Pavement Ends: The Exodus

by Kurt Gepner

  In short order, Hank reached for his bucket of honey. The lid of the bucket had a smaller cap that held a simple spigot. He hefted the bucket over the cup and let the honey flow. "Say when," he told Byron.

  "That’s enough," the manager said when the bottom of the mug was covered. Hank didn’t stop. "Okay," Byron said. "That’s good." Hank kept pouring. "Whoa," Byron said. "When! When!" Hank shut off the spigot as the cup crested more than half full.

  "I wouldn’t want you to think I'm stingy," Hank said with a grin.

  Byron grinned back. "You know," he said as he rubbed the back of his neck. "This reminds me of some of the stories my grand-dad used to tell about doing business from his back porch. That was back when they made bathtub gin."

  Hank gave him a knowing smile and a deep nod that could have been a bow. "I imagine that we’ll all have to call on some of that old wisdom in days to come."

  Dipping his index finger into the cup, Byron concurred with Hank. And after tasting the honey, he turned to Lidia and asked her to weigh the bucket on the big scale. She did and it weighed forty-four and three-quarter pounds. Byron jotted down some figures on a paper and looked up at Hank.

  "You’re blowing the bell curve," Byron said. "So to speak, anyway. Look," he went on apologetically. "I come up with something over twelve-thousand credits. But as much as we might like to have some honey, that’s a lot of buying power for what boils down to a luxury item that very few people can afford."

  Evie gave her husband the look that told him she was jumping in the game. She had learned a lot about honey over the years that her husband was beekeeping. It was about time that she made use of that knowledge. She figured that Hank had got them on base, now she was going to bring them home. "I’m sure you know, Byron," she drew out her words, "that honey doesn’t go bad?"

  "Hmmm…," Byron sounded skeptical.

  Evie rolled on. "In fact, archeologists have found honey sealed inside Egyptian tombs... still edible."

  "I didn’t know that. Even so…"

  Evie went on. "And…, it’s very nutritious."

  "Well," Byron countered. "That’s all good, unless people can’t afford it."

  "And…" Evie punctuated. "It has some pretty amazing medicinal qualities."

  At the mention of medicine, Byron’s attention to the situation redoubled. "What sort of qualities?" He asked with great interest.

  She paused for drama. "It’s antiseptic, and it’s a natural antibiotic."

  Byron was genuinely interested. "I had no idea," he commented thoughtfully.

  "Oh, yes," she said. "In fact, it’s the only antibiotic that some diabetics can use when they get lesions."

  Byron’s jaw dropped. "Are you serious?"

  "She’s serious," Hank confirmed. "Medical uses for honey have been supported by modern science, but people have known about it for thousands of years."

  "Thousands?" Byron asked dubiously.

  "Thousands," Hank stated. "It’s talked about in the old testament. The Qur’an devotes an entire section to it. Actually, honey has been valued in almost every major culture or religion for all of recorded time." As Byron mulled over this information, Hank concluded with, "Hell… the Romans actually accepted honey as payment for taxes, because they knew how precious it is."

  "All right, already," Byron said. "I’ll take the whole bucket off your hands for eight-thousand."

  "Eight-thousand!" Evie swooned from offense. "That’s four-thousand less than you said it’s worth."

  "Yeah, but I’m buying the whole bucket," Byron defended.

  "Not for eight-thousand, you're not!" Evie folded her arms across her chest. "You said twelve-thousand."

  "Hey," Byron crossed his own arms. "I’ve got to be able to stay in business while I’m trying to move this stuff."

  "Like I said," Evie countered, "It won’t go bad. You’ll get your return."

  With a deep sigh, Byron said, "All right. I’ll go nine-thousand, but that’s it."

  "Do you have any soap, Byron?" Hank asked cryptically.

  Cocking his head to the side, Byron answered, "Yes."

  "What’re you going to do when it runs out?" Hank asked.

  "There’s people in town who make soap," Byron answered confidently. "Some of them used to sell it at the Saturday Market."

  Hank nodded appreciatively. "What are they going to do when they run out of caustic soda?"

  "What’s that?" Byron frowned.

