by G. R. Carter
This is where the Creator truly speaks. Too bad I have to be seventy feet up to appreciate everything we have, Phil thought. As someone who hated – really hated – heights, making the climb up to this roof was a source of anxiety for Phil. The sense of duty and the anticipation of the view barely won out each time he set foot on the steadily rusting metal ladder that started where the equally rusty old stairs stopped. AJ and Sam were working to get an old lift fixed that would at least carry them part of the way up. For now, the climb served as part of their physical training.
While workers were in the field, at least one person would always be up on this level, which Sam deemed the “Hawk’s Nest.” Sentries assigned to the Nest were usually younger folks who could successfully make the climb and still have the energy to watch for approaching threats. The lift became a priority when Phil realized older tenants living on the farm might be more useful watching than working. He just had to figure out a way to get them up here.
The Hamilton family’s Fortress Farm was the model for crews all over the surrounding area. Every available hand set to work removing unneeded machinery from inside the multitude of grain elevators dotting the Central Illinois landscape.
After a thorough cleaning to remove decades of dust and filth, open areas inside were converted to sleeping quarters and living space. Still usable heavy equipment – helped by a fair amount of good old-fashioned shovel work – erected earthen walls around the base of the concrete towers. Creating a Midwestern prairie version of a motte-and-bailey, the ten feet thick wall formed a solid ring around the fortress, save for a narrow opening where the railroad tracks approached. A train car modified with a large steel plate and concrete base rolled out away from the wall, forming a gate that could be closed at night or in emergencies.
Most of the defenses were contained within the main concrete towers, complimented by firing platforms along the wall. The gate area was made up of the same concrete box drains and culverts used when individual farmsteads were first fortified. Every twenty to thirty yards along the earthen wall a hardened firing position was installed to provide overlapping fields of fire.
On the football field-sized grounds enclosed within the wall were community buildings for equipment, training and the critical Great Hall. The Hamilton’s Great Hall was really just an old machine shed providing a common dining area and meeting place for the residents. A giant stone fireplace, hand crafted from more concrete and salvaged landscape blocks, sat always burning in one corner. In the back of the Hall, a large commercial kitchen was borrowed from a local VFW hall no longer serving members. For now, folding tables and chairs loaned from a local church made up the seating area.
With all the tasks needing completion, there wasn’t much time for entertainment at night. Residents face a daily routine of sunup to sundown physical labor, dinner and then crashing into bed. Occasionally someone might sing or play a little guitar. Kids were treated to a weekly movie night with old video players powered by the biofuel generators. The new-old ways of skits and storytelling popped up in the more densely populated school shelters in town, but the ever present chores of farm life didn’t allow for everyone to be gathered all at once very often here in the outlying fortresses.
Despite attempts at creating a normal life for people to settle into, security still came first. Ditchmen – what folks had taken to calling the bandits who used the thousands of drainage ditches crisscrossing the rural landscape to hide from the deputies assigned to protect Shelby County – still posed a constant threat. The surrounding geography was just too big for the deputies to effectively patrol. As foraging in abandoned homes became harder, and the cities became wastelands, the ditchmen became more desperate.
Desperate men do desperate things, a warning given by Sheriff Clark Olsen to all the remote farms in the Cooperative. Fortress Farms kept those desperate men from the easy targets inside, allowing Shelby County to combine forces like a kingdom of old. Consolidating their power into castles to secure a dangerous landscape, deputies could patrol the area during the day and return to the safety of the walls at night.
Shelby County’s Wizards were working to provide an effective cable-based communication network between the farms spread out on the frontier. Until that was completed, the unobstructed view sufficed to see any human activity for miles around. At the first sign of trouble, alert bells and horns gave those outside the chance to get back inside the walls and then inside the fortified towers. As long as there was an effective watch, these minutes of warning meant the difference between life and death in this dangerous new dark age.
Solar Storms still illuminated the night skies, allowing the Hawk’s Nest to be an effective lookout even after the sun went down. Rain or shine the watch was kept, though the person tasked always wore a safety harness attached to a metal cage protecting them from falling. Books in the Archives describing the construction of the elevator towers documented untethered workers being suddenly shoved over the side by unexpected wind gusts.
Efficiency improved dramatically as workers felt more secure in the exposed farm fields. This morning Phil watched Tenants calmly shepherding cattle and sheep, and even a sow with a litter of piglets tagging along. Animals sheltered in pens behind the walls at night, just like their human cohabitants, then returned to the fenced pastures during the day. The fields closest to the fortress provided the most security and were saved for the animals to graze. Everyone remained aware of ditchmen watching their animals from hidden vantage points. The thought of fresh meat occasionally became too much for the starving bandits and skirmishes would take place. Unwilling to work for their keep, those remaining outside the pockets of civilization would kill and steal without hesitation.
In the fields just outside the pastures, Phil watched as two 1950s-era tractors began their daily work, escorted by heavily armed guards. He dreaded what he knew to be true; that to secure more food for their people, they might soon have to face greater dangers.
