by G. R. Carter
She knew they were going to have to take some chances, send some foraging parties out to surrounding towns and see what they could find. It would be quite a while before fresh food in any quantity could be harvested, and soon they’d run out of what they brought with them. There had to at least be a little something besides water in the eternal soup.
Shelby County
Phil Hamilton’s feet crunched on the white gravel driveway leading up to the sprawling metal building that housed Delbert Kuhn’s immaculate machine shed. The huge bi–fold vertical door was raised, releasing the sweet smell of fried dough that hung on the moist morning air. The pungent aroma of burning soy and grease intermixed, one overcoming the other as Phil approached. Delbert was positioned in the traditional “farmer lean,” one shoulder up against the door post and right leg crossed over the left. He had obviously been deep in thought when Phil arrived.
“The rumors are true, huh, Delbert?” Phil asked his old friend.
“How’s that, Mr. Founding Farmer?” the crusty old genius replied, shaking out of his distant stare.
“I heard you kidnapped Mrs. Dearborn and her donut-making crew. Wanted to make sure that the Dixie Cream Donut Shop lived on. I can’t believe you’d drag that poor woman and all her equipment out here,” Phil chuckled. “Does fried dough really mean that much to you?”
“Listen, you young punk,” Delbert shook a gnarled finger at the middle-aged Phil, “I’ve got twenty guys living out here now. If I didn’t come up with a solution to feed them, Mrs. Kuhns would have kicked me out here to live among the smelly apes. Mrs. Dearborn needed a safe place to go, and we get to evaluate her cooking equipment. Maybe we can replicate it for the shelters your better half is working on.
“Besides, she has to switch the recipe from wheat flour to potato flour. She ran out of her regular supply days ago. What better place to experiment than here on a farm full of fried dough experts? Just want to make sure she gets the formula perfected…for the greater good.”
“Whatever the reason is, I can smell that it’s working out for you,” Phil said.
The old man smiled at him. Even as the world collapsed around them, their Midwestern sense of humor wouldn’t allow complete despair. They made the best of what they were given.
Delbert got to the point: “I suppose you’re here to discuss the Middle Eastern monstrosity you proposed to my intrepid group of mechanical geniuses?”
“Well, I was thinking more Midwestern than Middle Eastern, but whatever you call it, we need to give our salvage people better protection. Deputies, too. It’s getting more dangerous out there every trip we make,” Phil replied.
“Your idea won’t work, Phil. Too much weight and not enough gain,” Delbert said, shaking his head.
“Better than nothing, isn’t it?” Phil fired back. He was more confident when dealing with the Wizards these days. Pragmatic respect replaced his previous hero worship and he’d played these mind games with the old men more times than he could remember.
“Depends on your definition of 'nothing,' Mr. Founder,” Bob Ford replied for his friend. Bob was wiping heavy black grease off his hands as he walked out of the machine shop door. “What he’s saying is you can’t just bolt armor on a vehicle like that. You need to remove weight from other places on the vehicle. Make it part of the overall design.”
“No, Bob. I really was saying the whole thing wouldn’t work,” Delbert corrected the other Wizard… “But now that you mention it, we could essentially strip something down to the chassis and build it back up. Couldn’t hold enough armor to stop heavy weapons, but you won’t be seeing too much of that I’d guess. Mostly rifles and such.” It was clear from the twinkle in his eyes that Delbert’s dream problem had arrived: an impossible mechanical puzzle no one else could solve.
“If'n we built these idiot things the right way, the look alone will scare the crap out of any pain-in-the-ass moron that tried to take a run at our boys,” Delbert concluded.
“So you actually think it could work?” Phil asked.
“Oh no, I still don’t think it will work,” Delbert responded defiantly. “But Bob and I gave it a try anyway. Used my old F–350 dually. It had a busted transmission and needed a total rebuild anyway. If your fool idea won’t work, I can still salvage the parts.”
Phil looked back and forth at the two grinning faces in front of him, shocked when he realized what they had just said. “You mean you already built one?”
“Of course! Ain’t like we need a permit to get something built, nowadays. Besides, we got a lot of willing help around here,” Bob said, smiling.
After helping Paul Kelley start production at the lifesaving Greenstem biofuel refinery, Delbert and Bob gathered a following of problem solvers who all adopted the Wizard nickname. Phil’s old farmer friends took charge of municipal maintenance departments throughout the county; they even coerced the county highway department and township highway commissioners into joining them. Added to the mix was one very lonely Federal Department of Transportation base out along Highway 16, giving the Wizards a fair amount of men, materials and vehicles to work with. The concrete plant producing pieces necessary to create Fortress Farms and School Shelters kept at least one Wizard busy all the time. Each new fortification spurred modifications to improve the next.
There was no official list of Wizards, or way to tell if someone actually was one. Older gentlemen in a ball cap sporting the logo of a seed company or equipment brand showed up and workers paused to listen to whatever wisdom was handed down. A suggestion to create an official badge was laughed down, mercifully saving the person who had suggested it the indignity of facing Bob and Delbert with such nonsense.
