Inside the six-foot-square building sat an open-top fifty-five gallon steel drum with close to a foot of contaminated diesel fuel in the bottom. A multitude of four-foot-long wood poles stuck above the top rim of the barrel. Layers of natural fiber burlap were wired to one end of the poles. Kira and I each took two torches and lit one. Several others had been taken already, so I grabbed fresh ones from a rack and dumped the burlap ends into the fuel.
Within twenty minutes the entire camp had turned out to search for Jesse. Fifteen minutes later, Morgan and Molly yelled he was found. Under heavy questioning, they said he took a path that would take him to his whiskey still, two ridges and a mile from our cabins. It was a wonder he hadn't died from hypothermia. I guessed then that Morgan had a good idea of where Jesse was headed.
At two-forty-five we were all back in our beds. Not pleased, but in our beds.
Before dawn I was up again. Forty-five minutes later, Shane and I trudged over the ridges in the direction Jesse was headed hours earlier. I toted a twelve-pound sledge hammer on my shoulder, and Shane carried a double bit axe. It took another hour to locate the hollow where Jesse hid his whiskey operation. It was a tranquil spot under trees with a small clear stream running through the middle of it.
As I smashed the copper cooking pot and copper tubing that cooled the vapors, I told Shane, "I feel like a 1920s Federal Revenue Agent raiding one of Al Capone's suppliers." In minutes, swinging the sledge warmed me to the point the coat had to come off. When I'd inflicted all the damage I could on the main equipment, bottles and jars were emptied of their clear but potent contents and then laid aside to be reused for other foods.
That was the easy part. Confronting Jesse and dealing with his rant could be much more traumatic if he had the balls to defend his actions. I knew he'd had help getting the equipment that deep into the forest and wondered if his accomplices and customers would stand by him when they learned of its destruction. It also occurred to me that Morgan might be complacent in the unauthorized enterprise since he'd been making wine without the committee's formal approval, and he knew what trail to search for Jesse when he wasn't in the barns.
As soon as we were back home, I called a meeting of the Leadership Committee. Shane, Morgan, John, Andrea Margherio, and Richard assembled in the horse barn before I started.
"All of you were out earlier this morning while we roamed the area searching for a sleeping drunk in freezing weather. Jesse has been operating a whiskey still, and Morgan has been making wine." I paused to point my finger as I slowly moved my arm to encompass each of them. "What do YOU propose to do about both issues?"
Muttering ensued as most of the other officers, except Shane and Richard, danced from one foot to the other or breathed deeply as their frames slumped. I was sure everyone was aware of the alcohol production and had turned a blind eye to it as I had. I waited. Shane and Richard seemed to be the only members who didn't shy away from solving the problem.
Morgan straightened. "I've given wine to each of you and didn't hear any complaints about the taste or my making it. We've all ignored it, and I'd like it to continue making the wine. It's a hobby to me, and I'll see that no one gets enough to become intoxicated."
I jumped into the conversation. "This is a big change to our rules. Is everyone sure you want to make that change?" There were nods and two raised their eyelids.
Richard said, "Morgan, Carmen and I don't care for wine of any type. We still have the bottle you gave us, so please don't bring us more."
John Alton looked concerned. "I was okay with what was going on because it hadn't caused any problems, but now I'm worried we've set a bad precedent by looking the other way. I vote to let Morgan make wine. It's low alcohol content. But if it causes problems, we'll readdress the issue. On the other hand, the whiskey still should be shut down. I'm sure it's a primitive operation, and I doubt Jesse has a way to control the alcohol content. After his performance last night, it's clear he has a drinking problem and others may be developing one."
Heads nodded. "I need a show of hands. Those for allowing the making and distribution of wine." Five hands raised. "Those against the wine proposal." No hands rose. I didn't vote either way. “All those in favor of re-establishing the ban on making whiskey and beer.” Six hands raised and held steady.
"Thank you. Before this meeting, Shane and I found the whiskey still and destroyed it; Jesse is out of business." I hesitated before focusing on Morgan. "If Jesse insists on starting another still, he'll be asked to leave our group. This is not a small matter."