Phil was assured by his hunter groups that there probably wasn’t an animal bigger than a cat within thirty miles. Frankly, they hadn’t even seen many cats either. Guess they weren’t looking for groundhogs, he joked to himself. Humans were omnivores, and once their regular food supply was gone, anything they could catch went into the stew pot. Well, hopefully not anything… Horror stories he heard from refugees made him wonder if the worst of humanity lurked outside of their community. Nine meals from chaos.
Phil thinned rations as much as Anna would allow. She was constantly worried about illness breaking out in the close confines of the school shelters and the farms. Poor nutrition was a gateway to disease, so the delicate dance between starvation and insufficient calories worried their every waking moment.
Farming mid-1900s style was a high-calorie affair. They both knew it was critical not to “eat their seed corn” as his grandfather once told him. They had to maintain a breeding stock of animals and save enough seed to replant. Since most seed had been modified before the Reset, finding grain that could reproduce was a priority, also.
“The fields are making progress,” Anna said with a smile.
Phil returned the grin. His wife’s presence surprised him, especially up here.
“Progress doesn’t get folks fed. Can’t believe how the days go so fast, but growing season moves slow. How’d you get away from the hospital?”
“Believe it or not, it was kinda quiet this morning. We’ve got some pretty good assistants trained now. Had a vet stumble in with one of the refugee groups this week. She’s really bright, she’ll be a big help.”
He really wanted to just hug his wife, maybe spend a little quality time with the woman he loved, alone, for the first time in forever. Duty won out. “A vet, huh? Can I borrow her to look at a couple of our cows? Something’s wrong with ‘em. Just can’t figure out what right now.”
Anna pondered the question, looking as though she was trying to figure if the request might be worth losing one of her staff for a short while. M
ischief filled her eyes. “Send in some extra food, and I’ll think about it.”
The response was not one she was hoping for. Phil looked away and off into the horizon. “You know we’re doing everything we can,” he replied defensively. “Everything we produce in the greenhouses goes straight into the stew pots to feed the workers here on the farms. Everyone’s getting sick of dandelion and radish salad.”
He shook his head, still looking out over the fields. “It’s frustrating, because in six months, we’ll have plenty. But how do we make it through until then?”
Anna regretted bringing it up. She knew everything weighed on her husband. She could tell he hadn’t been sleeping much. But the shelters and hospital were running short on rations. She wasn’t just here to check on her home farm and her family, she was here to find out what could be done to get more calories for those under her care.
“We’re sitting on a big lake. Plus Lake Decatur is pretty close. Instead of just having a few people go out and cast a line, is there a way to run fishing boats with nets?” she asked.
Phil thought it over. Not too enthusiastically, he was feeling stupid for not thinking of a more organized effort to fish Lake Shelbyville. A few old men or folks not physically capable of farm work would bring in what they could, but he hadn’t actually thought about assigning work crews to bring in bigger catches. “I’ll look into it. Maybe have the fellas run trot lines. Not sure about nets, probably too many snags.”
“Lake Decatur might be too risky, but we should probably make a run up there to salvage the city again, anyway. We’ll check it out while we’re there.”
AJ joined his parents up in the Nest, giving his mom a quick hug. He’d overheard part of the conversation. “Remember how the rivers got taken over by carp, dad? Old Main College brought those tourists from Asia to take a look. They talked about putting a fishery here, shipping the carp back over to China I think.”
Phil thanked the Lord his son had Anna’s brains. All four of his kids gave him hope the next generation would figure out a way to get through all this. He just had to keep them alive until then. “I think that was mostly the Illinois River. That’s a little too far away for us. But maybe the Kaskaskia has some in it, too. It’s certainly worth talking about. We’ll put the question to the Wizards. Maybe they know some technique to preserve or refrigerate things.”
Anna had the binoculars now, smiling as she watched some newly trained Collie–German Shepherd mix guard dogs dancing back and forth around the cattle and sheep, protecting and pestering at the same time. Anna worked to incorporate as many of the four-legged workers into Fortress Farm as they could afford to feed. The mix she chose offered loyalty, intelligence and a huge heart that wasn’t afraid to fight - just the kind of characteristics that the county needed in its troops – and grew quickly to maturity. They were certainly easier to train than their two-legged counterparts.
The extra mouths added to the food requirements for the farms, but provided an unmatched early warning system and a fearless group of loyal soldiers. Electronic alarm systems were no match for the warm blooded kind.
Phil stared around at his fortress. Physical security had become the easiest of his impossible tasks to accomplish. But Shelby County needed more food, sooner instead of later. They’d have to go on more foraging runs, past the houses and towns they’d already picked through. Further out to where more than just ditchmen lived. No matter how dangerous the trips might be, they were out of options.
He stared at Anna, anxious to just be husband and wife for a moment. “We can talk about all those things later. Meantime, I want to enjoy this view and not worry about the rest of the world for a little while.”
Rural Virginia
“It’s too dangerous, Mama,” young Lamar told Charlotte. “Too, too dangerous,” he repeated, just as she did to others when emphasizing a point.
