by Mic Roland
The black Escalade pulled into the store parking lot. People in line had to hurry out of its way then reform into a line. The white Suburban stopped across the road. Jack Quinn stepped out of the Escalade. He waved to the crowd, as if expecting cheers. No one knew they were supposed to cheer. A few feeble ‘g’mornin’ calls did squeak out. Giving up on adulation, Quinn strode into the center of the intersection. With ground-crew arm gestures, he signaled to the approaching semi.
If the Escalade resembled a breaching whale, the white Freightliner was Atlantis rising from the deep — in a cloud of black smoke. Quinn signaled for the truck to pull onto the side of the highway, near the store.
Several men in black got out of the Suburban. Each wore tactical vests and curious little helmets. They busied themselves clipping AR-15s to mono-point slings. The people in line began pointing the men out to whoever had not yet noticed.
“They’re better armed than last time,” Martin said.
“Wonder if the news from Ohio has them freaked out,” Dustin said. “They came prepared for trouble.”
“You think there will be any?” Margaret whispered.
“Hard to say. Hope not.” Martin fingered the small revolver in his pocket. It was no match for six men with ARs. Were the FEMA men expecting trouble from the people in line, ala Ohio? Or were they expecting hoodlums to rush the truck in an effort to steal the supplies? Both prospects made Martin uncomfortable. If shooting did break out at the general store, would it matter who started it? The question was what to do about it.
He had no doubt that many of the people in line were quietly carrying something like he was with his little revolver. If trouble did break out, he and his family could quickly find themselves in a crossfire like that radio announcer did. He scanned the area, looking for the nearest available cover and exit routes. An empty parking lot was a very exposed position. He imagined that he would push Margaret towards the corner of the store at the first spark of trouble. The wooden clapboard building was not great cover, but better than nothing. He would try to quickly assess the size and direction of the threat. They could back away behind the red house. Which way from there would depend on the threats.
“Just keep a sharp eye open,” Martin said quietly to Dustin.
For now, everyone in the line was behaving. Quinn and his men were not menacing. Things in Ohio went wrong, but that did not mean the whole country was about to erupt into gunfire. Surely, cooler heads could prevail.
Quinn rode the lift gate up to the back of the trailer. With a bullhorn, he addressed the crowd. “Good citizens. We bring you help.” Quinn paused, to allow for cheering. Only Candice’s voice could be heard in the back, thanking him.
Quinn continued without the air of Santa. “Do not rush up to the truck. There is enough for everyone. We will not tolerate any unruliness. Stay in a single file line. Wait behind the yellow stanchion there until called over to the truck by Mr. Zachary here. Then come up to the lift gate where you will be given a box. One box per person. No exceptions. There will be no collecting of extra boxes for people not present. One box per person present.”
“Once you have your box, move away quickly to the right here. No one will be allowed to congregate around the vehicles. I trust I have made myself clear. Okay, let’s get started.” Quinn pointed to a slender man in black with a clipboard, evidently Mr. Zachary.
Zachary pointed to the man in the brown overcoat at the head of the line. The man walked up to the lift gate apprehensively, unsure that going first was necessarily a good thing.
Two black-clad arms thrust a box out from within the trailer. The FEMA man behind Quinn took it and held it out to drop to the man. The man in the brown overcoat caught the box, about the size that a pair of work boots would come in. He looked lost for where to go for a few steps, then walked briskly to the road. His wife got her box and followed him down the road. The process got faster after the first several people.
Satisfied that his supervisory presence was no longer necessary on the lift gate, Quinn had one of his men lower him to the ground. He paced a few steps along the line, arms behind his back, studying the people as a rancher might study cattle at an auction. He cut through the line to continue studying the people from the other side. He made his way across the highway to the town hall.
While he kept inching forward in line, Martin could see all three selectmen on the front steps. Quinn strode up to them with what appeared to be a friendly greeting. The four of them stood and talked.
It was Martin’s turn to step forward. The man on the lift gate dropped a box into his arms. It was not too heavy — perhaps less than ten pounds. Martin moved to the edge of the road to wait for Margaret, Dustin and Judy to get their boxes. Meanwhile, he could see that the discussion between Quinn and the selectmen was not going well.
Quinn pointed in various directions, stabbing the air with his finger, pounding his fist in his hand. Landers shook his head. No discernible words made it across the highway, but Quinn’s raised voice was clearly angry. Wilder was getting visibly angry too. He was making stabbing motions of his own. Landers and Haddock acted as reluctant peacemakers, but Landers kept shaking his head.
“I wonder what’s in these boxes?” Margaret turned her box over and over as she joined him beside the road. “There’s no printed contents. I’m half-tempted to open it up now and see.”
“Can’t be too much in here,” said Dustin. He tossed his box up a few inches. “At least it won’t get too heavy in the arms for the walk home.”
“What do we do now?” asked Judy. “Are we waiting for Ruby?” Susan and Ruby were still twenty yards back in line and yet the line extended for a hundred yards after them.
