Officer Of The Watch: Blackout Volume 1

by D W McAliley

  "Okay, Joe," Gilbert said carefully. "You've got my attention."

  "I hate to come at you like this," Joe said shaking his head, "but you need to hear me out, Gilbert. Things are bad in the city now. I watched A-10's dropping missiles and making strafing runs over Norfolk, and I'm pretty sure they were the good guys in this. You guys need to get out of here while you still can."

  Gilbert knelt by the car and looked Joe in the eye for a long moment. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders a bit. "This is our home, Joe," Gilbert said. "There's a war coming and who would we be if we left our home right at that moment?"

  Joe shook his head and thrust his door open. He got out and pulled Gilbert to his feet. He half dragged the farmer to the edge of the yard and pointed to the south. There was a small subdivision of nice, large suburban homes about a mile and a half distant.

  "There," Joe said, pointing to the track of homes, "you've got nine neighbors to your south. Do you know any of them?"

  Gilbert was silent for a moment.

  "I didn't think so," Joe said, releasing the man. "Who do you have out here, Gilbert? Who is there to help you if your grandson breaks his arm or leg? Who's out here to help if you get bit by a moccasin? You got people to look in on or people that look in on you?"

  Gilbert didn't reply and he didn't nod or shake his head. He stared sullenly at the farm house and slowly dropped to his knees. He buried his face in his hands for a long time, breathing heavily.

  "I know it's hard to leave," Joe said, kneeling next to the old farmer. "You're right, Gilbert. There's a war coming. Who do you have to help keep the war outside and away from your family? Can you do it? All on your own, without any backup, can you keep your family safe?"

  A long moment of silence stretched, and it seemed that no one breathed. By now, the rest of the family was on the porch, and Tom was out of the car. The boys' mother glared daggers at Joe, but Gilbert's wife was nodding slowly. She, at least, understood the situation. And it seemed that Gilbert did too.

  "We've got nothing to bring," Gilbert said slowly, softly. "We've got nothing to offer."

  Joe shook his head and pulled the farmer back to his feet.

  "I think we both know that's not true," Joe replied. "You've got decades of knowledge and experience to pass on. You lived and thrived in hardships people my age have only read about in books, if they're lucky. We're going to need your perspective and your experience down the road."

  "I never thought I'd be the one to leave this place behind," Gilbert said slowly, looking around the farmyard with a wistful eye.

  Joe gripped the old farmer by the shoulder and offered him his right hand.

  "Don't worry, Gilbert," Joe said solemnly. "When the time comes, I'll help you take it back."

  "I'll hold you to that," Gilbert said, and he took Joe's hand and shook it hard.

  There wasn't much left to say after that. In less than two hours, they had secured everything that could be packed and stowed in or on top of the station wagon secured. Joe pulled out onto the road and headed south. The two young boys, one with his arm fresh in a splint and a sling, sobbed in the back seat, as they turned to watch the old farmhouse fade into the background.

  Gilbert never turned back once.

  Ch. 53

  Hand In Hand

  The sun was an angry red ball low on the western horizon when Eric took the last slimy fish from the bucket at his feet and laid it on the thin, bowed wooden plank in front of him. He was breathless, and his forearms ached a little. This would be his thirty seventh brim cleaned and scaled, and his grandfather had skinned four long, sleek catfish. Their heads hung from four spikes that had been driven deep into the wood of a massive pecan tree in the back yard. The iron spikes had been imbedded in the trunk so long that it looked as if the tree were weeping rusty tears from four deep black eyes.

  When Levy finished filleting the slab of catfish he was working on, he plucked the four heads from the tree and dropped them into a stinking bucket that was encrusted with flies and fish innards. Scales flew from the brim Eric held on the table, and he was almost done with their last fish. Levy dropped the remaining catfish in buttermilk so cold it made the side of the aluminum bowl that held it sweat fat, cold beads of water. The pink chunks of fish floated in the thick liquid like ice cubes.