Morgan nodded glumly.
A week later, I opened Doc's door and stepped inside. It was the third day of March. Kira had calendars extending through 2075. She'd printed them off a computer file before we finally were forced to abandon power generation. She continued to protect them and kept them in a safe place where the kids wouldn't destroy them. I'd learned it really didn't matter what day of the week it was, we had the same work to do regardless of the date or the name of a day. But it felt good for some reason to know what month and year it was. Each day, Kira religiously marked off a day of the week on the calendar so she always knew what day, month and year it was. In the near future, knowledge of that simple bit of information would slip away and be lost for many centuries. But life would go on without it.
When I removed my coat and sat a few minutes, the temperature was noticeably cool. Doc's breathing changed as I made noise stoking the fire and adding wood.
His eyes opened as I greeted him. "Morning Doc."
He grimaced in pain and a low grunt escaped his dry lips. His breathing rate increased as he said, "Tom."
"Can I get anything for you? Water? Maybe something to eat?"
"A little water, please."
He swallowed an ounce or so from a glass and then motioned it away. I sat it on the nightstand next to the bed, then sat.
"Has anything come to a head yet with that bunch of damn liberal pacifists?"
"I didn't know you were aware of that, but no they've not surfaced their concerns to me."
Doc's features hardened. "They don't have concerns, it's complaints. Don't let them put anything over on you or they'll get us all killed. Stand up to their lunacy."
"What do you know about their demands?"
"I used to respect John Alton, but no more. He comes in and sits once in a while...can't stand the man anymore. I've taken to acting like I'm asleep, but I struggle to stay awake and listen. He starts talking to me, using me for a sounding board, I guess. Seems the most liberal are pushing him to confront you about the heavy weapons you still have. Those radicals want them gone. We've not endured any real danger since moving here, and they believe we're safe and can negotiate any danger away. Some have turned into mush-headed fools."
"I agree, Doc. You can only negotiate when both parties have similar end goals. When one wants to be left alone to live in peace, and the other wants to take everything they have, negotiation goes out the window and you get oppression."
Doc breathed deeply several times, shuddered, then was still. His eyes blinked open again. "I turned sixty-five this year. In the life we had before, I'd have surgery early on, radiation or chemo and strong medicines after. I could have recovered to live another twenty-years or more. Those damn'd zombies took that from me. The great strides in medicine made over past generations, hell even centuries, are gone. Wiped out by the damned zombie invasion. The girls use the wild herbs and plants we've gathered to fight the pain, but they're not effective, not like the pharmaceuticals were." Doc closed his eyes and relaxed. His eyelids fluttered several times, his breathing leveled to a slow, raspy, shallow rhythm. I waited as I watched a great friend I was about to lose. Soon, I rose quietly, slipped into my jacket and left.
Outside the cabin, I leaned against the log wall, exhaled deeply, and watched the moisture in my breath be absorbed by the cold, dry air. Years ago, before the zombie invasion, I'd cursed the stupidity of immigrants coming here to escape harsh conditions in
their home lands. Soon after arriving, they'd start petitioning to implement the same conditions they'd escaped because that was what they'd grown up with, and they were comfortable with it. Somehow they hadn't grasped that those laws and religious beliefs were the root causes of the very conditions they wanted to escape.
Religion, huh! How many cases had been exposed where leaders in the Catholic Church conspired to protect pedophile priests who had attacked their young parishioners? How many times had numerous televangelists stood in front of cameras and cried and blubbered as they begged forgiveness after being caught in bed with some woman or man? How many young Muslim women had been victims of honor killings because their conversion to American ways made them unfit to live in the eyes of their fanatically religious fathers and brothers?
And Jim Jones; the conman preacher who convinced nine-hundred members of his flock to follow him to South America where he fed them cyanide laced cool-aid to help them commit suicide. Over three-hundred of them were innocent children
I shook my head, attempted to get the foul taste from my mouth by spitting a glob on the ground, pushed away from the wall, and walked to the mechanical and blacksmith shop.
