by Joe Nobody
Nick raised the optic to his eyes and scanned the horizon, finally centering on a distant point. “Found them,” he declared.
“Cool. So if I were the boss of the construction company, I would build the access road the shortest distance possible. This highway runs straight north and south, so we should find the path when the windmills are directly to our east.”
“That makes sense.”
Nick watched their position, and before long Bishop slowed the truck so as not to miss any turnoff. On both sides of the highway, the desert began right as the pavement ended. There weren’t any utility poles, fences or mailboxes. Nick noticed the lack of civilization. “What’s the speed limit on this road? I’ve not seen a single highway sign since we’ve been driving.”
“There is no speed limit. The road dead ends at Big Bend National Park, another 40 miles further south. There’s a border patrol inspection station on down, but other than that, there’s nothing out here. You can drive as fast as you want.”
“Damn, I knew I should have taken the Porsche today.”
Off in the distance, Nick noticed the parallel lines of a lane snaking through the desert. “Got it. I can see the path leading up to the summit. We’re getting close.”
A few miles further south, Bishop braked hard, bringing the truck to a sudden stop. “Almost missed it,” he declared. After backing up a few hundred feet, Bishop pointed out the window.
Nick identified two worn paths winding across the terrain, eventually merging into a single line in the distance. There wasn’t any road sign warning against trespass, or other indication of what lay beyond. Bishop turned the truck onto the lane and slowly began maneuvering toward Sandy Hill.
Pete closed the door and locked up the bar. Reaching up, he hung a small chalkboard sign on a nail, the scrawled message indicating the bar would open at 3 p.m.
The decision to close Pete’s Place and set up a table in the market had been driven more by curiosity than any financial consideration. Switching from pure barter to currency-based transactions was exciting—a sign of progress that he wanted to witness and be a part of.
For the first time in months, he was carrying actual money in his pocket, including coins. The bulk of the money clip felt odd against his thigh, the weight of a few coins noticeable in the opposite pocket. Still, he thought, carrying a bit of cash around was much lighter than a box of goods to barter with. It was an inconvenience he would gladly embrace.
He paused before beginning the stroll down Main Street, taking a moment to absorb the sights and sounds. As usual, the marketplace was bustling with pre-opening activity. Citizens of Meraton were setting up tables, unwrapping boxes of goods, and gossiping with their neighbors.
The outlying ranches and homesteads contributed as well. Horse-drawn wagons were common sights, hauling items that ranged from live animals to the crops from vegetable gardens. Some of the bigger outfits still had fuel, and they used pickup trucks to deliver everything from goat milk to freshly butchered sides of beef.
Sewing supplies were becoming a popular trade, months of wear and tear taking its toll on everyone’s wardrobe. The market now boasted two cobblers - both offering not only repairs, but also leather moccasins, slippers, and even fancy boots as part of their storefronts.
Pete stood and took it all in, taking a moment to reflect on how special it all was. There hadn’t been any radio or television advertisements to draw the crowds. No newspaper ads had touted any specials, and coupons weren’t even a consideration. The market was a spontaneous result of society—of humankind. Pete wondered how many of the transactions were born of necessity versus those being conducted simply as an excuse for social interaction.
Continuing his tour, the barkeep passed tables offering a wide variety of goods. Books were a very popular item these days, both as entertainment and education. One crafty woman had set up an exchange of sorts —offering to accept trade-ins, sell on commission, and loan out for a fee. It was one of the most popular booths in the market. Pete’s mind immediately traveled to the motley assortment of items he had accumulated in trade during the last few months. I might need to take advantage of this, he considered.
The segment of Meraton’s population boasting a Latino heritage dominated a large percentage of the stalls. Before the collapse, a combination of financial status and tradition had often led to a do-it-yourself mentality rather than relying on store-bought goods or services within their culture. Everything from small engine repair to sewing, canning, leather working, and traditional food preparation was part of their daily lives. Now, that knowledge was even more valuable, and the community was thriving because of it.