Greenstem was their greatest accomplishment, but improvements all over Shelby County could be attributed to them. A new communications system using old coaxial cable allowed some School Shelters and Fortress Farms to enjoy limited contact. Most of County’s old coaxial lines lay underground, insulated from the Solar Storms. With ingenuity and the help of the archives at the main library, the Wizards were learning how to create receivers immune to the radiation bursts that fried anything electronic.
After the accomplishments of the Wizards so far, Phil shouldn’t have been surprised by a working prototype of an armored truck. His friends waved him into the shed, up onto the spotless concrete floor that reflected the generator-enabled floodlights hanging from the ceiling. Anyone else in the county might be questioned about using the precious fuel supply to provide light during the day; not the Wizards.
Phil stared in awe at the metal beast squatting in front of him. Not content to just slap some metal plating on an existing vehicle, Bob and Delbert created a true hybrid tank/truck.
“Only weighs a few hundred pounds more than the truck it originated from,” Delbert assured Phil. There was seating for four, with a stand-up swivel shield on top for placing either a heavy machine gun or just for protection of a man with a rifle. There were also firing ports on each side that could slide open when needed.
“Got the engine well protected, with exhaust running out the top towards the rear of the vehicle. Should be able to roll through water up past the wheel wells,” Bob continued.
Metal skirts came down to cover approximately half of the wheels, which were shod with reinforced small tractor tires for extra durability. A brief argument rekindled between Bob and Delbert about whether the tires should be solid rubber to prevent blow outs.
There simply couldn’t have been an uglier vehicle ever designed, but you would have thought it was Christmas time for Phil.
A familiar voice came up behind him: “It’s a game-changer, guys. You’re going to save lives with this one, I promise it. I know it won’t haul much salvage, but it will get us there and back in one piece,” Clark Olsen praised as he joined them. He’d been out on patrols when he got the message to stop by.
Delbert pointed to the back of the shed. “Back there is the salvage carrier. It’s a wagon that will hook up to the
back of the vehicle. You’ll be able to pull that with you. If things get too hot and you need extra maneuverability, there’s a quick-release for the hitch that you can activate from inside. Kind of like ejecting extra weight in a fighter plane during a dog fight. We’ll have one wagon for each of the vehicles we’re building.”
Clark looked confused, “How many are you planning? You speak as though you’ve already got production going.”
“We do have production going. Each one of the municipal sheds and township highway buildings have welders, so we’ve got a chassis being built in each one right now. We’ll have seven done by the end of the week. Just need a name for them. Oh, and a paint color,” Bob answered.
“Can we spare the working vehicles for conversion?” Phil asked.
“I think Clark made it clear this was a priority to you both. Several of our Wizard friends had old vehicles they liked to tinker with, and we were able to find enough CAT diesel engines that could be retrofitted with the soy diesel system. That way, any decent engine mechanic should be able to work on all of them.”
Delbert had his biggest smile on now. “That’s not all, Mr. Founder. We knew we’d run out of Ford pickups eventually. So look at the whiteboard.”
Delbert’s whiteboard was actually an entire wall outside of his office. The slick material covered an area nearly seven feet tall and over twelve feet long. Phil couldn’t even guess how many patented schemes came and went on that idea factory. On it was a scale drawing of a bulldozer, expanded to provide detail for parts and specs.
Phil focused in on what appeared to be a track-type vehicle with armor and weapons.
“That, my friends, is the Mark 2,” Delbert beamed.
Bob couldn’t pass this one up, “Yes, that’s right. We don’t have a name for the first vehicle, or have one tested in the field yet. But we do have a name for an armored bulldozer we don’t even have a prototype for.”
“Plans must always have a name,” Delbert said. “Gives a person something to believe in. Besides, the very first tanks in World War I were called Mark 1s, the second Mark 2s, etc. These are plans for the 2nd version of Mr. Founder’s crazy idea. So Mark 2 it is!”
Phil quizzed the Wizards on some of the details. “This looks like a hitch, here. What will these pull?”
“Well, that’s the beauty, Mr. Founder. We made it so that the farms can use these as field tractors, too. If there’s a crisis, we call all of them in. If they’re in the field and bad guys come at ‘em, they can hole up and fight from behind the armored plating. If there’s a big fight of some kind, you can call them all together to form a metal shield wall. Kind of a Mechanized Minuteman,” Bob explained.
“That’s brilliant, guys. Truly brilliant. These old bulldozers are all over the place. And it would be great for defense on the farms. One of these could hold off a group of thieves until help arrived. They wouldn’t be able to pull as big a plow or disc as a standard tractor, but that’s well worth the tradeoff. None of us will be farming nearly the same acreage as we were. A few hundred acres will be a huge farm for quite a while. When can we start on these?” Phil asked.
“As soon as we get this first batch of salvage trucks done, we’ll switch over to the Mark 2s. Seems reasonable to think each shop should be able to get one done a week. The biggest problem will be getting enough welding supplies. And we’ll need a heavy weapon for each.”
“Ok, I’ll work on that one,” Olsen offered. “Hate to see a hard-shelled turtle out there with no beak to snap back with.”
“Well, there you go, Bob” Delbert laughed. “I think we have a name for Clark and the Founding Farmer’s vehicles: Snapping Turtles!”
