex shine through from time to time. He hadn’t been the same since Boston.
“This is one hell of a group. I’d do anything for you guys. I don’t want to leave, but it might not be my decision to make,” said Alex. “We should draw up plans to dig more garden beds.”
They immediately took his cue to change the subject.
Samantha asked, “Do we have enough seeds?”
Another round of silence enveloped the group.
“My dad says we have enough to replicate the gardens in Limerick,” said Alex.
Charlie glanced at the patchy, light brown grass surrounding the driveway.
“We have a lot of digging ahead of us,” said Charlie.
“This is going to kick our asses for the next thirty days,” stated Alex. “The sooner we get started—the better.”
“Shit. I thought gardening was supposed to be relaxing,” said Charlie.
“It is when your life doesn’t depend on it,” said Alex. “Let’s meet over at my house to start figuring out what we need to do.”
After Alex disappeared behind a thick stand of pines lining the dirt road, Ed sighed.
“He doesn’t look convinced that this will work,” said Ed.
“I don’t think he was ever truly convinced,” said Charlie.
“Then why did he stay? Not that I’m suggesting anything was wrong with the decision,” said Samantha.
Charlie knew why Alex had chosen to stay. He couldn’t stop looking out for them. Alex’s contingency plan was a thinly veiled continuation of his selfless leadership. Behind the rugged individualism and harsh pragmatic outlook, Alex’s bond to the group was unbreakable—even if it meant physically leaving them behind.
Chapter 19
Belgrade, Maine
The mud sucked at his boots, drawing his thoughts to the security situation. With the snow gone and the roads passable, they’d have to be vigilant. Winter survivors would be out in force, foraging for food and supplies wherever they might find them. Homes would be the first logical choice. Charlie was right about posting a guard on the waterfront. A pair of binoculars in the wrong hands could put a threat at their doorstep, if they didn’t already have one brewing in their midst.
He glanced at the house to his right. Maybe a neighborhood meeting was in order—to assess the situation. Thinking back to Durham Road during the Jakarta pandemic dampened his enthusiasm for the idea. He didn’t have a good track record with neighborhood meetings. Maybe a door-to-door assessment was a better idea. Keep the neighbors from joining forces and ganging up on them. He hated thinking like this, but wishful philosophy didn’t keep you alive.
The meeting had gone better than he had hoped. Deep down inside, they all knew he was right, even though nobody wanted to acknowledge it. He barely wanted to admit it. Who knew? Maybe they’d pull off a miracle, and the boat wouldn’t be necessary. He sincerely doubted it, but planned to put one hundred percent of his energy behind trying. It was all he could do. The decision was truly out of his hands. Of course, this all depended o
n the boat.
His arrival in Belfast Harbor had undoubtedly attracted attention from stranded boaters and locals. He’d stripped the boat of anything useful and siphoned most of the diesel, but a thirty-eight-foot sailboat itself could be considered useful in midcoast Maine. The scarcity of fuel would renew interest in sail power, which was why the sails were the first things to come ashore with him. A trip to Belfast was in their very near future. If the boat wasn’t an option…he didn’t want to think about it.
“Captain Fletcher,” someone whispered behind him.
He whirled around, dropping a hand to his holster. Nobody had called him captain since last fall, except for Ken Woods, who stood in front of him on the road with his hands in the air.
“Jesus, Ken. You shouldn’t make a habit of sneaking up on ex-Marines. And please call me Alex,” he said.
“That’s why I waited for you to pass. Hey, once a captain always a captain to a staff sergeant,” said Ken, stepping forward.
“You want me to start calling you staff sergeant?”
“You got me there. That was a long time ago. I got out a few months after the first Gulf War,” said Ken, rubbing his long gray beard.
“My recent tenure as captain lasted about three weeks. I hadn’t worn the uniform since 2004 prior to that,” said Alex.
“Alex it is. Hey, I couldn’t help overhear your conversation—”
“From your house?” asked Alex, wondering where this was going.
“Well, not exactly from my house. I saw you walk by, on the way to your friends. I thought I’d say hi, but by the time I got my boots on, you guys were already talking.”
“So you decided to listen in?”
“I couldn’t help it. It’s a long winter talking to yourself,” said Ken, avoiding eye contact.
“You don’t have anyone else?”
“No. My wife got the cancer three years ago. I’ve been trying to tear myself away from the lake to move near the kids, but…”
Alex nodded, feeling the conflict in Ken’s voice.
“It’s a beautiful lake. Must have been a wonderful place to raise a family,” said Alex.
“It was. Nearly impossible to leave,” he said, barely getting the next words out. “I hope I get to see them again.”
A few moments passed before Alex continued. “Where do your kids live?”
Ken looked up, a fierce pride glowing in his eyes. “Two boys. One’s a family doctor out in Durango. The other runs an outfitting company in Troy, Montana. Taught them to fly-fish on the Kennebec just a few miles from here.”
“During my brief stint as Captain Fletcher, I learned that the EMP bursts’ effects weren’t as pronounced out west. The orbital detonation likely occurred over the southeast. Tennessee or Kentucky would be my guess. Something tells me your boys are fine—and you’ll definitely see them again.”
Ken nodded, tears streaming down his face.
“Why don’t you tell me a little more about your spying escapade?” said Alex, eliciting a brief laugh.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion about the gardens,” Ken said, wiping his face.
“I’m sure you couldn’t,” said Alex, smiling.
“Right. Anyway, you’re going to need a hell of a lot more acreage to feed your crew year round. Nineteen of you? You won’t need an acre per person, but I think you’re looking at quadrupling the acreage. If you work two or three acres properly, you could squeak by with some solid hunting, trapping, and fishing.”