  Lidia answered the question before Hank opened his mouth. "It’s a main ingredient for making soap. I used to order it every year so my kids could make soap as Christmas gifts."

  "Well," Byron said with a less confident tone. "I’m sure someone knows how to make it."

  Peering over the rim of his glasses, Hank nodded sardonically. "Yep. Caustic soda is made by applying an electrical current through a salt water solution. How much salt do you have?"

  Byron was beginning to pale. "What’s your point?" He demanded.

  "My point is this," Hank said with a level look. "We’re going to be occasional, but regular customers of yours. Maybe monthly or more, if this catastrophe plays out like I suspect."

  "You and a lot of others," Byron said, unimpressed.

  "But I know how to do a lot of things in the old fashioned way," Hank said as he tapped his temple. "That includes making soap like the pioneers used to make it."

  For a moment Byron seemed baffled, but then realization of the future potential sparkled in his eyes. "Okay… so what’s your point?"

  "My point is," said Hank, "if you treat us favorably now, then we’ll be inclined to treat you the same way later on."

  Byron squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them furiously behind his thick spectacles. "Fine!" His tone was of defeat. "Twelve-thousand, flat."

  "Let’s make it ten-thousand," Hank said.

  Evie’s head snapped around. "What?!"

  Byron and Lidia, both, gave themselves whiplash. "What?!" They spoke in unison.

  "It’s like this," Hank said with hands up. "We don’t want to screw you any more than we want to be screwed. If twelve-thousand make’s you grit your teeth, then it’s not fair."

  "Fair is what we agree on," Evie flared. He knew she was telling him to back off.

  Hank nodded at her and pressed his position. "If it were a one-time deal, I’d be on the same page with you, but we’ve got a lot more to trade. And we’re going to be coming back. This is the dawning of a business relationship."

  Evie knew better than to argue with her husband on the point of fair business practice. His code of ethics, whether or not she agreed, was unimpugnable. "Of course," she said, swallowing her ire. "That makes perfect sense."

  "Hold on," Byron said with a sincere frown. "I made an agreement and that’s that." His face warped into a grin and he chuckled. "I can’t let you leverage that much advantage over me."

  Hank returned a sheepish smile and asked, "How do you think I would get an advantage over you?"

  "Because," Byron stated accusingly, but with a smile. "I can already see how you operate. You sweeten me up with some honey, then you butter me up with promises and between now and then, you take me to the cleaners." Byron shook his finger at Hank. "Shame on you, for exploiting my weakness."

  Lidia looked at her boss with a touch of bafflement. "Weakness?" she asked.

  "What?" Byron defended. "I’m nostalgic. I love the stories my grand-dad used to tell me about business." He stuck his hand out for Hank to shake it. "You’ve got your twelve thousand, Sir. And so long as you keep doing this sort of business, you’ll be treated favorably."

  Hank grinned broadly and vigorously shook Byron’s hand. "You don’t even know how good that makes me feel," he said.

  "Well," Evie said with aplomb. "Now that we’ve got that settled…, what’s a credit get you these days?" They all laughed.

  When the moment passed, Byron excused himself back to his office. "Lidia will help you with all that," he said.

  Lidia smiled and
turned to her ever-silent guard. "Hey, Warren, will you keep the counter while I escort them around?"

  Warren seemed uncertain. Lidia preempted his refusal by saying, "The store is closed. Just turn the sign and hang out." He was still reluctant to move. "I promise, you can shoot them if they steal anything."

  Warren smile sheepishly and rasped with an oddly faded voice, "Oh, go on, Miss Lidia. You know I’m not like that." Lidia chuckled and then began showing her patrons through the store.

  Weaving them through the tables and racks of goods, Lidia carried on a monologue explaining how the store worked and where the various objects had come from. As the city’s single undamaged commercial building, Mayor Bundridge declared it a vital resource and sanctioned it to do business on behalf of Washougal. They were to accept cash, with prejudice, but work out a system of credit that would allow the citizens of Washougal to trade for goods and services. Cash, presently was valued at one dollar per credit. Labor, depending on skill, earned credit at the rate of four credits per hour and up.

