“Yep,” Paul continued, “I’ve had no other great ideas, so I’ve been looking at what it would take to get started farming fish. There’s stock available, and the feed they require isn’t soy-based, so that’s also readily available. For a price, anyway. But then there’s the infrastructure: the tanks and filters and all the equipment to house ’em. It would be an expensive proposition to start, but have you seen what fish is going for at the supermarkets lately? That is, when you can get it at all.”
Marty had indeed seen it. Thirty bucks a pound for local walleye. Anything from out of state, even catfish, was going for even more than that. If they could produce stock locally and avoid the transportation costs, they might be able to price competitively and still make a decent profit.
“That’s interesting, Paul, but those start-up costs worry me. I think we should look at things that fit into our existing infrastructure. Maybe we could grow other sorts of beans than soy, like lentils. Those have been in high demand these days as a source of protein.”
A short, aged farmer with a creased, weatherworn face spoke up from the far end of the table. “I don’t have the money to dump into any fancy new infrastructure, so I like your idea, Marty. I’m sure the suppliers’ll hose us for the starter seed stock. Nothing you can do about that, but we could set aside our own seed stock for the next year’s planting if it works out.” He folded thin arms across his gaunt chest. “Fish farming on the prairie. That’s crazy.” He let out a derisive snort, then chuckled and shook his head.
The other farmers nodded and started chatting among themselves. They were a cautious lot. No surprise to that. Even Marty wasn’t wild about taking his chances with fish farming. But he couldn’t go down without a fight. With Ellen gone, all he had left was the farm.
He decided to risk it. He could trust Paul as a business partner. Maybe they could go into it together. If it failed, it failed. At least he would have tried. The bank could have the damned place if it came to that.
And if it came to that, the bank could have his body, too. He’d have nothing left if he failed. Nowhere to go. No one to turn to. Nothing.
“Marty? What do you think?” The older farmer had again spoken, and the rest of them turned toward Marty, awaiting his answer.
“Huh? About what? Sorry, I was thinking about something else.”
“We’re going to switch over to legumes. No one here has the money to risk on fish. Too much up-front investment for a crapshoot.”
Marty glanced at Paul. “What do you think?”
Paul stared down at his hands for a few moments as he smoothed them flat on the kitchen table, then shook his head. “I know the fish idea is quite a leap, but I don’t think switching to legumes is going to be enough on its own. I’m gonna talk it over with Susan. She’s the one who keeps the books and knows exactly what we have left.”
Marty tapped Paul’s shoulder, leaned over, and whispered, “Let’s talk later. Maybe we can join together or something.”
Paul nodded and answered quietly. “That might work. I’ll get back to you.”
Marty addressed the group. “All right, unless anyone has something else to say, I think we can wrap up this meeting.”
He watched as the men stood and prepared to leave. They patted each others’ shoulders as they shuffled out and said their good-byes. It was a good group, true enough. A little conservative, but that was understandable. They put their livelihoods on the line every year they farmed, with Mother Nature being a fickle mistress and market prices being mostly out of their control. It took a certain kind of person to live that life—and now they’d had their mainstay income flows shut off overnight. Even the worst farm disaster usually ruined only one year’s production.
This catastrophe challenged their survival on a level they could never have imagined, let alone foreseen. Marty wondered who would be left this time next year.
CHAPTER 42
“Fish, you say?”
Paul nodded. “Fish.”
Susan clutched her mug of hot coffee in both hands, sat back in her chair, and gazed at her husband across their kitchen table. Paul was usually about the most practical, play-it-safe man she’d ever met. That’s why she loved him, and why they’d gotten along so well all these years.
“Why fish?”
Paul leaned forward, the hint of a gleam in his eye, and explained what he and Marty had discussed at the meeting last night. “The others are going for alternate legumes, like lentils. They have a point. No added infrastructure, but I think there’s more of an upside potential in fish. Once we get past the start-up costs, of course.”
“Fish.” Susan opened the ledger that lay before her on the kitchen table, scanned the numbers, and pursed her lips. “You’re right. We can’t keep up like this for much longer. We do have enough cash on hand to go halves with Marty on the setup expenses, but not much more.”
“I know it’s a risk. I’m scared, too. But I think if we don’t do something, we’ll lose the farm this time for sure.”
Susan closed the ledger, then stared down at it as she ran her fingers along the worn cover. Dad’s ledger. The entire financial history of the farm since he bought it back when he first married Mom.
“It’s just, well, even though Mom and Dad are long gone, I’m afraid to let them down, to lose the farm they worked so hard to establish, you know?”
Paul reached across the table and took her hand. “I know.” He smiled. “I’m sure your dad wouldn’t be too keen on us taking a chance on fish farming. He was a good man, but as old-school as they come.”
“You say Marty’s been researching this already?
“Yeah, extensively.”
“He’s no fly-by-night himself. If he’s looked into it, I’m sure he’s been thorough. God knows he’s resourceful enough, keeping that place going all alone after Ellen died and the kids moved away. Of all of the others, he’s the one I’d feel most comfortable partnering with.”
“So you want to go for it?”
Susan gazed at Paul. He’d never let her down—not in any way—in all these years. She trusted he wouldn’t start now.
“Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER 43
Kyle felt almost physically ill, burdened with what he knew and what he had to tell Gretchen. He’d had to order the tests. Now he wished he could undo what he’d learned. But that was impossible. He knew what had to be done, and what it would likely mean. And he knew despite the terrible price, it might not even work.
He stood silently outside Lara’s room and watched Gretchen put her down for her nap. He loved those two more than anyone in the world, and he couldn’t bear to witness what the food bans had already done to them. It was like watching them die before his eyes while he stood by, helpless to get them the foods they needed to maintain their health. Lara had become so thin and lethargic. And Gretchen. She looked exhausted, between caring for Lara and struggling through her second trimester.
Of course he was glad he’d found the root cause of the violence epidemic. But the solution created its own devastating problems. Malnutrition had become widespread thanks to the lack of adequate, affordable dietary replacements for the animal-based food products—and even the soy substitutes. Children and pregnant women were the most vulnerable, the ones who would suffer the consequences the fastest.
He’d heard that the Biotech divisions of the Big-Ag corporations were all hard at work trying to come up with new products to fill those dietary gaps. But they weren’t available yet, and there was no estimate when they would be. He hoped that when they did come out, they didn’t create new problems.
“Oh, you scared me!” Gretchen pressed her hand to her chest, turned to make sure Lara hadn’t been disturbed, then closed the door behind her. “How long were you standing there?” she whispered.
“Oh, only a moment.” Kyle touched his hand to her shoulder. “We need to talk.”
Gretchen paled and frowned. “About what? As if I don’t know.”
“I
got the lab tests back. Come sit down. You look dead on your feet.”
Gretchen followed him into the kitchen and took a seat at the breakfast table. “It isn’t good, is it?” She twisted her hands together and avoided eye contact. “All right, who has it?”
Kyle wondered if there was any way to soften the blow, then decided that wouldn’t be possible. “Only one of us has it, and it’s … you.”
Her eyes wide, Gretchen put a trembling hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. But the baby.”
Kyle dared not tell her the baby was the least of his worries. Her gut bacteria had likely already secreted the chemical that would cause the permanent changes to her brain, and she wasn’t yet symptomatic. He had to hope he was wrong and the damage somehow wasn’t already done. The only weapon he had was antibiotics to kill the B. metasonis as fast as possible, and they could not allow the fetus to stand in the way of that one slim chance to save Gretchen from becoming a violent psychopath.
“There’s no choice. We have to eliminate the bacteria. Immediately.” He took a vial of pills from his pocket. “You need to start on these, right now.”
Gretchen leaned back in her chair and stared at the vial as if he’d asked her to drink a bottle of arsenic. “No, I don’t want to—”
Kyle put his hand on hers. “You have to. Believe me.” He got up, filled a glass with water and set it down on the table in front of her. “Three times a day for the next ten days. If you’d rather, we can do it by injection. If you won’t—or think you can’t—take the capsules, then we’ll have to do it that way.”
Her face red and tears streaming freely, Gretchen reached for the vial and picked it up gingerly. She read the label, then opened it, removed a capsule and placed it on the table in front of her. She stared at it for several moments, as if gathering her nerve, then popped it in her mouth and washed it down with the water.
Kyle had chosen to withhold one terrible piece of information. The antibiotic he’d given her was the only one effective against metasonis. It also caused fetal death. He didn’t want Gretchen to feel any more guilt and worry than she already did. There was simply no other choice to try to prevent her from becoming a dangerous, violent maniac.
He hoped it worked.
CHAPTER 44
Doug Townsend never imagined he’d end up in a situation like this, lurking in a dark alley on the outskirts of Kansas City. Like some goddamned dope dealer. But he had to do it to survive these days. That’s why he did it. It wasn’t money for luxuries or crap; it was money he needed to live. To feed his kids, his wife. Himself.
He checked his watch. Nearly time now. He hoped the package wasn’t getting too warm while he waited in the darkness. The night was cool and comfortable, but he’d been waiting for maybe a half hour with the package tucked under his arm like a precious prize.
And indeed it was. To someone, anyway. Someone willing to pay dearly for it.
Doug kept his eye on a curbside spot beneath a busted streetlight, the rendezvous point he’d agreed on with his customer. He wanted to be able to pop over to the car, get his cash, deliver the goods, and disappear quickly and quietly into the night. There was a penalty these days for doing what he was doing.
Moments later, a gleaming black late-model Mercedes pulled up to the agreed-upon spot. His customer. Doug glanced from side to side and, seeing no one else around, moved quickly to the passenger side of the car and leaned down. The window lowered, revealing the driver, a clean-shaven man who looked to be in his fifties, dressed all in black. Doug could see no one else in the car.
“You have it?”
“Right here.”
The man’s hand reached into his shirt pocket and then extended out toward Doug. In the hand was a stack of hundred-dollar bills. Doug grabbed them and quickly counted. Ten. He handed over the package.
“Thanks.”
“Thanks.” The man raised the passenger-side window and drove off into the night.