“No choice in it now, son,” she said. This was no boy in front of her now, resembling his namesake father in looks and actions more every day. “People have heard the good news,” she continued, her head rocking back and forth. “They know there’s a safe place for them, if only they can make it out. We got to find them and bring them safely here.”
Lamar Jr. remained skeptical, but respectful enough to defer to the matriarch of the Jenkins family. Charlotte wondered how long that might last, before the testosterone pumping through the young man’s veins made his decisions infallible; at least until proven different by age and pain.
“Alright, mama,” he conceded. “We can get another couple shelters built while the scout team’s away. By the time they get back, we’ll have a decent place for the newcomers.”
Newcomers. That’s what everyone in the Congregation called the refugees still trickling out of urban hell holes like DC and Richmond, or smaller catastrophes in Lynchburg and Roanoke. One family even made it from as far as Baltimore – they’d bypassed DC via boat and walked overland. Blacksburg was becoming a sort of myth. The rumor spread amongst survivors of the collapse…get south to the safe zone.
Newcomers stumbled in, usually starving and lost, suffering hypothermia or injured, then delirious with joy when they finally arrived. When it became apparent there would be more, Charlotte began sending teams out to find them and bring them in to safety. What had God put the Congregation on Earth for, if not for this holy task? What more tribute could she give to her beloved husband, who’d sacrificed himself to see his family safely away from the enemy?
Away. That’s what the Congregation called this place they lived. Not Blacksburg, not the farm, not even home. This was Away, the place that wasn’t the school building they’d turned into a fortified island of safety in a sea of chaos. Except their fortress wasn’t safe after all, not when the enemy showed up disguised as the guardians of her homeland. They’d had to run to this farm; Away.
So many more mouths to feed now, so many lost souls wondering and wandering. What happened to their lives of leisure? No leisure in the Congregation, each one worked according to their abilities. Unfortunately, most Newcomers had abilities in things no longer relevant.
“I’m a programmer,” one said. “I was a clerk at the Get-Mart,” said his wife.
“Health and safety inspector,” said the next.
“Did you use tools for that?” she would ask. “No, I went over the records of businesses to make sure everything was up to date. You know, on their internal networks.”
“Did any of you have a garden at home? So much as a fern in the window?” she’d ask a group of Newcomers. The answer was almost always downcast looks, heads shaking back and forth slowly in shame.
Cast iron pots of eternal soup bubbled over an open fire being constantly fed with wood gathered from the timber upslope of the farm. Squirrels and rabbits were becoming scarce here abouts. Critters of all sizes provided the soup’s protein, allowing for everyone to have two hot meals a day. Edible roots and leaves could still be found in the timber, locals showed the foraging teams what was safe to bring back and drop in the steaming vats. Canned broth from the storage cellar of Pastor’s kin started the stock good and thick, though the whole mixture held a bit more water every day. Thankfully, fresh water from the farm’s deep well was one thing they had plenty of.
Boards had been repaired and the metal roof patched in their dining hall. The floor of that was wood now, also – the planks salvaged from another barn just down the road. A big fireplace had been built on one end for the night time gatherings, the hodgepodge of bricks pulled from old chimneys and landscaping. Cook fires kept the drafty old structure warmed on the other end.
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, a split second standing nap. She was tired a lot. Partially age, she knew. A time when a person ought to be slowing just a bit in their journey through life. Sit a little more, worry about the children and when they’d find someone to love. Start thinking a little about grandbabies. Ponder the mysteries of God’s Word a little more. Talk in riddles to the younger generation, just
so they thought she had answers to all life’s questions, making them believe she just chose not to give them all the information yet.
Not for her. Not for any of the Elders, or Pastor. Instead it was day and night trying to care for folks who’d watched their world ripped apart. For her people, that pain came twice, but they were holding together. The stress was too much for some of the Newcomers. A few just stumbled around, mumbling about this or that. Some kept reaching into their pockets or checking their wrists, longing for that connection to the outside world once attached to them like another appendage.
Phantom Limb Syndrome one of the doctors who made it out of Roanoke called it. Folks kept thinking they felt something that wasn’t really there, their nervous system was trained to respond. Those less able were a burden to already stretched resources, but there was no question but to provide for them, at least among the Elders. She worried about young Leroy’s generation. They watched any Newcomer not able to pitch in with a wary eye. The first batch who arrived were a curiosity, a window into the outside world. Most of those refugees fit in well, they’d been bright enough to realize how bad the situation was and make a run for the countryside.
More recent batches were the most stressed. They’d been on the run for a while now. They’d seen things, maybe done things, the human soul wasn’t meant to be a part of. Newcomers like those were more likely to sit and cry instead of work. Others got mean, some violent. She wasn’t sure if they were born that way or this time of Tribulation made them that way. Didn’t matter, once the Congregation ran out of cheeks to turn, repeat violators got turned out. Charlotte fretted about setting the particularly nasty ones loose. The Good Lord only knew what they’d do to the next batch of folks they settled in with. Pastor assured her they’d done their best. Some couldn’t be saved and were a risk to the young ones who could be. She wasn’t sure if that was scriptural, but she allowed it to make sense. Besides, trouble makers never pulled their weight in work.