Albert stood near the forge hammering a piece of orange glowing steel on an anvil to shape it into a part he was making. On the other side of the shop, Vince held a hand-powered breast drill against his chest, leaning into it as he cranked the handle to turn a drill bit. Small bits of metal flowed from the hole he drilled in a thick piece of flat stock. I grinned, I'd heard the ancient looking drill called an eggbeater drill, and the name fit perfectly. I removed my gloves and opened my coat. The shop was warm. It was a great place to be in the winter, but hell in the hot summer humidity. Both tradesmen acknowledged me with a nod and a smile but continued to work, so after a while I zipped my coat, pulled on the gloves and left.
Kira and I were up before dawn, as usual, the next morning. Tentative knocking at the door interrupted our breakfast of bacon, eggs and the last of the potatoes from the root cellar. I removed the two stout beams holding the door closed and opened it. Verlie stepped inside from the light snow. A cold blast of air carried flakes inside with it until I closed the door tightly. The near zero temperature kept the snow dry; it was light and fluffy, and at least four inches had accumulated in the past hour. Verlie stomped her boots before she turned toward the table. In the dim light cast by the flickering flame of a single candle, tears ran down her cheeks.
Kira ran to her and clasped her shoulder. "What's wrong?"
"It's Doc. I checked on him this morning. He died during the night. He's stone cold."
I hugged both women tightly. "I hate to lose Doc, but at least his suffering is over. We'll have to clean him up, put clean clothes on him and put him back in bed. This evening before dark, we'll have an hour long visitation for everyone to stop in and say their good-byes."
Seven-year-old Kat ran barefoot to Kira and clung to her for attention as she rubbed her eyes.
Kira said, "Sorry we woke you, baby. Come to the table and sit on my lap to stay warm."
To both I said, "It's too cold to bury Doc. We'll let the fire die in his cabin and leave the body there until the ground thaws."
I poured Verlie a cup of chicory and wheat grain coffee "I made his casket two months ago along with two extras. After the service, we'll put Doc in it and lay him in the back room. That portion of roof stays in speckled shade and should help keep the body frozen. That's all we can do for now. It's early March. In another month, spring will roll in and the frost will leave the ground."
The visitation was held that evening . Most people came with their children and stayed about fifteen to thirty minutes to visit. Toward the end, approximately ten adults and their children squeezed into Doc's bedroom with a small overflow in the living room. John Alton read several passages from the bible he'd begun toting around. Most of the group sang four old hymns I recognized from attending church forty or so years before, back when I was about six. When the mourners were gone, Shane and I placed Doc in the wood casket and set it on the floor in his patient treatment room. I'd hidden the remainder of our elderberry wine in Doc's medical cabinet earlier. I retrieved it, and we sat on Doc's pine casket. As Shane and I traded stories and remembrances of our years with Doc, we toasted his memory until the quart jar was empty.
Chapter Two
The late March temperature turned warmer, and the ground thawed enough to dig. Shane and his son Larry joined me and my son-in-law, Mitch, to dig Doc's grave. His gravesite was a hundred yards from the cabins on a small rise above the riverbank where Doc had often sat in good weather. Anthony Margherio and Marilyn Jarnigan were interred nearby. With four strong, willing men, it was only a few hours work. The surface dirt was wet and muddy, but the deeper we dug the firmer and drier the soil became. After lunch, our entire group gathered for Doc's burial ceremony. It was a long ceremony because so many of his friends had testimonials to recount about their interactions with Doc. John Alton read from his bible to the accompaniment of several "Amens." Copious tears ran down sad faces as the unadorned wood box was lowered into the excavation. All four of the excavators stuck around after the service to fill the hole with the dirt removed only hours earlier. We finished stomping the dirt down before I hung my head and said my own version of a prayer for Doc. Lastly, a wooden marker was driven into the soft soil to mark his final resting place.
Shortly after dawn several days later, I partially filled one of the huge steel wash kettles with clear river water and then built a roaring fire under it.
