HOW MAY WE HELP YOU?
But Rick didn’t need any help, either from the smiley face or from the two gray haired women who occupied the desk.
Rick was old school. He’d been a frequent visitor to this and other libraries pretty much since he learned to read.
This was his internet. His Google.
His source of knowledge.
He’d been coming here since it wasn’t cool.
And he’d been coming here for so long he knew the place better than most of its employees.
The two ladies at the help desk, Emily and Julie, were friendly enough. But more than once in the past, as Rick had been near the front reading a newspaper or doing research, he’d heard them befuddled by a visitor’s question.
And more than once he’d come to their aid, stepping in to point the visitor in the right direction or to tell them that yes, Stephen King once indeed wrote under the pen name Richard Bachman, and his works were on Aisle 10.
Rick’s knowledge of all things literature didn’t escape the attention of the library administrator, who asked him on a couple of occasions to join their group as an unpaid volunteer.
He’d politely declined. He didn’t want to be rude. But as much as he enjoyed spending time at the library, he went there for his own selfish reasons.
Books weren’t deceitful. They didn’t stab you in the back like many of your so-called “friends” did.
Books didn’t cheat on you, like some of Rick’s past girlfriends and wife did.
Books never talked back, or argued, or hurled insults.
Books were good friends. They were very unassuming and undemanding. They were there at Rick’s beck and call, they catered to him and they didn’t complain if he was late or if his hands were cold.
Books, in many ways, were better than people.
And they were so full of knowledge. Knowledge which had helped him become a prepper. Helped him solve pretty much every problem he’d ever encountered.
And entertained him to boot.
He headed straight to Aisle 4, ignoring the big sign overhead which read:
GENEOLOGY AND RESEARCH MATERIALS
He already knew what was there.
All city libraries have what is officially titled the City Directory, or sometimes called the Polk Directory after the company which first started publishing them back in 1872.
The directory is a magical piece of research material, invaluable to historians and anyone doing research of a particular city and its residents.
It’s been called the “Yellow Pages on steroids,” and provides a wealth of information not obtainable anywhere else.
The first city directory published for Little Rock in 1923 was a mere four hundred pages and fit in one volume. It was divided into several sections, the first section listing every single resident in order of address. For each address it listed the primary resident, his wife’s first name, their children’s names and the parent’s occupations. A typical entry in the 1923 book might say:
MAPLE ST: 2315. Smith, Robert (postman) and
Charlotte (housewife). Son Charles,
daughter Millicent.
Another section of the directory listed the same information, in alphabetical order by last name.
And yet a third section, appropriately printed on yellow paper, listed every business in the city, first by address and then by name.
The directories are still produced annually for virtually every city in the country. They provide an outstanding resource for someone who, for example, might want to know what business occupied a particular storefront on Main Street in 1937. Or who occupied a particular house and when they were there.
For Rick Spencer, though, on this particular day, he was only interested in one bit of information.
He picked up the most current directory, went to the alphabetical resident’s section, and ran his finger down a long list of Carsons.
It took him less than a minute to find a Hannah Carson, married to an Anthony Carson, who lived at 4355 Wilshire Road.
He committed the address to memory and returned the book to the shelf.
His work here was done.
But not his pleasure.
Rick was what they used to call a “bookworm.” He was an avid reader. He loved the classics the most, but really read a little bit of everything.
One of the errands he almost always ran on his monthly drives into town was to the same library to return books he’d checked out the previous month and to check out several new ones.
He perused his favorite aisles and selected two classics: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare and To Kill a Mockingbird.
He picked up two more modern books as well: Prepping on a Budget and Zombie Apocalypse.
At the checkout counter he opened his backpack and pulled out four other books he’d checked out the previous month.
As well as his wallet.
The library system checked out books for only three weeks at a time. He always had to pay overdue charges. They were nominal, and he didn’t mind.
Chapter 25
Next stop for Rick was at a local fast food Mexican restaurant called the Taco House.
He strolled up to the counter and ordered thirty burrito supremes, with green sauce and extra cheese, to go.
His unusual order elicited no questions nor raised any eyebrows. The order taker recognized him and had served him many times before.
As it turned out, Rick had an affinity for burritos. And as good a fisherman, trapper and hunter as he was, hand-made burritos were in short supply in the heavily wooded environment where he normally hung out.
The burrito traps he carefully placed beneath leaves and pine needles in the dense forest always seemed to come up empty.
He had to rely on his monthly visits to the Taco House to satisfy his occasional cravings.
Twelve minutes later he returned to his truck carrying three paper bags full of burritos and a fourth stuffed full of tiny packets of salsa.
He placed all four bags into a large Igloo cooler in the bed of his truck and got behind the wheel.
Next stop for Rick was a convenience store, where he filled all his jerry cans with diesel and his truck with regular unleaded gasoline.