Doug pocketed the money and hurried back to the side street a block over where he’d parked his pickup truck. He got in, relieved to be done with his clandestine errand, and began the forty-mile trek back to his farm.
Jeff McClain reached over to the passenger seat and rested his fingers on the package as he drove back to his home down in Fairway. He frowned. It wasn’t exactly warm, but it didn’t seem properly chilled. He hoped it hadn’t been compromised by a lack of refrigeration. He pressed the accelerator harder, pushing the Mercedes as fast as he dared. A speeding ticket would be bad enough, but he didn’t want to get caught with the package.
A short while later, he pulled into his garage and shut the door. Anxious to see what a thousand bucks bought these days, he went straight to the kitchen, took out a plate, and set it on the charcoal-gray granite counter. Then he tore open the package, rinsed off his prize, and placed it on the plate.
It was gorgeous. A well-marbled, bright-red, inch-thick ribeye steak. Just like you used to be able to buy at any good meat counter only a few weeks back. Before beef was outlawed overnight because of the panic over the food supply.
Jeff was born and raised in the Kansas City area, and he loved nothing more than a prime, locally produced cut of meat. He’d had to search long and hard to find someone willing to supply him under-the-table, as it were. For a rather hefty price. Good thing he could afford it, at least for now.
He eyed the steak closely. It looked perfect in every way. His supplier claimed he never used soy-based feeds, that he’d only ever fed his herd grass and hay. He hoped that was true. But right now, he was willing to take the chance. It’s not like he ate it every day—especially at these prices, and with having to sneak around like a common criminal to even get it.
Worried the steak hadn’t been kept as cool as it should have been, Jeff decided he’d better cook it up now for a late dinner, rather than risk any problems re-refrigerating it. He poured himself a glass of Cabernet and considered making a side dish. A baked potato would be perfect, but he didn’t want to wait an hour for it to roast in the oven. And a microwaved potato would be blasphemous. Screw it, he’d just have the steak, and enjoy the hell out of it.
He flicked on the outdoor deck light and glanced at the stainless steel gas grill that stood out there, lonely and neglected of late. He shook his head. It was a shame with a steak like that, but he didn’t dare cook outside and risk someone catching a whiff of it. They might report him to the police, for all he knew. He’d better play it safe and broil it indoors.
He turned off the deck light, went back to the kitchen counter, and turned on the broiler to preheat. Then he opened his spice cabinet and considered all the little bottles and jars. A steak like that needed only simple seasonings to enhance its flavor, so he ground fresh black pepper over it, then sprinkled a little kosher salt and thyme on it. He popped the steak into the broiler, then leaned back against the counter, sipping his wine and savoring the aroma while the meat cooked. It seemed like such a long time since he’d been able to enjoy that smell.
When it was done, he slipped the steak onto his dinner plate and gazed down at it, taking in the beauty of a perfectly prepared cut of meat. He went into the dining room, set his plate down at the head of the table, and lit a candle. Then, after settling himself in his chair and having another sip of Cabernet, he cut into the meat, pink and rare. Ruby-colored juices flowed from the rest of the steak onto the dish as he took that first bite, savoring the texture and flavor of real, prime beef. Too bad it had become so hard to come by.
CHAPTER 45
Les Anderson reached into his refrigerator and cracked himself a cold beer after a long day of what had become the new normal for him: euthanizing all sorts of livestock dying from premature aging, starvation, and often both. So now, instead of making calls to vaccinate herds, assist births, perform artificial insemination, and all the other things he normally did in his years of practice, he found himself attending to what appeared to be the beginning of the end of small- to moderate-sized ag operations
in these parts.
He plunked himself down at his tiny kitchen table and stared at the worn grain of its unfinished wood surface as he took another long swig of his beer. He’d gone to vet school to learn how to heal animals and keep them healthy. Euthanasia was a last resort, an admission of either failure or the inevitable. But it’s about all he did these days. He was helpless to cure the stricken animals, to solve the problem by anything other than destruction. And he didn’t see things turning around anytime soon.
Everything seemed to be deteriorating around him. His livelihood, his eyesight, his ability to do anything useful anymore. Maybe it was getting to be time to retire. He’d had a good run as a vet. Why keep on making calls to watch the end of non-corporate ag as he knew it? He took another sip of his beer and shook his head. It was too damned depressing to think about.
Les glanced up toward the kitchen counter, at the faded blue curtains hanging lopsided on loose rods. Remnants of Tammie. After the wedding, she’d furnished and decorated the place in a whirlwind of enthusiasm. She’d been so proud to have married the town vet. But she must have envisioned a far more glamorous and exciting life than he’d been able to give her.
She’d never managed to comprehend how he could come home each day stinking of piss, shit, and blood, and yet feel satisfied with his day’s work. She’d never understood what it meant to him to have the power to heal animals, and nothing he did or said ever changed that. He shrugged. Obvious now they were never meant to be. He never did understand why decorating the house was so damned important, and so the place still looked the same as when they’d married. Only older.
Right now he was too weary even to give a shit about what to make for dinner. Fish didn’t appeal to him, although he figured he’d better get used to it. He sure as hell wasn’t into those bean-based conglomerations they touted as protein substitutes. To him, they tasted nasty.
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