by Mic Roland
Money had been part of collective cultural thinking since Biblical times. It was too much a part of how people mentally organized their universe to not have in some form. He would have to ask Susan about that. After just negotiating a deal to bring some cows to Cheshire, Martin was feeling pretty good. It seemed like there was practically no problem that could not be solved if people just got their minds over old ways of thinking.
He noticed the woman in the corner, still trying to sell her metal knick-knacks. She looked more worried than before. Martin felt bad for her. She was trying to sell useless decorations to people who were trying to scrape up enough food to eat. In normal times, people with disposable income probably bought her tchotchkes. The woman was obviously stuck in the old ways of thinking. He wondered if she truly realized that times were no longer normal. Whatever people might put value in — ammo, silver, firewood — he could not see them trading any of those things for craft baubles.
Nick was still talking to the man in the yellow hat, so Martin figured he would let the woman know why no one was buying her ‘cute’ metal items. She did not seem to understand the new utilitarian economy.
“Hi,” Martin felt awkward starting up conversations cold.
The woman looked up. “Oh. Hi!” Her face brightened to a broad smile. In better times she was probably attractive, in a down-to-earth sort of way. Slightly sunken cheeks and tired eyes hinted that the past two weeks without power had been hard on her.
“If you see anything you like,” she said. “Just let me know. I’m willing to haggle.”
The handwritten calligraphy prices on the frilly cards spoke of unrealistic expectations. Twenty dollars for a mama bear and cubs made out of cut copper sheet, embossed from behind to suggest fur. Fifty dollars for an old-fashioned farm windmill made of galvanized sheet and heavy wire. The least expensive item she had on display was a turkey made out of a funnel, with wire feet. It was cleverly made, using some sort of triangular punch to raise little open wedges in the funnel that suggested feathers. Clever or not, it was not worth five dollars to anyone now.
Martin sighed. Who would want any of this junk? They’re looking for food. Martin had a hard time imagining that metal knick-knacks were all the woman had at home to trade. Other people were bringing in extra blankets, hand tools, kids’ winter boots, anything to trade for a pumpkin or a few apples. Household items were at least something that someone might use during the coming winter. Tchotches? Martin thought the poor woman needed to be clued in. Surely she had some excess tangible good that would be of more value to people. Even cardboard would have some value for starting fireplace fires. Everyone should have cardboard at home.
“These are nice enough…”
“Thanks. I made them myself. I’m a metal artist, you see.” She smiled nervously.
Oh great, he thought. Now I’m going to insult her artist-ness. “I didn’t see too many people checking out your…art…today.”
“No.” Her face fell back into its prior worried look.
“Well, you know, these are kinda hard times for people,” Martin was trying to pick his words carefully.
“I know, I know.” She sounded exasperated. “But, I really need to make some money.”
She wrung her hands together, which caught Martin’s eye. Glancing at her hands revealed that the zipper on her sweater had crept down, revealing abundant cleavage. Martin looked up, startled at the sight. The woman noticed his glance and quickly zipped her sweater up to her neck. They both blushed. Martin was about to try and explain and apologize, but Nick hurried up beside him, gushing with excitement.
“Martin, Martin, Martin,” Nick said.
Martin put down the funnel turkey, delighted at the handy exit to an embarrassing situation. “What’s the rush? Get a good deal on something?
“Actually, trading has been kinda tough. I had no idea prices would be so high. I spent nearly all the cash I had on this deer meat. I didn’t bring anywhere near enough cash. Truth is, I’m not sure how much more we’ve got at home. Maybe Jess has more in her purse.”
“I’ve got a little cash I could loan you,” said Martin.
“No, that’s okay. Actually, what I wanted to ask if you could loan me some ammo.”
“What? Why?”
“I wanted to trade with that guy over there. See him? Yellow hat? He’s got some five-pound bags of flour. Trouble is, he won’t take paper money. Says it’s worthless now. When did dollars become worthless?”
“I didn’t know they did,” said Martin. “If he won’t take cash, then what’s he asking for?
“Silver or Ammo. He said he’d take .45 ACP .308 or 9mm. He wanted 30 rounds of 9mm for a five pound bag of flour. I only have seventeen in my magazine. You carry a 9, right? Could you loan me thirteen rounds? I’ll pay you back as soon as we get home. I swear.”
“But then you’ll have nothing in your gun. We just ran into those tuner boys yesterday, and you want to go around unarmed?”
“I know, I know, but that’s just an hour’s walk. Five pounds of flour is, like, a week’s worth of something to feed the kids. That seems worth the risk to me.”
“Okay, but 30 rounds for five pounds of flour? That sounds kinda steep,” Martin said.
“I thought so too,” said Nick, “But he’s the only one trading flour. Even one bag of flour will be a big help for Jess and the kids. Besides…” Nick leaned close to whisper discretely. “I’ve got two full ammo cans of FMJ at home, just no extra on me right now.”