*****
I fell into a burnin' ring of fire
I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher,
And it burns, burns, burns,
The ring of fire, the ring of fire.
All the young people of the Fortress, and many of the not so young, spun in a large circle to the sound of the Hamilton’s favorite song. Players beat on acoustic banjos, guitars and a rickety old drum set, singing along doing the best they could to carry the tune. The dancers didn’t mind, most could barely remember what the original sounded like anyway.
The Man in Black may have recognized the tune, but probably not the moves. Each step was created right there on the farm during the long nights of no TV or internet. The outside circle, usually made up of men, would spin clockwise. The inside circle, conversely mostly female, would spin counter during the chorus. When the next verse began you grabbed the person directly across from you in their circle and danced a Midwestern polka version of the two step.
The key then was to get back into your circles before the chorus hit again. Each person would act out the motions related to the words. Down, down, down seemed to be the younger kids’ favorite part; not necessarily shared by those whose knees had survived a few more winters. Once a dancer had enough, they’d shuffle off to the tables set around the outside of Schoolhouse Hill’s Great Hall. The earliest drop outs had the comfort of being nearest the large stone fireplace radiating heat and light across the room.
The more determined revelers wouldn’t stop until the band did. That included most of the teenagers, especially those who had become fond of each other. Eric Olsen and Lori Hamilton always seemed to find a way to get matched up while they were spinning the circle, a fact not unnoticed by the Hamilton family. Eric spent a lot of time here at the farm when he wasn’t helping his father with Sheriff’s duties.
AJ helped a visiting dignitary learn the dance this evening. Rebekah Ruff had made the trip out to Schoolhouse Hill with a group of Applied Science staff from Old Main College. While officially they were all there to discuss feeding the two group’s growing population, Rebekah’s mission also included getting to know Shelby County and the Hamilton family better. Julia Ruff, the president of Old Main, wanted to solidify the partnership the two groups had established even before the Reset.
Rebekah was the perfect ambassador. Charming and intellectually agile, she had acquired her mother’s diplomatic abilities yet still retained her father’s love for the land. Thrust into a leadership role because of being Head Resident at the college dorms, not just because of who her mother was, Bek could handle being in what amounted to a foreign country at this point. The journey over was dangerous – bandits were everywhere – but a handful of Shelby County’s new Snapping Turtles making the round trip were enough to deter any trouble.
“No, no, you have to raise your arms like this,” AJ shouted over the laughing and singing of the group. The metal walls and ceiling of what was once a machine shed bounced each yell and missed chord back at the floor below. Bare concrete refused to soak up a note which made everyone unsure where the beat actually began.
“Maybe I’m just making up a new version,” Bek laughed back at him.
“I don’t mind, I think yours is better!” he shouted back. “Let’s go try to join the circle. If you get behind, just sing really loud! That’s what everyone else does!”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Bek replied. “How about we take a walk outside. I have to leave in the morning and I’ve still got a lot of questions to ask you.”
AJ blushed briefly, though exertion from the dancing hid any color change. “Sure, no problem. Just let me grab my rifle. No one’s allowed outside without one. That’s the Fortress Farm version of the 2nd Amendment.”
She smiled at his joke and followed him over to the gun rack on the wall opposite the main entrance. He helped her put her coat on, then grabbed his own battered Carhartt. He slung a long barreled gun over his shoulder, then held open the reinforced metal door for her to step through.
AJ turned and gestured to his brother Sam, letting him know he’d be stepping out. Sam subtly returned the signal, then went back to spinning with Celeste Ford, granddaughter of one of the County’s founding Wizard engineers.
AJ and Bek walked down a gravel pathway bisecting
the main buildings of the fortress. Neither spoke for a moment, letting their hearing return to normal.
“Thanks for letting me get out of there. I thought college fraternity parties were loud, but you guys have them beat hands down,” Bek said as she zipped up her coat against the chill of Illinois winter. “We haven’t had much time or reason to celebrate since this all happened.”
AJ laughed, “That’s not a celebration, Bek. Wait can I call you Bek?”
“Of course,” she said.
“No, that’s an almost every night occurrence. Right after supper the band comes out and plays a few songs. We dance, have a few drinks, and then turn in for the night.”
“Even with all the work you have to get done, you still party every night?” she asked surprised.
“I wouldn’t call it partying. We do everything in moderation. That way there’s no big blow off some night and we end up with ditchmen in the middle of the fortress. Mayor Steinbrink says it’s a good way to bond the community together. Especially with so many new people moving in,” AJ answered.
“That’s something I wanted to ask you. How are you housing so many refugees out here?”
“RVs. We give each family their own motorhome or pull behind until we get their permanent residence built. Once we’re done with the RVs at one fortress, we move them to the next and start the process all over again,” AJ said.
“Where’d you find them all?”
“The people or the RVs?” he joked. “There was a huge dealership out by the highway. The night of the Reset the owner was out on the east coast for some kind of business trip. After we figured out he wasn’t coming back, the Council of Mayors purchased each vehicle for $1 from him. Guess he couldn’t object.”