  Levy took a knife with a small, sharp blade and began scraping the scaled and gutted fish. He would hold the cleaned fish in one hand and scrape the last of the thick layer of protective slime from their skin, and then scrape out the cavity that had held the guts. Once they were thoroughly cleaned inside and out he rinsed them a last time and dropped the fish into a large aluminum bowl of ice water. A dash of salt in the water drew out the little bit of blood in the meat, giving it a milder flavor.

  Once he was done scaling and gutting the last fish, Eric reached for a knife, but Levy shook his head.

  "You go on and take that bucket," Levy said, pointing with the tail of the fish in his left hand at the bucket of guts. "There's a compost pile down at this corner of the garden field. Drop them on top and turn a little of the leaves over to cover it up. Maybe that'll keep the coons and possums out of it for the night."

  Eric started to offer a counter proposal, but Levy had already bent back over the fish. With a half-suppressed sigh, Eric hefted the bucket as far away from his body as he could hold it and began the trek down the hill towards the garden.

  The small path through the trees to the garden field had nasty roots, several holes, and a good enough covering of overgrowth to hide all of that and more. Eric had to move very carefully to keep from slipping or spilling. Finally, he reached the garden and poured the contents of his bucket into the massive mound of dark brown, steaming refuse. A pitch fork stuck in the ground under a gnarled old oak tree turned the compost easily enough, and Eric soon had the fish guts buried beneath a fresh layer of steaming organic fertilizer.

  By the time Eric made it back up the hill to the house, Levy had half of the fish scraped clean and soaking in the chilled salt bath. He motioned for Eric to join him, pointing with another fishtail at the board next to him on the low metal table. Eric took a short paring knife with a thin plastic handle and began to scrape the fish.

  After a few minutes, Levy began shaking his head slightly, "Not so deep, Doc," he said. "You don't want to tear the skin. If you do that, you're bein too rough. Just enough to get the thin slime off, that's all."

  Eric nodded and adjusted the pressure he was putting on the knife.

  "You did well today, Doc," Levy said, after a moment of silence. "You need to learn how to move more quietly, though, if you're gonna spend time walking in these woods."

  "I didn't do that bad," Eric grumbled under his breath.

  Levy snorted heavily. "Doc, I coulda heard you comin from the next county. You know how to walk quietly in the woods; you used to do it all the time when you was a kid. You just need to remember how is all."

  Eric took a deep, steadying breath and pushed down hard on the memories and emotions that suddenly bubbled up. He swallowed and decided to change the subject.

  "The fish really tore into those Catawba worms," Eric said, shaking his head. "Never would have guessed looking at them, though."

  Levy frowned slightly for a moment, but nodded his head. "Yes sir," he said slowly. "They get 'em every time."

  "I'm going to take the catfish inside," Eric said, grabbing for the pan. "Don't want it to get too warm out here."

  Levy nodded and went back to scraping the last few fish. Eric carried the wide, shallow pan of catfish nuggets and filets through the screen door on the back porch. Inside, the small farmhouse was bustling with noise and activity. Nanny and Imogene were in the kitchen, each moving with the fluid, smooth motions of muscle memory more than conscious thought. Both women were equally at home in the tiny kitchen, and it was evident they both knew what they were doing.

  Nanny was working on green beans and turnip greens while Imogene mixed batter for hushpuppies.
The other women were in the kitchen as well, each engaged in their own tasks. Meg was washing and skinning potatoes in a small bucket set in the sink. She handed the slick, freshly peeled tubers to Jen who sliced them into long, finger thick slices to make oven fries. Beth, Eric's mother, was furiously grating cabbage into a massive steel mixing bowl for coleslaw. Her face was red and sweaty, and it seemed as if she were angry at the cabbage, or at least taking out her anger on it.

  "Alright, Doc," Nanny said without breaking stride as she worked, "how much longer y'all need out there?"

  "I think we're just about ready for the flour to fry the fish," Eric said.

  Nanny nodded and handed him a wide, shallow enamel bowl that had a dusty flour and cornmeal mixture in it. Eric took the pan back out on the porch and into the back yard. A long, broad bench held two squat propane burner stoves, each with its own tank of liquid propane attached. Atop the burners were two vats of hot oil. Eric set the bowl of breading next to one of the vats for the fish.