  Certain goods, such as staple foods, had no profit value, being bought and sold at a fair and even price through the store. For example, one medium potato would trade for one egg. And certain limits were in place, to prevent hoarding, or to preserve emergency supplies. Other goods, such that were useful and necessary on a regular basis, could be traded at a fifteen percent profit. Things such as fabric, soap, cookware and tools fell into that category. And most other things, such as weapons and ammunition or engine parts, could be traded at fair market value. In that regard, the Pendleton Store operated like a pawn shop.

  When they got to the back, Hank stopped in front of a caged off section that protected a locked glass case. "I thought you might find that interesting," Lidia said. In the case were several assorted firearms. "You’d think that people would hold onto to their weapons, but some don’t."

  "I’d suppose they have a gun without ammunition, or vice versa, so they figure it’s worth more as food," Hank reflected aloud.

  "That’s exactly it," Lidia confirmed. "And, as you might guess, ammunition is scarce."

  "I imagine," Hank assented. "How much?"

  Lidia smiled the merchant’s smile. "Fair market value," she replied.

  Hank looked her directly. "How much is fair market value?" He asked with a grin.

  "The price at which a buyer is willing to buy and a seller is willing to sell," she defined.

  Hank’s face drained of its patience. "And at what price are you willing to sell?"

  Lidia dropped her playful tone and answered matter-of-factly. "Right now, all ammunition is a flat rate. One hundred credits per round."

  "How much are your guns?" Hank asked without blinking, although he quickly calculated that a person would have to dig ditches for two, long days to afford one bullet. Those rates were ridiculous.

  "Each is individually priced," Lidia replied to his question.

  Hank forced a smile. "Okay…, let’s start with your twenty-two rifles. How much are they?"

  Lidia pointed at a rifle that was dull and weathered and missing a portion of its butt. "That one’s two-hundred and fifty."

  "That one doesn’t look functional," Hank observed.

  "It is," Lidia assured. "We won’t buy a weapon if it doesn’t work."

  "You check them, all?" Hank asked, skeptically.

  "Yes we do," she said resolutely.

  "Okay, go on," he accepted her assurance.

  "This one’s six-hundred and this one’s eighteen-hundred." She pointed first at a rifle with a black, synthetic stock and then at one with polished wood and a scope.

  "And the others?" Hank indicated two, high-powered rifles, each with a scope.

  "The thirty-ought-six is four-thousand, five-eighty," she said. "And the thirty-thirty is forty-two-hundred."

  "What about the hand guns?" Evie asked.

  "The nine-mil is seven-hundred-fifty and the three-fifty-seven is nine-hundred," Lidia told her.

  "Okay," Hank said. "I’ll take that twenty-two," he said indicating the one with a broken stock. "And one-hundred rounds for it." He nudged his jaw in the direction of the items he listed. "The thirty-thirty and two boxes of ammo for that, a box of thirty-ought-six rounds and a box of twelve-gauge shotgun shells."

  Lidia jotted down the figures and gave Hank a perplexed look. "You realize that its one-hundred per round of ammunition…, right?"

  "Oh, he understands that," Evie said, "but we’re only willing to buy the rifles and ammunition for ninety-five hundred, all together." Evie smiled the same merchant’s smile that Lidia had so recently displayed. "Now, are you willing to sell?" This was the very reason Hank wanted her along. Negotiation was Evie’s meat and potatoes.

  Lidia grimaced. "Well… uh."

  "You did say fair market value, didn’t you?" Evie asked with a smirk.

  "Yes," Lidia confirmed. "But…"

  "So, do you have any other buyers willing to pay more?" Evie asked.

  "We’re not even open," Lidia retorted. "It’s not a fair question."

  "It’s not," Evie agreed. "But it is fair to pose this question: What are people buying? Have you been moving a lot of guns and ammunition?"

  "Actually," Lidia answered. "A group of people traded their dirt bikes for some guns, just today. But…"

  "But, what?" Evie prompted.

  Lidia looked reluctant to go on. Then after a moment she said, "They were just passing through and we haven’t sold any other guns since we opened three days ago." She said it like an admission of guilt.

  Evie pounced. "Well, you know we’ll be doing more trade with you, right?" She waited for Lidia’s resigned assent. "And… you’re in the business to sell, right?"

  "Yes," Lidia agreed.

