Storm Tide Rising: Blackout Volume 2

by D W McAliley

  Blossom gently ran her forefinger over the lids on some jars that had already come out of the canner. There were no tell-tale bumps in the middle. One by one they each had popped as the tomatoes cooled enough to cause the small pocket of gas trapped at the top of the jar to contract and suck in the brass lid. Blossom nodded satisfactorily and then stepped over to a pot of water that had come to a rolling boil on the back burner.

  "You want to lower the tomatoes into the boiling water," Blossom said to Christina. "If you drop them, you might break the skin, and then they won't blanche right. Once the skin wrinkles just a little bit, you pull them out with the basket and drop them in the ice water bath to stop the cooking. If you slit the skin with a small knife, it will separate from the meat of the tomato and slide right off."

  Christina nodded and pulled the tomatoes out of the wide pan of ice water next to the stove. She slit the skin with a small, sharp paring knife and slid the blanched flesh of the fruit out of the tough skin. The juice often squirted out when she slit the skin, so she dripped tomato from the elbows down to her finger tips, and red tomato juice covered her shirt as well.

  Beth took a dish towel from the handle on the stove door and wiped tomato from Christina's face, kissed her forehead, and patted the young woman on the back. "You're doing good, sweetheart." she said, tucking the dish towel behind her apron strings. "Careful you don't burn your fingers, though. Some of those tomatoes come out hot!"

  Christina smiled at Beth as she took the two empty aluminum pans from the kitchen table and headed to the back porch to check on Meg. Granny Ida's pot, again filled with blanched and peeled tomatoes, sat on a propane burner. Soon this batch would be ready, seven new Mason jars would line the counter, and the ritual would begin again.

  "It's cooking pretty good," Beth Anne said, sweat slicking her forehead. "The other two ladies went down to the garden with Gilbert to pick the butterbeans and peas."

  Beth bent over the tall pot and peaked at the cooking tomatoes. "Do you need any more for this batch?" she asked.

  Beth Anne shook her head. "They're not far from foaming right now and they’ll be ready to pull off here in a little bit. Then I’ll be ready for the next big batch."

  Beth nodded. She placed a hand on the younger woman's shoulder and squeezed. "I'm glad you're here, hun," she said. "I don't know what we'd have done without you and your family to help."

  Beth Anne smiled appreciatively and kept stirring. The spoon she used was a good two feet long and nearly as thick around as Beth's wrist. The bowl at the bottom was as big as both her palms cupped together, and it was black with age—stained with years of fruit and vegetables of all sorts. Beth Anne moved it evenly and smoothly like the rhythm of a miniature oar through the stewing tomatoes.

  Beth turned and went back inside. She crossed through the kitchen and took in the situation there. Christina was still up to her shoulders skinning tomatoes; Blossom was blanching them as fast as she could while maintaining the water at a steady boil. The supply of clean tomatoes was running low again, so Beth took her two pans through the kitchen and the living room and stepped out onto the front porch. There she found two pans of ripe red tomatoes that had just been washed clean in fresh water from the well. Two of Tom's sons were carrying empty buckets down the front porch steps and toward the back of the house where long, low tables stood in the shade of two old oak trees.

  Beth Anne's boy with the broken arm walked with them, chatting and laughing at their silly jokes. They went to refill the buckets with more fruit for Maimey and Imogene to wash. The two younger children helped Bill sort the ripe fruit from those still ripening. Bill ran the show, directing the children in how to handle the fruit and explaining the reason behind every move.

  Beth glanced over a few of the tomatoes in the white enameled pan. "Are you ladies sure you don't want to be in the kitchen with Mamma?" she asked for at least the fifth time.

  Maimey shook her head and made a shooing motion. "Honey, I spent enough hot summer afternoons over a steamin pot cannin maters. You think I want to be in there out of this sunshine and the fresh breeze?"

  Beth chuckled and turned to go back in the house, but she caught sight of two people coming up to the gate. She shaded her eyes with one hand and instantly recognized both men by their mirror walk and the way they swung their arms at the same angles and rhythms.