  Just then, Levy came walking up to the makeshift outdoor kitchen with the pan of freshly cleaned fish, and at the same moment, Christina came out the back door with a small bowl of milk and egg wash for the fish. Levy looked first at Christina, then at Eric, and cleared his throat roughly.

  "I'll go," he began, then coughed. "I forgot something. Be right back."

  Levy set the bowl of fish down hard on the bench and turned back toward the metal table a dozen yards away. Christina smiled as the older man walked off and pretended to look for something on the ground around the table, giving her and Eric as much privacy as he could manage. She handed the bowl to Eric and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  "How are things going in there?" Eric asked.

  "Not bad," Christina said with a small shrug of her slim shoulders. "I've got Tom's four kids all locked in a cut throat game of Monopoly. The youngest one just bought up three hotels all across one side of the board. I think he's got this one locked."

  "Is that the one you've been advising?" Eric asked.

  "Maybe," Christina sad with a wink. "I'd better get back and check on them. The others may have him hog tied and held for ransom at this point."

  Christina turned and went back up the steps and through the back door to the house. Eric watched her the whole way, unable to take his eyes from her for even a moment. When Levy came back over to the burners, he cleared his throat to catch Eric's attention.

  "She's a sweet girl," Levy said, "and pretty too." He fixed Eric with a hard, level stare and said with a serious tone. "Don't do nothing stupid, Doc."

  Eric couldn't help but chuckle and nod, "Yes, sir," he said.

  "Okay," Levy replied with a nod, "let's cook some fish."

  Levy had turned the burners on when he and Eric were halfway through cleaning the fish. By the time he dropped the first egg-washed and breaded fish into the oil, it was perfectly heated. The fish immediately sank but quickly rose back to the top, bubbling and bouncing in the oil. Levy deftly dropped fish after fish into the egg wash while holding their tails. He'd then flop them twice per side in the breading to get a good coating, and into the oil they went.

  He turned the fish a few times until the breading turned a crispy golden brown and the meat visible beneath was flaky and white. With a metal basket, he dipped the fish out as they finished cooking. Levy had fried a little more than two thirds of the fish when Imogene came outside with Bill.

  "Mind if we use the other stove?" Bill asked.

  Levy smiled. "That's what I set it up for. Y'all are more than welcome to it."

  Bill nodded and began dropping large spoonfuls of hush puppy batter into the hot grease. The dollops of batter acted similarly to the fish, bobbing and bubbling in the hot grease until golden brown and crispy.

  It wasn't long before the pan fish were fried, along with Granddaddy's catfish, and the Texas hushpuppies. When they carried the food inside, the rest of the meal was just being set onto the counters and the sturdy kitchen table. Eric carried the plate of fish and the bowl of fresh, steaming hot hush puppies and set them on the only open spots left on the table. The entire crowd gathered around the table and slowly fell silent, all eyes trained on Levy.

  The old farmer stepped forward, his hat in his hand, and looked around the room. He nodded quietly, and said, "If we could all bow our heads."

  Every head bowed together. Then, slowly, each person reached out to the one next to them. After the chaos and the fear of the past few days, it felt good just to have simple contact with another living, breathing person. It was as if all of them had taken a deep, heavy sigh of relief at the exact same moment.

  "Father," Levy said softly, "bless this food and the hands that prepared it. We thank you for the food we are about to receive, and we pray for those who aren't here to share it with us. Bring them home safely, Lord. In your name we pray, Amen."

  The four young children leapt to the front of the line first, of course. Chris followed them with his wife holding their baby daughter. Chris fixed a plate for each of them, balancing his wife's and his on the same arm and using his free hand to serve. The others began chatting together, paying more attention to conversation than to food. They were all tired and hungry, but sometimes there were more important things than food.

  For a long time, though, Eric just stood with Christina at the back of the kitchen, his arms wrapped around her waist, watching....and smiling.