“I think the lake has been cleared out,” said Alex.
“Maybe so, but some of the more isolated stretches of the Kennebec River should be productive throughout the year. We can try the Sebasticook and Sandy River if that fails. Most people don’t have any way to get up to some of the best angling spots.”
“I suppose you could show us where to find these spots?”
“It would be my pleasure. You can also add my property to your acreage count. I have about three-quarters of an acre. I won’t use more than a quarter acre. That should help get you to your magic number, but it sounds like you’re going to need more seeds. I’d give you some, but I barely have enough for myself. I save what I can from last season’s garden and order whatever I need in the spring. I used to keep two seasons’ worth of seeds on hand, but I’ve gotten pretty good at reclaiming them.”
“We can probably work something out in exchange for the use of your land,” said Alex.
“Don’t worry about me. I have more than enough—” Ken paused, a look of discomfort spread across his face.
“Your secret is safe with us,” said Alex. “Especially since you probably know most of our secrets.”
“I really didn’t mean to—”
“I’m just messing with you, Ken. It’s a bad habit of mine,” said Alex, extending a hand. “I’ll take you up on your offer.”
Ken looked relieved. He firmly shook Alex’s hand, a sense of purpose flashing across his face. Alex saw a strong and loyal ally in Ken. A force multiplier in terms of survival, not another mouth to feed. If they could find a few more like him in the neighborhood, they’d have a much better chance at staying on the lake.
“Then we’ll need to get our hands on more seeds. We have two major seed distributors in the Waterville area. One is co-op and gets most of their seeds from outside sources. The other produces their own line of organic seeds.”
“Johnny’s Seeds?”
“Exactly. I think we should pay them a visit,” said Ken.
“I can’t imagine they’ll be selling seeds,” said Alex. “The place is probably wiped out—or ransacked.”
“I don’t think anyone up here would ransack Johnny’s Seeds. They’ve been a local institution for more than forty years. The question is whether they managed to keep the farm up in Albion operational during the fall. That’s when they do most of the work. If they kept it running, they should have a good supply of seeds.”
“I’ll run this by the group and pick you up in about thirty minutes. How far away are their warehouses?” said Alex.
“The seeds are kept in Winslow, about ten miles from here, but it might be worth starting out in Albion, at their research farm. That’s where they test seed germination and determine what they’ll sell. If they’re operational, we’re in business.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Alex.
Chapter 20
Waterville, Maine
Waterville felt a lot closer than it had looked on his map. They had crossed under the Maine Turnpike overpass within fifteen minutes of pulling out of the driveway, transitioning into an uncomfortably urban area lined with strip malls, fast-food chains, and car dealerships. The area still had a rural feel, like the outskirts of most Maine cities, but Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that they were far more exposed in Charlie’s neighborhood than he had originally estimated.
The streets were barren of cars. The only vehicles visible from the road sat in motel parking lots off Kennedy Memorial Drive, likely abandoned several months ago. They passed a large strip-mall parking lot on their right, anchored by a Harrigan’s grocery store and a CVS. Ringing the empty lot, missing or partially shattered windows adorned the businesses.
“Looks like things got ugly in town,” said Alex.
Ken stared at the eerie scene, not moving his head. “I think we should take the long way to Johnny’s Seeds. Driving through downtown Waterville might not be the best idea. We can swing up through Albion and circle back to the Winslow warehouse area if the farm is a bust. We’ll pass over a creek after a few traffic lights. At the intersection after the creek, take a right. That’ll put us back on Route 137, which crosses the Kennebec River south of the city. Nothing but trees and open country down there.”
“Sounds better than what we’re seeing here,” said Alex, turning his head to look into the backseat.
“Stay alert, buddy. Keep an eye out behind us.”
Ryan nodded eagerly, turning his body in the rear passenger seat to ma
ke it easier to see through the back windows of the SUV. Alex’s son cradled the same HK416 rifle he had fired at Eli Russell’s militia during the attack on their home in Limerick. Ryan was rarely seen without the rifle, a constant reminder of how things would be vastly different for their children. Barely nineteen years old, his son’s trajectory in life had shifted in the blink of an eye. The traditional path carved from a middle-class life of comfort and ease erased by a cabal of petty Chinese party officials and bitter military generals. The thought of it surfaced Alex’s anger.
He hoped the U.S. had retaliated with more than words and saber rattling. In a dark place within him, Alex wanted to hear that the U.S. had bombed them out of existence. He knew it meant thousands, possibly millions of innocent deaths, but he couldn’t envision any other option, and staring across a deserted parking lot at just one of thousands of abandoned business malls dotting the American landscape—he didn’t care.
Alex drove the SUV through two empty intersections, crossing over a wide, rushing creek. Signs for Route 137 urged him right at a split in the road just past the creek, depositing them on a two-lane, tree-lined road that stretched as far as he could see.
“This is better,” said Alex.
“Yep. Not much down this way. Just keep following the signs for one-thirty-seven. All we’re gonna see is a gas station or two. Maybe a variety store.”
“The less we see, the better,” said Alex.
His hopes for an uneventful trip were dashed a few minutes later when he spotted a police cruiser sitting in the middle of the road in front of the entrance to the bridge. The road widened as they approached the guardrails lining the side of the bridge. The police car barely covered half of the width of the road. As they closed the distance to the cruiser, Ryan leaned through the gap between the front seats, peering ahead with binoculars.
“Winslow Police Department,” said Ryan. “I don’t see a car at the other side of the bridge.”
Alex considered his options. He didn’t feel like dealing with the police, or any authority figures right now—or ever.
THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5 Page 139