“Don’t wait for us,” Martin said. “I’d rather you got home as soon as possible. Keep the fire stoked and keep an eye on things. We’ll be along later. Oh, and Dustin, you did bring the…tool…with you, right?”
Dustin looked confused for a moment then deciphered Martin’s code word. He smiled and patted his coat pocket.
“Good. Good. Don’t want to take any chances with hungry hooligans while you’re carrying boxes of food.”
The scene on the steps of town hall had gotten hotter. Landers and Haddock were physically restraining Wilder. Quinn’s voice was raised. His gestures were that of body-slamming an invisible wrestling foe. Quinn finally stomped back toward the truck. He barked a few orders to his men, who looked puzzled and unsure what to do.
Quinn climbed the lift gate, pulled the man out of the trailer then yanked down the trailer’s overhead door. He ordered his men back to their Suburban. He hopped down, ordering Zachary and another man into the Escalade.
People in the line called out to ask what was going on, but Quinn did not answer. Their questions became shouts, but Quinn was inside, behind black glass. The Escalade backed out of the parking lot with no regard to the people standing in line. They all scattered. The driver gunned the engine as he pulled around the truck and down the hill. The Suburban followed. The big Freightliner rumbled to a start, bleached a big ball of black smoke. With that, Atlantis sank back into the sea.
“What was that all about?” Red Cauloff asked Landers. “Why did they up and leave? Someone said the truck wasn’t even half empty. The big man said there’d be one for everyone.”
Martin stood nearby waiting for Susan and Ruby.
“It’s a long story, Red, and this isn’t really the place for it.”
“Oh cummon, Jeff. Just give me a clue. We stood in this dang line for over an hour and didn’t get one of them boxes for it. Certainly you can give me something.”
“Okay. Suffice it to say that we did not make Mr. Quinn very happy. He expected that we would have done a bunch of stuff, which we didn’t do. So, as you can see, he decided to take his ball and go home.”
“What did he ask you to do?” asked Barbara.
“It’s complicated, and I really shouldn’t be talking about it just yet. We need some time to figure things out.
”
“And Wilder needs some time to cool off,” quipped Red. “He still looks hoppin’ mad.”
“Yeah, we’re all a little upset.” Landers turned to the line of people. In a loud voice he addressed the gathering crowd. “I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen, but it seems the FEMA people have decided to stop handing out supply boxes a bit sooner than we would have liked.”
A dozen questions all burst out at once. Landers tried to abate the storm with his arms. “We’ll explain what we can later, but this isn’t the time or the place. I’m sorry everyone. Please just return to your home. Don’t stay out here in the cold.”
As Landers walked past Martin, Martin asked quietly, “Did this have something to do with that instruction pack Quinn dropped off on Monday?” Landers only nodded as he continued on his way back to town hall.
“What’s going on?” asked Ruby. “Where’s the truck? I saw it there awhile back.”
“They decided to leave,” Martin said.
“Before everyone got a box? I didn’t get a box.”
“A lot of people didn’t get boxes, Ruby,” said Susan.
“Well, it’s just not fair, I tell you.” Ruby shook her fist. “I walked a long ways — longer than I’ve walked in a long time. My feet are tired and so are my legs. They made an old woman walk all that way just to leave her with nothing? Ruby was building a head of steam.
“Come on, Ruby, we’ll all walk you home.” Martin handed Margaret his box and took Ruby by the arm. “Doesn’t this remind you of that time you walked all the way up to Walmart because they sold you the wrong shampoo?”
“I don’t know what they were thinking. They weren’t thinking, that’s what. My therapeutics always comes in a blue bottle. Always has. I clearly asked for my usual therapeutics…”
Out of the side of his mouth, Martin whispered to Margaret. “This story always gets her going. She might not even notice the walk back home.” He smiled.
“You’re a stinker,” Margaret said with a little smile.
“Didn’t you look in the bag before you left the store?” asked Susan, holding Ruby’s other arm.
“I’ve never had to look in the bag before,” ranted Ruby. “It’s always been the blue bottle. No need to look…”
Troubled Waters
“Supper will be ready soon,” Margaret announced. “Dustin, I’ll give you a roll-up you can eat while you’re on your watch. Martin, you’re going to have to clear your project off the table now.”
“Yeah, okay. Almost done with this stage.” Martin did not look up. His attention was focused on small wires held near the oil lamp for better light. He took his soldering iron from the pan of glowing coals and touched it to the twisted wires. A thin line of smoke curled up. “There. I can tack these to a board or something tomorrow.” He began gathering up his mess.
“Think it’ll work?” Dustin asked. He pulled the sweatshirt hood over his stocking cap.
“Hope so. These were the ones that tested okay, and were built to charge two double-As. I figure eight of them should give us enough milliamps to charge four batteries a day, even if it’s a gray sky. At least, that’s the plan, anyhow. Guess we’ll see, eh?”
“See mom? Being a packrat isn’t always a bad thing,” Dustin teased.
Margaret rolled her eyes. “I would have thrown away those old sidewalk lights long ago, but your father kept moving the box. Here go you, Dustin. I rolled up last night’s beans and rice — with cheese this time — into a flatbread rollup. I put it in this dishtowel so it will stay warmer. Sorry about the flatbread. I’m so disappointed my yeast has gone flat.”