  Ch. 54

  Headlights

  Joe pulled the old '58 off to the shoulder of the road and turned off the engine. The gas gauge was reading a little less than a quarter of a tank, but Joe didn't trust the needle to be accurate. Sometimes when the station wagon's lights were turned on, the gas needle would jump a quarter of a tank. The last thing he wanted was to run out of fuel and strand them on the side of the road with no way to reach or even contact help.

  As soon as the car was stopped, Tom and Henderson climbed out of the front passenger door. Henderson watched the road ahead of them while Tom kept an eye on their back trail; both men rested a hand uneasily on their sidearm. The road had been empty so far save for a handful of abandoned cars, their doors and trunks standing open, and most of the glass busted out of the windows, but there was no guarantee it would stay that way.

  The passengers in the back shifted, and both boys groaned in their sleep. Only Gilbert's eyes were open, though, and he carefully untangled himself from the snarled mass of arms and legs the boys had made in their sleep. He carefully opened his door and slipped out with Joe. The two of them walked around to the trunk and took two of the five gallon gas tanks out to fill the car. Henderson had managed to siphon out a little less than twenty five gallons of gas from some of the abandoned cars in the city to help them on their way south.

  "We getting close?" Gilbert asked, stretching his back slowly and carefully. The back seat of the station wagon was wide, but with five people crammed into it, there wasn't really any way to get comfortable.

  Joe shook his head slightly. "Probably three more hours," he said, "assuming we don't have to backtrack or detour anywhere between here and home."

  Gilbert sighed heavily and nodded. "Where are we headed, anyway?"

  Joe's eyes narrowed slightly, but he shrugged and answered. "My in-laws' homestead near Bennett."

  "Bennett," Gilbert said softly, one finger tapping his cheek alongside his nose. After a moment, he snapped his fingers. "Chatham County, off of Highway 902, right?"

  Joe nodded. "How the heck do you know that?" he asked, setting one empty gas can down, and taking the full one from Gilbert. "Bennett is a hole in the wall town that most people from Chatham would be hard-pressed to point out on a map."

  "I told you I used to haul equipment," Gilbert said. "I knew every side and back road in North Carolina at one point. Course my memory ain't what it was when I was thirty, but it ain't half bad at that."

  Joe nodded, and the two were silent for a while. Gilbert stared through the back glass of the car at his sleeping fa
mily, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead and his face. After a moment, he dug his short, round pipe from his pocket and stuck it unlit between his teeth. The old farmer fixed Joe with a hard, serious stare and seemed to chew over what to say in his mind for a moment before speaking.

  "Joe, I don't want you to take this the wrong way," Gilbert said slowly, carefully. "I appreciate all you done so far for me and mine. But I got to ask, are you sure y'all are gonna be able to take care of our family? I don't want us to be a burden too heavy, and I don't want to take my family from the fryin pan to the fire, as it were. I just got to make sure that we're doin the right thing for 'em."

  Joe set the can down and turned to Gilbert. "We've got four wells that are deep and have never run dry," Joe said. "There's fields to grow crops, and there's game to hunt. Farms all around us have chickens, cows, and pigs, plus there's wild game in the woods like you wouldn't believe. It won't be easy, Gilbert, but we can help take care of each other."

  Gilbert stuck his right hand out. "I'm takin your word on that, Joe. I hope you're right about it."

  "Well, think about it this way," Joe said, taking Gilbert's hand, and shaking it firmly, "whatever's coming, the more people you have standing next to you, the easier it'll be to hold the line."

  Gilbert nodded and helped Joe finish emptying the second gas can into the car. They put the empty cans back in the trunk, and Gilbert rearranged some of the cargo to better brace the two remaining cans with gas in them. Joe took out two bottles of water for the men to share among the four of them. The night air was definitely cooler without the sun beating down on the car, but it was still warm enough that Joe had broken a sweat putting gas in the car. After drinking half of the bottle that Henderson handed him, Gilbert glared at his pipe as if he wanted to light it, but finally he stuffed it back into the pocket on his overalls.