As he toured the street, Pete began to watch for price tags. He had more than a few boxes of unused goods he wanted to sell today, and was hoping to get an idea of how much to charge based on what others were asking for their wares. There weren’t any prices displayed.
Stopping to chat with a few of the vendors, he realized the town’s decision to go with currency wasn’t being implemented yet. “Pete, I don’t know how much to charge. I’m afraid to go first. I’m going to stick with barter right now until I get a feel for how much to ask for my candles,” commented one lady.
Another booth owner, displaying a fresh crop of cherry tomatoes testified to a similar fear. “Pete, I only get a crop every few weeks. If I don’t trade for everything I need, I’ll be doing without until the next harvest. I have no idea how much to charge my customers.”
The conversation was interrupted by one of the Beltron ranch hands strolling up, a heavy looking burlap sack carried at his side. “Heya, Miss Sylvia, I’ve got a nice fresh batch of fertilizer for you. You okay with our normal trade?”
The woman nodded, scooping up a quart-sized box of bright, red vegetables and offering them to the cowboy. He smiled and set the bag next to her stall, the aroma of cow dung drifting past Pete’s nose. After shaking hands with the man, Sylvia continued, “Pete, how much do I charge him for those tomatoes? How much should he charge me for the manure? We all went to the town meeting full of vim and vigor, but implementing the decision isn’t so easy.”
Betty’s voice sounded from up the street. “Pete, now don’t you go getting the ripe ones before I have my pick!”
Pete and Sylvia greeted Betty, the two women exchanging a hug. “Oh, these look good, Sylvia. Nice and plump. Will you take our usual three eggs for a quart?”
“That depends on their size, Betty. How big are the eggs?”
“Oh, these are nice ones. Anita started feeding her chickens more corn, and it seems to be working.” Betty produced three brown eggs from her apron pocket, gently setting the valuable commodity item on the table.
Sylvia nodded, apparently happy with the rate of exchange and scooped up another box of tomatoes.
Pete shook his head, understanding the complexity of the problem. You can lead a horse to water, he thought, but you can’t make him pay with the coin of the realm.
Strolling back with Betty, his voice was full of frustration over the situation. “Betty, I was so excited by the town’s decision to start using money. I even closed up the bar today in order to get rid of some of my prior trades. Now, I’m not sure we solved anything.”
Betty stopped for a moment, browsing a table full of secondhand clothing. After smiling at the couple manning the stall, she continued walking with her friend. “Pete, someone needs to prime the pump. Someone needs to go first and establish a value. I’m not sure how to go about it, but that’s what everyone is waiting for.”
It was Pete’s turn to pause their discussion, stopping to check a booth displaying several dressed quail. The smiling man behind the table started his pitch, “I just shot them yesterday evening, and they’ve been sitting in salt water ever since. They’re very tasty this time of year.”
“What are you looking for in trade, friend?”
“Well, sir, I’m running low on shotgun shells for one. I’d make a fair exchange if you’ve got any 1
2 or 20- gauge buckshot.”
Pete smiled at the man, “I’ve got four 20-gauge shells of #7 shot someone traded me a while back. My shotgun is a 12, so I’d be willing to offer all four shells in exchange for two birds.”
The hunter thought for a moment and then shook his head, “No, sir. I wouldn’t feel right about that barter. How about a single bird for all four shells?”
Pete pretended insult, faked turning away from the booth—all part of his negotiation strategy. “There isn’t that much meat on those skinny frames, friend. Shotgun shells are few and far between. Before I walk away, let me ask you this. What caliber is your sidearm?”
The man nodded, patting his holster. “Yes, sir, I’ve a .38 special.”
“Well, now, that’s good news. I just so happen to have six unused .38 cartridges as well. Let me propose this, I’ll trade the four 20s and the six .38s for three birds.”