  Imogene caught Beth's stare and her expression and stood. "I'll take the pan in to your momma, darlin. Looks like you've got some business to attend to."

  Beth handed the pan over and nodded as she wiped her hands on the thin dish towel tucked behind the strings on her apron. She marched down the steps of the front porch and across the yard, one finger leveled at Joe as he stepped inside the gate and started down the driveway with Eric. The two men exchanged a look, Joe whispered something, and Eric nodded. Her son jogged by and waived, but he didn't slow down or speak.

  Joe walked toward her, his hands out to the side as if he meant to hug her or show her he didn't carry a weapon. Beth's eyes narrowed. She stopped and planted her fists solidly on her hips, forcing Joe to walk to her. "You said you'd be back by sun-up, mister," Beth grated through clenched teeth. "Do you have any idea how worried I was about you? I thought you'd fallen in a ditch and broken your leg—or worse."

  Joe smiled a bit hesitantly. "Honey, I've done this kind of stuff before—" he began, but Beth shook her head and cut him off before he could even finish the thought.

  "I know you did," she hissed in a deceptively quiet voice, "and I hated every minute of it. I hated it when you left; I hated it when you were gone for months at the time. I hated knowing you were somewhere neck deep in danger. I hated waiting for a phone call, a visit from a damned base car, and for you to finally get home safe."

  Tears were streaming down her face and Beth's finger shook as she leveled it at him again. "You remember what happened the day you said you'd retired?"

  Joe nodded silently, his eyes full of painful memories.

  "I've never cried that hard in my life, and it wasn't because I was sad," Beth said. "I was happy. So happy. Happy that I was never going to have to wait for that call again. Well now, here I am. I'm looking out a window all night, that knot of scared and worried twisting in my gut, wondering if you're dead or bleeding somewhere and I don't know it. At least when you would go overseas I just wouldn't know when you were really in danger. I could usually just pretend you were sitting at some base bored to tears. Now I really know when you're out there, and I know when you walk out that gate, you’re in danger."

  Joe wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. "I know," he whispered, "and I'm sorry."

  At first Beth pushed angrily against him, trying to break free, but her heart wasn’t in it. She'd kept her fear on a tight leash since Joe left with Eric and Brant the previous evening. When the two boys brought the horses back in the middle of the night without Joe, she had nearly flown to pieces. But, after years of stifling those kinds of fears, she had managed to present a brave face to Eric and Brant. She'd kept up the facade with the women as well once the house started waking up. Instead of crumbling over her anxiety, her fear about Joe, and the overwhelming sadness that had grown in her since the blackout, she'd decided to put her mind and hands, along with everyone else’s, to work. Her defense was to stay so busy she wouldn't have time for fear or worry.

  Now, face to face with Joe at last, all of that frustration and fear came rushing to the surface and boiled out as anger. And with Joe not fighting back, her anger turned to relief, and exhaustion washed over her. Beth collapsed into Joes warm, strong, embrace and sobbed against his slightly smelly shoulder.

  After a while, she pushed back, wiped her eyes on the bottom of her apron, and fixed Joe with a grumpy glare. "Next time you have to go out and play hero in the woods like some damned fool, don't promise you'll be back by a certain time unless you mean to be back. I can't take that, Joe. I'm too old for it."

  "I'm sorry," Joe said again, puttin
g an arm around Beth's shoulders and pulling her close to him. "We had to make sure the poacher wasn't doubling back on us on the way home. And then Eric and I went around to the families on the Run and told them what happened at the Thompsons."

  "What did happen?" Beth asked, putting her own arm around Joe's waist. "Eric and Brant came back with the horses, but barely took time to tell us they were ours now before turning around and leaving again with Tom."

  Joe explained the situation with Danny as they ambled back to the farmhouse. Beth listened but didn't ask any questions until Joe finished and she'd taken a moment to process what she'd heard.