“That’s what he’s asking for? FMJ?” Martin asked.
“He didn’t say, but that’s what he had in the coffee can, so I just assumed that’s the kind he meant.”
“Well then, let’s go see what this is all about,” said Martin.
“Hi. I’m back,” Nick said to the man in the yellow hat.
“I hear you’re asking 30 rounds of 9mm for five pounds of flour,” Martin said.
“That’s the price,” said Yellow Hat with a tone that excluded haggling.
Martin pulled Nick aside. He dug the Hi-Point’s magazine out of the box and emptied it into Nick’s hand. “Your seventeen, plus ten from the tuner boys makes twenty-seven.” Martin took one of the hollow points out of his magazine. “Let’s try this.”
“How about this?” Martin asked Yellow Hat. “Twenty-seven jacketed 9 mil, and one…nickel-plated deep hollow point…+P.” Nick held up the pile of twenty-seven rounds in his open hands. Martin held up the silvery hollow-point, in the way someone might hold up a pearl. Martin twisted it a few half-rotations, so the chrome-like shine could glint in Yellow Hat’s eye. All those years of watching television ads were not entirely wasted.
Yellow Hat eyed the pile and the pearl for a moment. He snatched the pearl. “Deal.”
Nick smiled broadly. “Thanks man.”
On the way out, Martin handed Nick two hollow-points. “Here. You shouldn’t be totally unarmed on the way home. We can settle up the ammo later.”
“But why the Perez family?” Susan asked.
“Because the house and our food supply, can’t handle the extra.” Martin did not look up, but continued to rummage through Dustin’s pile of scrap metal parts.
“I understand all that, but if someone needs to go live at that town farm thing, why not the Dunans?” Susan nodded in agreement with her own conclusion.
“I know you’re not very fond of Trish,” began Martin. He held up one promising piece but shook his head and dropped it.
“Are you?” she asked with an implied suspicion.
“No,” he said with finality.
“I didn’t think so. And I know you’re not keen on Adam either,” she said. “So this should be a no-brainer. Have them move to this town farm thing, and let the Perez family go in the corner bedroom.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, but it’s not as simple as that.”
“We can’t do that, Martin,” Margaret had that hint of whine in her voice when she thought his ideas were bad
. “We can’t just evict the Dunans. We said we’d take them in. We committed ourselves. It’s only been a few days and then we boot them out? How would that look to everyone?”
“I know we said we’d take them in, but is that supposed to mean forever?” Martin countered. “They both have their…problems, like Adam tending to sleep on watch. And she’s not much of a worker, you said so yourself.”
“Adam promised it would never happen again, right?” Margaret said. “They’re just young, and not used to having to get by. They’ll be okay.”
“Why are you defending them?”
“I’m not defending them, Martin. It’s just that we can’t ship them off after a couple days when we said we’d take them in. We made a commitment. We have to keep it.”
Martin sighed in resignation. Commitments.
“We really thank you, Mr. Martin, for finding us a place to stay,” said Carlos. The four of them walked along the side of the highway.
Martin forced a small chuckle. “Don’t thank me yet. We haven’t seen it. It’s not too far of a walk, but I wanted to see it for myself and make some introductions, if necessary.”
“Even if it is just a barn, we will be happy. We did not have anywhere to go when we left Manchester. I could only imagine us living in our car.”
“Hopefully, the Webster’s place will be a step up from that, though I’m not sure what they’ll have for accommodations. It sounded like there would be a bed, but maybe not much beyond that,” Martin said.
“Anything is a gift from God,” said Carlos. “What we had in the apartment was not much, but we had to leave all those things.”
“But I made sure I packed my race car,” said Lucas. He swung his backpack around and dug in the front pocket. He handed it to Martin.
“Wow. That’s a really nice race car,” said Martin.
“I know!” Lucas beamed. “Papa made it himself, didn’t you Papa?”
Carlos smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “Yes I did.” He patted Lucas. “They let me keep the wood scraps from the jobs. I find some good ones and take them home.”
“Cool.” Martin turned the wooden car over a few times, studying the many small parts. “How did you make the tires?”
“Oh, those were the cutouts from when they used their hole saws on the cabinets. I thought the plywood grain looked like tire treads,” said Carlos. “A little sanding, a little black paint. I have tires.”
“Papa painted it red. It’s my Ferrari.” Lucas took back the toy car and did an eight-year-old’s best rendition of high-rev engine whine, downshifting for a turn.
“Lucas loves the Formula One.”
Lucas spent the rest of their walk to the Webster farm recounting the exciting moments from the past F1 season and what he thought was wrong with the rules.
“Oh, hello,” purred Candice. Her smile was clearly on the condescending side as she ‘greeted’ Martin. “What do you want…here, today?” She tried to soften her tone when she saw that Martin was not alone.
“This is the Perez family,” Martin motioned to them, again standing in a tight cluster. “They recently fled gang violence in Manchester…”
“Oh my!” gasped Candice. “How awful.”