Shane rode off as I lugged the final buckets of water up the riverbank. He planned to spend the day, and maybe another, hunting deer and wild hogs. We'd talked several times about becoming suppliers of meat to the other survivors in exchange for their services, and we were close to implementing it with an announcement to all our friends. It was time for each family to start taking responsibility for themselves. They'd have to develop their own skills to trade for the meat we'd furnish.
Our three kids played with several others near their age while Kira stirred the dirty clothes submerged in water and lye soap. We'd taken to wearing clothes much longer, often weeks to a month or more. The materials had to last as long as possible and we'd learned harsh washing methods damaged the cloth faster than wearing the articles. Only when they became too odorous or stiff from sweat or external dirt did we change to clean garments. We didn't like it, but that was one of the minor changes forced on us by the damn'd zombie invasion.
After getting Kira set up, I milked three Jersey cows, fed them, a bull, and four horses we'd assumed responsible for.
Exiting the horse barn door, I came belly to belly with Jesse Pitchford as he entered. We stopped abruptly an inch short of slamming into each other. Solemnly I said, "Good morning, Jesse."
He glared at me, stepped aside, squeezed past me, and stomped into the building without a word. I smiled slightly. He was still pissed off about his whiskey operation being destroyed. After I few seconds of soul searching, I decided I could live with that.
Toward our cabin, I saw clothes hung on one of the community clotheslines. The fire under the kettle was out, and the area was clear of buckets and our plastic clothes baskets. The sun had been peeking through clouds when I entered the barn; now droplets of rain began to fall. Kira had bucketed most of the water from the kettle, so I dumped it over on its side to drain it.
The ground was still too wet to plow the next day, so I spent the morning making minor repairs to the cabin and doing other chores that had popped up during the winter.
While working at the cabin, I heard a disturbance from behind the horse barn and near the river. Someone yelled, "Oh my God, help, get Marcie! Hurry, boy!"
I dropped my tools and ran past the corner of the cabin. Sarah, my seven-year-old granddaughter, ran toward me while Tom Jr. ran flat out toward Marcie's cabin.
Sarah grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the barn. "Uncle Shane's hurt bad, Grandpa. Hurry...
he's terribly bloody."
We cleared the end of the barn and I saw Shane's blood covered body on the ground; his clothes were torn and soaked with blood. The horse he'd ridden stood twenty feet away. I looked across the river and along the ridge but didn't see the pack horse he'd led when he left. I knelt beside Shane as Marcie, Carmen and several others arrived. The nurses nudged me away so they could work. It was difficult to recognize my friend even though I knew him so well. I quickly surmised he'd been attacked by a bear; no other animal could have inflicted the massive damage done to his body. Shane's scalp was lacerated and partly torn from his skull, his face had deep cuts and tears, his right arm was mangled from the shoulder down and his left leg had a compound fracture below the knee. I couldn't see other substantial damage, but his bloody clothing was ripped all the way down his torso. I barely recognized the sound of the emergency bell as someone rang it to alert everyone of the tragedy.
A loud, high pitched scream erupted behind me. I spun around as Vivian ran down the slight grade from the barn. I stepped in front of her and caught her in my arms and hugged her tight. Verlie passed us to join the other nurses. From the yammering crowd of people surrounding us, I assumed all the survivors had gathered.
Vivian stared as she sobbed and collapsed against me, "My God, what happened?"
"I can't say for sure, but it looks like a bear attacked him." Morgan appeared with an old, green Army canvas stretcher.
Shane's children gathered around Vivian and took control of her. Kira and our kids were mingled in with Shane's family. I turned toward the nurses as Carmen motioned to me; she needed men to put Shane on the stretcher and carry him to Doc's old surgery.
We transferred Shane onto the examining table as carefully as possible. He groaned and flinched from the manhandling but didn't awaken. I stepped to a far corner as Verlie shooed everyone out. I met Carmen's eyes and waited; she stepped over to me. "I can see he's in terrible shape. Is there any chance he'll survive?"
Outnumbered (Book 6) Page 2