  "Do you think it was a good idea to let him go?" Beth asked quietly.

  Joe was caught off guard and froze for in mid stride. He looked down at his wife with new eyes. "What other choice did I have?" he answered, surprised at the heat in his own voice. "Tom asked the same question, but what else could I have done. We can barely keep everyone here fed and with clean water to drink. We can't afford to keep someone under lock and key."

  "No," Beth agreed, "we can't. But we can't very well afford someone coming back with the idea that they can take what is ours, either. What if this Danny fellow was lying and he isn't with his Uncle? What if he comes back with a mob or something to take what's ours?"

  Joe took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I know, and I thought about the same thing. If that happens, we'll fight. But there was something about him that just seemed right. He could have put those dogs on me in a heartbeat. As close as they were, I'd have had a hard time getting them off me before either the dogs or his rifle took me out. He didn't even try it, and I don't think it even crossed his mind. I've looked men in the eye before and knew they'd kill me in a heartbeat if they could, but that's not who this guy is. Not yet, anyway."

  Beth nodded, and they started walking again. "Well," she said, "now that you're done playing in the woods, you can help us finish canning tomatoes."

  Joe groaned quietly. "How many do you have done?"

  "About forty quarts so far," Beth answered, doing some quick mental math. "I'd guess we've got about fifty or sixty left to can. We might get one more harvest from the plants after this, but we'll have to get creative with the jars if we do."

  Joe thought about that for a moment. "We can always reach out to the other families. It might be good to get everyone involved in something like this so we can build those bonds. Tell them they can keep whatever jars of theirs we fill just so it doesn't go bad."

  Beth smiled. "I’ve already talked to Christina and Beth Anne about taking a walk with me this evening to see if anyone on the Run has extra jars or needs to come here to can. We're going to work on clearing out space in our freezers for meat and corn and other things that people will need this winter."

  Joe grinned and kissed Beth on the cheek. "That's my wonderful wife, always two steps ahead of me."

  Beth smacked him in the stomach lightly with one hand and pulled away as they climbed the steps to the front porch. "Where did you send Eric?"

  "He's taking a round checking the fence," Joe answered. "I want to make sure we don't have any breaches and there aren't any more strange patches of cloth caught on the fence itself."

  Beth nodded. "Well, if you're going to help us in the kitchen, you need a shower." Beth said and leaned close to him, wrinkling her nose. "You stink."

  Joe smiled, but as Beth started to turn away, he caught her arm firmly. He unbuckled a cross-draw holster from his left thigh that held a nine millimeter pistol. He handed the holstered weapon to her and held her eyes with his.

  "Trouble is coming, Beth," Joe said quietly. "No adult goes around unarmed for a while. If things get bad, we'll need every set of hands we can get shooting back."

  Beth started to object, but Joe held up a hand and stopped her. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers. Beth had never seen that look before in more than thirty years together, and it frightened her. Joes eyes were hard and cold as he pressed the pistol into her hands. For just a moment, his familiar strong jaw and firm shoulders seemed ruthless.

  Beth's eyes fell involuntarily to the leather thong around his neck and the faded bottle caps hanging from it. A few of those bottle caps now looked fresh and sharp, but she didn't ask about them. She knew better. Beth took the pistol with a smile, unshed tears blurring her vision. She touched Joe's cheek softly with her other hand, wishing she could shoulder some of his burden, take some of his fear for her own.

  For just a moment it seemed as if Joe might soften and let her, but the moment passed.

  His jaw clenched, and he squeezed her hand firmly. Joe turned and was gone before Beth could say anything else. She stood for a moment, her mouth working, but no words would come. Finally, she turned, and Maimey shrugged apologetically.

  Imogene handed her two pans of freshly cleaned tomatoes. Beth carried them inside.

  Ch.38

  Keep It Moving!