  "And you want to make a profit, right?"

  "Of course," Lidia concurred.

  "I know," Evie said conspiratorially, "as well as you, that you have, in the very least, doubled the price on the guns. But people with guns and ammunition aren’t going to buy them and those without can’t afford them. If you don’t sell to us, who will buy them?"

  "You’ve got a good point," Lidia said. "But I can’t accept your price."

  "All right," Evie said while she rubbed her hands together. "What price can you accept?"

  Hank looked at his wife while she aggressively haggled for the best deal. She was thrilled by the challenge. That was why she had been unfaithful to their marriage, Hank realized. There was no challenge. He was always there, through thick and thin. He was predictable. She knew his habits, boundaries and intentions. There were no real risks in their marriage and Evie got bored. But rather than confront him with her dissatisfaction, she went out looking for adventure.

  He couldn’t look at her any more. Hank turned his back on his wife and pretended to peruse the nearby wares. In truth, she so disgusted him that he couldn’t see anything but a collage of her behavior, as he snapped together pieces of her cheating. When he tired of sightlessly browsing the goods, Hank asked on a whim if they had compiled a directory of survivors. Lidia directed him to Warren.

  Wandering back to the counter, Hank asked the guard about the list. "Oh sure," Warren said with his hollow rasp. "That was the first thing done by the mayor. He saw to it that friends and family could find each other." Warren pulled out three binders, two thick and one thin, and sat them on the counter. "They’re kinda hard to follow, but this one has ever’one listed by their first name." He opened the cover and flipped to a random page in the T section. "So you’ve gotta work through ‘em all, ‘cause there’s not an order, but you know all the T’s are in here. See," he said while pointing down the handwritten list. "Here’s Tami Hickerson, Thomas Bransheg, Todd Amhurst."

  "Does that mean people are listed by last name in here?" Hank asked as he pointed to the second binder.

  "Yep," Warren said with wide eyes. "You got it! So they could keep the families together," he added.

  "And this one?" Hank asked of the thin binder
.

  Warren eyed it superstitiously. "That's the list of folks we know is dead."

  "Well, can I look through them?" Hank asked flatly.

  "Sure," Warren said and turned the binders the right way for Hank to read. "That’s what they’re here for. Plus, you can leave notes for people."

  "Thanks," Hank replied, already engrossed in his search.

  "You a friend of Taylor’s?" Warren asked when Hank stopped on the name. The man was intently curious of Hank’s perusing. When the question was asked, Evie stopped talking in mid-sentence. Hank looked over and caught Evie’s eye just as she snapped her attention back to haggling.

  "Yeah," Hank answered the guard.

  "Him and me grew up together," Warren said proudly. "We was next door neighbors as kids."

  "Really?" Hank absently asked. "He and I go hiking, now and then. Er…, at least we used to, until everything went to hell." Hank swallowed down a lump as he reflected, How many Hells can one man take? I lose my wife and friend in the snap of a finger while surviving the worst cataclysm in the history of the world.

  "Tell me about it!" Warren heartily agreed without noticing Hank’s internal strife. "I used to league bowl, until last week. The alley burned down." Warren looked very sad as he prattled on. "Good ol’ Ed was working on one a those machines when the lightn’n happened. He didn’t make it."

  "I’m sorry to hear that," Hank said in a way that sounded insincere to his ears. "Was he a relative?" He found that his friend, Loraine Walcott, was alive and staying at Ft. Vancouver.

  "Nah," Warren said. "Just a friend. But I’m over here a blubberin’ about some dead guy while you’re tryin’ ta find the live ones. I’ll just leave you alone, now."

  Hank turned to the second binder. "That’s okay," he said as he started to read down the list of W’s for Walcott. "I really do understand." Warren said that he appreciated Hank’s understanding, but Hank’s silent concentration conveyed that he wasn’t interest in conversing any longer. He found Loraine’s name. Above hers was Laurence, her husband. Below theirs was Jaydin, Darryl and Kristina.

  Warren seemed incapable of taking a hint, however, so when he saw the name that Hank had found he said, "I know them to. They’re good folk. Loraine does a lot of stuff in the community. She’s real involved. Ya know, Loraine once got…" the guard rambled on.