After a moment of consideration, a hand was offered. “You’ve got a deal, sir.”
Pete smiled and accepted the handshake. “I’ll bring the ammo back in just a few minutes. Please keep three of those fine birds aside for me.”
Betty waited until they were out of earshot and smirked at Pete. “You paid too much for those quail, Pete. He would’ve given four birds for that much ammo.”
Pete stopped and grinned at Betty, “Maybe, maybe not. That’s the problem isn’t it? Let me ask you something, Betty. How many eggs did Anita have this morning?”
“Oh, Lordie. . . . I think she had a couple dozen or so. She keeps her inventory secret, always mumbling something about supply and demand. When you’re negotiating with that woman, it’s like pulling hen’s teeth.”
Pete chuckled at the analogy. “I understand. I’m going back to the bar and pick up those cartridges. I’ll see you later, okay?”
After swapping for the game fowl, Betty’s words prompted an idea. Someone needs to go first and prime the pump, he thought. Might as well be me.
Approaching Anita’s booth, Pete asked how many eggs she would trade for two of the quail.
After inspecting the goods, Anita’s voice was firm. “Four.”
Pete protested, his indignation partially genuine. “Four! Why you shyster. Those two birds are worth eight eggs as sure as I’m standing here in West Texas.”
A few minutes later, Pete walked away with six large brown eggs. Storing the remaining bird and two of the eggs in his kitchen, he then retrieved a piece of cardboard and a pencil.
Not long afterward, Pete opened his table at the edge of the market. A small sign hung from the front, advertising eggs for $1.00 each – cash only, no barter.
As the hours went by, Pete’s sign drew a lot of attention and quickly became the talk of the market. The bartender had to laugh at the constant stream of onlookers gawking at his little homemade billboard. It was the biggest news to hit Meraton since everything had gone to hell.
Pete had just about given up hope of selling any of his eggs when a man shyly approached and pointed to the sign. “Pete, I’ve been a loyal customer since you opened the bar. I need some eggs, but I’ve got to be honest with you.” The man pointed over his shoulder and continued, “There’s a woman over there, goes by the name of Anita. She’s got eggs that look just as good as yours and is selling them two for a dollar. I’ll make you the same offer.”
Pete couldn’t suppress his grin. The Meraton Market was indeed a place where cash could be used.
Chapter 10
West Texas
December 26, 2015
The dirt path leading to Sandy Hill was a washboard of a ride. After crossing several miles of flat desert, the road eventually began a gradual climb before quickly turning into a series of switchbacks. At the top of the mesa, a chain-link fence surrounded the broad, flat summit of the formation. Bishop stopped the truck, both men alternating their gaze between the padlocked gate blocking their progress and the enormous windmills scattered across the flat surface.
Bishop was amazed at the scale of the machines. Each unit was mounted on a tower that was over 20 feet in diameter at the bottom and soared hundreds of feet into the air. Concrete bases, large enough to support a good-sized home had been poured beneath each of the mills. At the base of each tower was a metal door, no doubt leading to a staircase used to access the machinery at the top.
The huge blades rotated slowly, their appearance reminding Bishop of giant propellers for a mountain-sized airplane.
“I knew they would be big,” commented Nick, “but this is amazing. Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“No. I’ve seen fields of these things while driving across I-10 north of here, but you can’t tell the scale from the interstate. Up close and personal, they look like the propellers for God’s Cessna.”
Nick looked at his watch, “We need to get moving. Are you going to push through the gate?”
“Nope. I’ll just pop the lock. I don’t want to ruin my paint job.”
Nick looked at the bullet hole in the back window and the bloodstained back seat, evidence that Bishop’s truck had seen some rough times. “I don’t blame ya one bit,” was his only comment.
Bishop retrieved a crowbar from the bed and began twisting the gate’s chain. The small lock gave up without much grunting or sweat. No foul language was required. A few minutes later, Bishop parked the truck next to a small building at the edge of the complex.