  The line of people waiting to get into the refugee camp was longer than Mike had imagined. It stretched from the gates in the make-shift fence of barbed and concertina wire that formed the inner perimeter of the camp. Trees had been cleared along the edges of the original athletics field to open up the entire park area. The National Guard had used the existing chain link back stop of the upper baseball field to make the gates that led directly into the camp. Ragged, dirty, desperate people lined the park road all the way from the gate out to the last bend before the main entrance on Highway 49.

  After four and a half hours, the mass of people waiting patiently to be admitted began to shorten ahead of Mike and Alyssa, but they were by no means close. As they wound their way closer to the final gate, Mike was shocked at how much had been done in just a few days. He'd been to McDowell Park many times over the years, but today he barely recognized the landscape. Freshly cleared ground that had been shaded picnic areas and playgrounds just days before was now lined with row after row of simple canvas tents. People moved about the camp, but there was none of the usual laughter and games one hears in a park. Their faces bore the fear and bewilderment that had descended on them, and their bodies sagged with the weight of fatigue. For a second, Mike had the chilling realization that he had seen similar haunting images in a high school history book.

  The breeze shifted across the camp, carrying with it a stench that was enough to turn the stomachs of the waiting refugees. It was a brief whiff, but even after the wind shifted again, Mike was left with a putrid taste in the back of his mouth, and most of the faces around him twisted with disgust. Mike and Alyssa shared a look, but neither spoke. They'd become more close-lipped since finding themselves among a sea of strangers, and Mike noted that the others glanced around with cautious eyes and kept their thoughts to themselves as well.

  The chill of the previous night's rain was long gone now, and they stood in the baking sun and stifling humidity. Mike ran through the dates in his head and was shocked that August still had a week left. It seemed like so much more than eleven days since the Perseids and the night of the blackout.

  When Mike bent and whispered as much in Alyssa's ear, she nodded and stepped closer to him to lay her head on his shoulder. Mike felt his pulse jump and his heart pounded in his ears, but he didn't dare say anything. He was almost afraid to inch forward when the line moved again, afraid she might lift her head or step away from him as she'd done so many times before. It was as if Alyssa was at war with herself, fighting over whether to chance an intimate bond with Mike or stay safe within the steel walls she had built around herself. He looked forward to those moments when she leaned close against him but was baffled when she shoved him away to arm's length.

  For his part, Mike knew what he wanted, but he also knew that telling her now would only confuse the issue and make it all the more difficult for Alyssa to decide. If she wanted a relationship with him, Mike wanted to be sure that it was really the relationship she wanted and not a temporary shelter from the loneliness, hurt, and fear of the time. And he certai
nly didn't want her to feel an obligation to show affection to him simply because he had helped her and her sister.

  To his surprise, when they stepped forward, Alyssa didn't move her head; she even entwined her fingers in his, and Mike smiled. It took them another two hours to reach the gate, but at least they were hours spent next to her. In the last few yards before the entrance, Mike saw officers handing out supplies, and he noticed a man writing down names and social security numbers into a columned ledger without asking for proof or verification of any kind, but he was wearing a pair of glasses exactly like the ones he’d seen on the FSS agent in Alyssa’s neighborhood.

  "When we get there, tell him your real name and social," Mike whispered in Alyssa's ear. She started to ask him why, but he answered the question before she could ask it. "They’re checking the records against a secured and hardened database. Those glasses a few of the agents are wearing are smart glasses, I’m sure of it. If you give them bogus info, they’ll know it."

  Alyssa stubbornly stopped in her tracks and turned a questioning frown on Mike, but before she could say a word, one of the guards who had been quietly walking up and down the last few hundred feet of the line barked, "Keep it moving, ma'am."

  This close to the gate, the guards wanted to avoid a bottle neck as much as possible, and that meant keeping people putting one foot steadily in front of another. When Alyssa stepped up to the desk, she gave her name and social security number with only a few angry glares back at Mike, who did the same.

  The man with the ledger wore the dark uniform of the Federal Security Service and wrote as fast as he could. He glanced up at the two of them and turned to the men with the supplies and said. "Two adults together." He turned to the next in line and wrote down their name and social.