Then he went inside and bought a bottle of Pepsi.
As luck would have it, Wilshire Road was on his side of town. Traffic was light on this particular day, and he covered the distance in only seventeen minutes.
He pulled in front of a modest white home with gray trim. The numbers “4355” stood loud and proud in eight inch letters just over the front door.
He knocked on the door and got no answer.
He rang the bell. Same result.
He couldn’t help himself. He peeked through the picture window.
The house was certainly occupied. It was full of furniture.
He knocked again, just in case Hannah Carson was sleeping.
No answer.
He looked around.
The yard was rather unkempt, as yards tend to be when they haven’t been mowed in three weeks. Still, it was tidy and clean. The unmowed yard didn’t necessarily mean anything. It might merely have meant that Hannah’s husband Anthony was a lazy sort.
One last time, Rick rang the doorbell, but by this time he wasn’t really expecting a response.
After a few more seconds he decided he’d done his duty. He’d tried. It was time to leave.
As he opened the door to his pickup he was stopped by a man’s voice.
“Are you looking for Tony and Hannah?”
Rick turned around to see the man across the street, holding a water hose and watering the shrubbery in his front yard.
He walked over.
“Yes. Hannah, specifically. Do you know if she’ll be home soon?”
“She went to the market. She’ll be back shortly. I can give her a message if you like.”
Something about the man, something he couldn’t quite identify, rankled Rick.
&n
bsp; “No, thank you. It’s a personal matter. I’ll just check back later.”
Rick turned his back on the man and walked back to his pickup. He didn’t see the man turn toward his house and nod.
He didn’t see a second man, just inside the window and watching the whole encounter, raise a two way radio to his mouth.
G-men, in Rick’s estimation, all carry themselves pretty much the same way. Most are former military men. In the military they learn to walk with a certain air of authority, and to speak the same way.
After they leave the uniform behind them and take jobs with the federal government they retain the walk and the talk. It’s something that brands them for life, whether they’re wearing a black suit or, in the case of the lawn-watering neighbor, khaki shorts and a polo shirt.
It’s not really a swagger, as much as an air of authority; of self confidence.
Rick’s feelings were spot on.
The house was a rental. The man on the lawn went by the name of Dave Justice.
At least that was the name he put on the lease when he leased the house two weeks before.
The owner wanted to do a credit and background check.
He was persuaded not to by Dave Justice’s disarming smile.
That and Dave’s agreement to pay a full year’s rent in advance, before he was given the keys.
They wouldn’t need the house for a year, of course. The surveillance operation would wrap up as soon as Gwen Lupson came to check on her or they were able to find Ms. Lupson through other means.
Most of the advance rent money would go to waste.
But then, the Department of Homeland Security, like most other federal agencies, didn’t care about saving the taxpayers’ money. They spent tax dollars like a drunken lottery winner out on a spending spree.
To a large degree, they applied the nation’s laws in the same disregard.
To DHS, the end justified the means.
Inside the house, the second man said something into his radio.
Then he sat back down in one of three folding chairs that made up the entire complement of furniture in the room.
Rick, in his pickup and driving two blocks away, pulled up behind a blacked-out SUV stopped at a stop sign.
He thought nothing of it until a second SUV, identical to the first, pulled up behind him.
He was blocked in with nowhere to go, no place to hide.
Suddenly four men surrounded his vehicle.
Four men dressed in almost identical black suits, with guns drawn.
They were there to ruin Rick’s day.
Chapter 26
Wilshire Road was a quiet residential street like hundreds of thousands of others across the nation.
On any given weekday afternoon its residents were more likely to be holed up inside their houses, cleaning or watching television, than watching the activities going on in the street outside.
The DHS agents, on the other hand, were always focused on their mission, whatever it may be. They were fast, efficient and quiet.
And they were gone in no time at all, without a trace they’d ever been there.
Forty two minutes after Rick Spencer pulled up behind the black SUV, an elderly widow named Sally Thomas was awakened from her afternoon nap.
As was common for her, she’d dozed off in her recliner while watching her afternoon soap operas.
They’d gotten pretty boring of late. So much so that Sally would predict with some certainly which character was going to sleep with their best friend’s husband and which marriage would fall apart next.
The loud rap on the door woke her up immediately.
“Damn salesmen,” she muttered under her breath as she padded to the door. “Can’t even let anyone get a moment’s rest anymore.”
But it wasn’t a salesman.
“Oh, my. Hello officers.”
“Good day, ma’am. I’m Officer Quimby. This is Officer Smith. We hate to bother you, but we were wondering whether you knew anything about this pickup out here on the street in front of your house?”
She looked past the policemen to a four year old Ford F-150 in the street.
“Why, no, officers. Was it involved in a collision?”
“We don’t believe so, ma’am. We just happened upon it. And it’s suspicious for a number of reasons.”
“Suspicious?”