“That’s okay, mom.” Dustin took the rolled up towel in his gloved hand. The .22 was slung over his shoulder. “I’ll let Judy know that supper’s ready. She’s probably really cold by now.” Dustin carefully slipped behind the dark blanket over the back door and let himself out.
Margaret nodded to Susan, who had been watching Martin solder. “Go get Ruby. Tell her it’s time for supper.”
Judy came in quietly and hurried over to warm her hands near the wood stove. “Brrr. It’s cold and damp out there this evening.”
“I do wish you would take something with you,” Martin said diplomatically. He knew she was skittish around guns. Her parents had been Massachusetts residents for many years — long enough to have absorbed that state’s gun-phobia. While Judy was born and raised in New Hampshire, the ‘black magic’ attitude of her parents had left a deep mark.
“That’s okay,” Judy said. “I had the walkie-talkie. There’s nothing going on out there anyhow.”
“I’d still feel better if you had something,” Martin said. “The Walker’s place isn’t that far up the road and they had trouble with some beggars this morning.” Martin decided not to remind Judy that it was Lance brandishing his old carbine that sent the beggars back to the highway. He was certain she would only see that as overselling his point.
Judy turned back to warming her hands, as if by breaking eye contact she had hung the phone on the topic. Martin let it go, for the time being.
Susan helped Ruby to the table. Ruby continued to mutter about the color of shampoo bottles. Margaret gave Martin a look that said, ‘see what you started?’
“This is what you guys missed for supper last night,” said Margaret. She scooped a big spoonful of yellow-tinted rice and beans onto a disk of flatbread, sprinkled on some grated cheese and rolled it up.” She handed the first one to Judy.
“We had that last night,” complained Ruby. “You just got all those boxes of new food. Why can’t we have some of that?”
“Actually, Ruby, about half of those were bean and rice meals anyhow. Besides, we’re trying to make our supplies last.”
“Well, I told you last night that I don’t like rice and beans.” Ruby pushed her chair back from the table. “Think I’ll go fix myself up something else.”
“Ruby,” Margaret said sternly. “We can’t all go fixing up our own meals. Our supplies won’t last long that way.”
“Nonsense,” Ruby quipped back. “I’ll just open a can of soup and pop it in the microwave.”
“Ruby, the microwave hasn’t worked for a week.” Martin tried to get Ruby seated again. “The power’s been out. Remember? That’s why we have the oil lamp here?”
“I don’t care. I’m not eating rice and beans again. I told you I don’t like it. I want something else!” She raised her voice and resisted Martin’s efforts to get her seated.
“It doesn’t matter if you like it or not,” Margaret raised her voice to match. “This is just how it is. Now you can either eat your supper or go to bed without. The choice is yours.” Margaret had her hands on her hips: a mother that shall not be moved.
“You can’t talk to me like a child!” shouted Ruby. “I’m not eating your stinking rice and beans!”
Ruby threw the roll-up at Margaret. It hit her in the shoulder spattering rice up on Margaret’s face. Martin cringed. Margaret had few emotional triggers, but having something spatter on her face was one of them. Dustin and Lindsey had learned that early on in the highchair. Food thrown at mom brought on a rage that no one wanted to see twice. After a momentary shock, Margaret’s eyes flared with a fury Martin was glad he seldom saw.
“That’s it! Just get out of here. I’ve had all I can take of you. I’ve had enough you, old woman.”
Martin and Susan tried to help Ruby, but she flailed off their attempts. She stomped down the hallway and slammed her door. Margaret stood silent, face red, still in a scowl. She might have been the last combatant standing, but she did not look victorious.
Martin slid Susan’s plate over toward her. “Might be a good thing to have your supper in your room,” he said quietly. Susan’s eyes darted between Margaret and Martin. She took the plate slowly, then hurried down the hall.
Judy sat still, with wide eyes. “Think I’ll take mine downstairs. G’nite.” She was gone in a flash.
Dustin pushed through the back door. �
�Hey, what’s all the noise in here?” After looking at Margaret’s face, he let out a small ‘oh’ and melted back outside.
Martin could see Margaret’s arms trembling as she held her white fists on her hips. The rush of emotion was catching up with the rest of her body. “I’ll…um…get a rag and clean this up,” he said.
“We can’t all go fixing our own meals!” Margaret announced to no one in particular. “We’ll run out of everything faster. People almost always eat more protein than their body requires.” She faced Martin, as if he still needed convincing. “We have to portion those things out. We have to. We can’t just eat whatever we want. We’d run out in a month.”
“I know. You’re right. We can’t.” He gathered the plates.
She followed him into the kitchen with the oil lamp. “Those boxes we just got, they only add two days to our supplies. Just two days! Half of it was cheap filler meals like rice and pasta anyhow. They cheaped-out on the proteins as it is. Cookies and brownies: empty carbs. I don’t know that it was worth standing in line all afternoon for.”