“But they ran out of gas here in Cheshire. They don’t have anywhere to stay, so I thought, what with the Town Farm decision yesterday, that…”
“Of course!” Candice’s smile shifted back over the line to compassionate. “You poor souls. Come in, come in. We’re just getting another family settled. I’ll go get Mr. Webster.” Candice hurried off.
“Mrs. Webster seems like a nice lady,” said Carlos.
“Um. That’s not Mrs. Webster. Candice is a lady in town who…um, likes to help.” Martin parsed his words carefully.
Don Webster appeared in the doorway. He was a little man, slightly stooped. “Hello, hello. Come on in.” He motioned with his free arm as he held the door open wide. “I’ll show you up to your room.”
They made their way through the low-ceilinged old house to a narrow stairway. Martin carried the Perez family’s box of food, over Anna’s objections. Martin could tell it was getting heavy for her a mile back up the road.
“This is the room you’ll be sharing with the Frennault family.” Mr. and Mrs. Frennault sat on the tall narrow bed. Their four-year-old daughter clung to her mother’s leg as if it conferred invisibility.
“We have two cots set up here on this side,” continued Don. “You can rig up a blanket or something to separate your halves of the room if you like, but that’s up to you. I’ve explained to the Frennaults about how to use the little fireplace, so you can ask them. I’ll repeat that this log rack here is your day’s worth of firewood. You can refill it each morning, but that’s all you all get for the day. Use it sparingly. We don’t have all that much wood for all the fireplaces.”
Candice arrived with a colorful sleeping bag and an armload of bedding. “These are for your cots, and here is something for your son. I hope it’s not too child-like for such a grown up young man.” She beamed her best compassion-smile at Lucas. He smiled back, happy with the promotion.
Don leaned out of the door to point down the hallway. “Down there is the little bathroom for the upstairs rooms. You’ll be sharing that with everybody else up here. For now, use the bucket to flush, but it’s your responsibility to refill the bucket. Mrs. Webster and I are getting too old to haul buckets or firewood.”
“What about their food?” Martin asked.
“Oh, I should have had you leave that downstairs. Another rule is, I’m afraid, is that we can’t keep everyone’s food separated. Far too hard to keep track of it all. So, it’s all going in one big pantry. Are you folks okay with that?”
Carlos and Anna nodded.
“So far, we’re planning two meals a day,” said Mr. Webster. “But that’s a work in progress and will probably change as we get more people.”
Martin gave them a smile in lieu of a wave as he left. Candice was busy interviewing them about dietary concerns. Downstairs, the kitchen was cramped. The boxes of food stacked along the walls suggested that the residents of the Cheshire Town Farm would not go hungry — for a little while, at least.
On the way back, Martin decided to use the short cut that Holly showed them. The leaves on the vestigial old road were still damp. While walking quietly along, he was lost in his own thoughts. Would he catch Adam sleeping on watch again? How would he tell Trish, nicely, to stop flirting for food. How would he tell Margaret about the red bra incident? Those all seemed like manageable issues, even if thorny. What about Susan? That seemed like a problem too vague to even start solving.
A faint clanking broke his train of thought. He stopped to listen more attentively, but it did not repeat. He stood still longer, waiting for something else — a second shot, as it were. A faint sound of voices was barely audible and too brief to locate. He mused about how far sounds could carry once the leaves were off the trees. Who knew how far away the source had been. It had to be fairly far, as there was nothing but forest, swamp and a pond between Wilson Hill and Stockman Hill.
Chapter 13: To Concord
After the sun rose above the bare trees, a tan Sierra with a four-horse trailer pulled on the road in front of the Simmons house. The driver introduced himself as Tyler Hendricks. His brother Charles came along to ride shotgun — literally.
Draining the Simmons’ house fuel oil tank was not a fast process. The little fittings were not designed to move large volumes. By patient bucket-brigades with small buckets, fuel was transferred to the Sierra. Tyler calculated that they might need seven gallons to make the round trip with a heavy load. Ten allowed a margin for peace-of-mind.
Before they had finished, a dark red Laramie pulled up with the second four-horse trailer in tow. Arthur Emulari had his wife and adult son, Eric, along. Both carried long guns. Arthur wore a shoulder holster.
“Are you guys expecting this to be that dangerous of a trip?” Martin asked.
�
��Not really,” said Arthur. “Certainly not like we had in Iraq, right Tyler?“
“Nah. Nothing like that,” said Tyler with a shake of his head. “That was a war zone, crawling with hostiles. Still, stands to reason that a convoy of four pickups pulling horse trailers might arouse curiosity among the greedy or desperate.”
“Oh well, I was just wondering,” Martin said. “Because, I was thinking of having my wife come along. She grew up with cows, so thought she could give Mr. Cauloff a hand checking them out, but I don’t want her coming if you guys are expecting trouble.”