Nick began investigating the grounds, still gawking in awe at the scale of the project. Bishop made for the edge of the mesa; his focus was on a utility tower containing six wrist-sized cables leading off into the distance.
From their elevation on the hilltop, both men could see the high capacity power lines stretching down the side of the mesa toward the northeast. The thick cables were easy to track, gradually sloping down to sag in the middle before beginning their rise to the next tower. From their perch, Bishop estimated they could see well over ten miles before the atmosphere began blurring the view. He counted 21 of the steel framed supports, each supporting approximately a half mile of cable.
“This is going to take a while,” observed Nick.
“No shit.”
Nick studied the terrain sloping away from the mesa. Sharp ridges and raw rock dominated the view, gradually flattening out to a smooth looking desert floor of a pale yellow color. It didn’t look like a friendly environment.
“Well, there’s good news. We don’t have to worry about rock climbing today. The lines clearly stretch beyond the high ground and out into the flat desert.”
“You don’t sound real happy about that.”
“I’m not. That’s all private ranch land for at least 100 miles. There aren’t any public roads. Most of the ranchers aren’t just exactly embracing strangers these days, and many of them have their own private armies of some pretty rough characters. Trespassers will be prosecuted to the full extent of a large caliber deer rifle.”
“Ahhhhh, good point.”
Bishop looked around, trying to ascertain the next step. The small building next to the truck grabbed his attention. Motioning to the structure with a nod of his head, Bishop suggested, “Let’s take a look inside, maybe there’s something useful in there.”
The door was locked, but not overly sturdy, and succumbed to one kick from Nick. Bishop mumbled, “We missed our calling—we should’ve been burglars.”
Nick grinned, adding, “How do you know I wasn’t?”
The building appeared to be a control center and office of sorts. The interior was filled with a few desks, dark computer screens, and a room full of electronic gear that neither Bishop nor Nick understood. As the two men moved toward the exit, Nick looked at the wall and asked, “Would that help?”
Bishop followed his gaze and recognized a large map with several multi-colored lines overlaid on the surface. Stepping closer, it took him a minute to orientate himself to the area depicted and the scale of the drawing. Finally, Bishop turned to Nick with a big smile. “I think you just saved us a
lot of time and trouble.”
Tracing with his finger, Bishop pointed to the map. “We’re right here. These lines look like the high voltage power leads outside. They end here at this blue square that’s labeled ‘Pecos River Control Station.’ I think that’s where your engineer needs to be.”
Nick whistled, looking for the map’s scale. Using his fingers, he estimated the cables outside ended just over 90 miles away. Pointing to a series of lines and squares in close proximity to the control station, Nick asked, “What’s this place?”
Bishop double-checked before answering, but was sure. “That, good sir, is Fort Stockdale.”
“Well, that’s good news, right? I mean, we don’t have to go trespassing across 50 miles of ranch land, dodging bullets or anything.”
Bishop sighed. “I’m not sure if that’s good news or not. There have been some rumors . . . a long time ago . . . about Fort Stockdale. A few people claim that some county official took control of the town after the collapse. Some folks say he fancies himself as emperor. It’s all just rumors I heard some months back.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“At Pete’s, when we first arrived in Meraton. There’s probably some people around that know more than what I remember hearing. Maybe some of the Beltron Ranch hands have ventured up that way.”
Bishop reached up and pulled the map free from the wall. Rolling it up, he winked at Nick and grinned. “A life of crime.”
“We can return it later and pay for the lock.”
“Let’s hope it comes to that, my friend. I would welcome the chance to do so and relieve my conscience. Let’s head back to town. I’m anxious to see if we’ll end up with electricity and cable TV. It’s almost time for the Super Bowl.”
Bishop scanned the town with his optic, occasionally making a note on the small pad of paper lying beside him. A gas station owner in Alpha had provided a detailed street map of Fort Stockdale, about the only thing left on the premises that hadn’t been looted.