“Yes. It’s still running, for one thing. And we cannot seem to locate the driver.”
“I’m sorry, officers. I can’t help you at all. I’m afraid I haven’t seen or heard anything, and no one came to my door looking for help.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Sorry to have bothered you.”
The officers went back to their patrol car, on the street directly behind the pickup with its blue and white lights flashing.
Their radio came to life.
“Two Victor Seven, that vehicle comes back to Rick David Spencer, Route 7 in Martinsville. No wants, no warrants, no stolen vehicle report.”
Officer Quimby responded, “Roger. Is subject known to have any medical conditions which might cause him to leave his vehicle and wander away from it?”
“Negative. No indications of that.”
“Ten four. Roll a wrecker to 4501 Wilshire Road.”
“Ten four. 4501 Wilshire Road.”
Quimby returned to the pickup and turned off the ignition. While he and his partner waited for the wrecker he searched the cab for drugs or weapons.
He felt the still unopened bottle of Pepsi and noticed it was still cool to the touch.
He opened it up and took a healthy swallow.
Apparently he figured he was entitled for all the work the mysterious Mr. Spencer was putting him through.
As he searched the glove box his partner was conducting his own search of the truck’s bed.
“Hey partner,” he yelled to Quimby. “Do you want a burrito to go with that Pepsi?”
A mile away, in the back of a nondescript motor home in the parking lot of a shuttered and abandoned strip mall, two men were working feverishly trying to revive Rick Spencer.
“How much did you give him?” one of the men demanded of the other.
“The exact dosage the chart says for a male his approximate size and weight. It wasn’t my fault, damn it! He must have a weak heart or something.”
“Damn!”
The second man, the supervisor of the operation, saw early on that they’d get no cooperation from Rick Spencer. Forced into the motor home at gunpoint and strapped into a chair, he cursed them at every question. He called them communists and anti-American and scum bags. He told them their fathers weren’t really their fathers and implied they performed unnatural acts on themselves and others.
He didn’t answer a single one of their questions. He wouldn’t even confirm the name on his driver’s license as his own.
It was the supervisor’s decision to try the truth serum. As his call, he was responsible even though he wasn’t the one to actually administer the drug. He’d be the one standing before his superior trying to explain what went wrong.
He pumped ferociously on the man’s chest, trying to force life back into him.
He paused every few seconds so his partner, the klutz with the needle who’d probably pumped half a hypo full of air into the man, blew a couple of breaths of oxygen into Mr. Spencer’s lungs.
For another twenty minutes the pair of hapless agents tried to save Rick’s life.
Finally they called it quits.
They sat back to catch their breaths, observing the sad lump of a man on the RV’s floor.
A man who less than an hour before was headed home, looking forward to eating a burrito while reading the first chapter of his new zombie book.
A man who’d performed a favor for a friend. Who’d merely knocked on the door of a stranger, trying to determine whether she was okay.
Who just wanted to put his friend’s mind at ease.
Rick Spencer was a bit of an oddball, sure. But he was
no worse than anyone else around.
He certainly didn’t deserve to die.
After several minutes the senior member of the detail had his composure back. He picked up his cell phone, dialed in a number, and said, “We need a sanitation team, our location, and stat.”
Chapter 27
Outside of Windsor, deep in the forest and ten feet below ground level, Joe Morgan was showing Gwen how to prepare what he called “prepper chicken noodle soup.”
“I still have several cases of canned soup. Enough to feed the three of us at least a hundred meals.
“But if you’re going to live the life of a prepper, or you’re even entertaining the idea, there’s something you’ve got to know up front.
“Being a prepper is a life of constantly learning new things and techniques.
“The prepper community is a tight one. But they’re mostly tight-lipped to outsiders… to people who aren’t preppers. As a general rule, once they find out you’re one of them, they loosen up. From that point on they’re willing to share their knowledge with you.
“And that makes sense, if you think about it.
“Among the prepper community, there isn’t any of this ‘I’m smarter than you, so I’ll survive and you won’t’ attitude. It just doesn’t exist. I’m a prepper and I know I’ll survive a lot longer than most people out there who do nothing to prepare. But I don’t cop an attitude about it. I don’t feel superior to them in any way. When the world goes to hell I won’t gloat because I’m still alive and most of the rest of the world is dead.
“All the preppers I’ve met since I’ve been in the game are the same way. They’d rather help others to prepare for what’s coming, even though we’re not sure exactly what it is.
“The reason I say that makes sense is because if I can teach my neighbor some things… how to prepare for his own survival, then he’ll have my back later on. Plus, I know he won’t be so desperate when the stuff hits the fan that he’ll try to take my stuff away from me.
“He’ll have his own.”
“So that’s why you’re going to teach me how to make soup? So Melvyn and I will be encouraged to become preppers again?”
The Yellowstone Event (Book 2): A National Disgrace Page 9
