Frank had taken a full sized sheet of plywood and spray painted a message on it. On one half was a skull and crossbones. On the other half were the words: “KEEP MOVING! WE ARE WELL ARMED AND WILL SHOOT ANYONE WHO COMES ONTO THIS STREET!”
The first few nights he sat in his own car, parked a few houses up the street, and watched. The sign appeared to work. Several vehicles drove past, stopped to read the sign, and then went on their way. Apparently they figured that there were other places to go, other streets to rob, without having to take any risks.
The other end of the street was already blocked with houses. Buena Vista Drive was a dead end street. There was only one way in and one way out. And now, thanks to the automobile barricade, the only way in or out was by foot.
Frank had asked at the block meeting about everyone’s plans. He knew ahead of time that half of the neighbors would be heading south, toward Mexico. They’d try to make it through Mexico and into central America, where rumors were it would be warm enough to grow crops and survive until the thaw.
Those who stayed behind knew better now, but it was too late to warn those who left. It had been all over the news that Mexico had closed their borders. There was a traffic jam stretching for two hundred miles on the American side of every road going into Mexico. Those who’d made the journey were trapped in their cars. They couldn’t go forward, and they couldn’t go back.
Most people trapped in the traffic jam were committing suicide. The method of choice was by firearm. Fathers were shooting their children in the head as they slept. Or sometimes when they were wide awake. Then they shot their wives. And finally, after they made sure their families were gone, the fathers turned the guns on themselves.
Those in the traffic jam who had no weapons listened intently for the gunshots to stop. Then they forced open the car doors of the makeshift tombs, took the gun and whatever ammunition they could find, and did the same thing with their own families. It was an ugly and grim sight.
Frank and Eva, when seeing on CNN that the Mexican border was closed, tried desperately to get ahold of the neighbors and call them back. But it was impossible to get through because the cell towers couldn’t handle the workload. Too many people were sharing last words with loved ones.
Frank hadn’t seen the Martins since the last block meeting three days before. The Martins lived in one of the corner houses, where the blockade of cars began, and were therefore more vulnerable than those in the center or end of the block. They’d told everyone else their plan was to barricade themselves up in their house and fend off the marauders until the marauders killed each other off. Then, when the Martins ran out of food, they’d start venturing out very carefully and search for provisions.
Frank went to the Martin house and knocked on the front door. No answer. He yelled out to avoid getting shot. “It’s Frank Woodard. Just checking on you to make sure you’re okay.”
He peeked in the living room window. The lights were on in the house, which made it very easy to see that there was no one moving around.
Still, he didn’t want to break a window unnecessarily.
He went to the garage door and pulled on it to see if it was unlocked. It wasn’t.
Then he looked in the window on the garage door, and felt nauseous.
“Sweet mother of God!” he muttered to himself.
He went back to the front of the house, this time having no qualms about breaking the picture window and crawling into the living room. He ran to the garage and opened the door. He knew it was too late. The smell of the exhaust fumes had dissipated by then. There would be no chance to revive them. They had been dead for hours.
“Why?” he asked himself, but knowing the answer. Some people just weren’t strong enough. Just weren’t up to the challenge of scratching out a meager existence for seven long cold years. They took the easy way out. He couldn’t blame them. But he wished they had given him a chance to try to talk them out of it.
They all sat in the family car together, the four of them, with the windows rolled down, as they ran the car until it ran out of gas. Slowly relieving their anxiety. Coaxing them to sleep. A little bit of coughing, then blackness. All in all, a relatively painless way to go.
He looked into the back seat. The two daughters, ages ten and twelve, were holding hands. In the front seat, Ed and Linda Martin were doing the same. Linda had an open Bible in her lap. She’d been reading scripture aloud to them in the last minutes.
Frank turned away. He’d come back in a few days and drag the bodies out to the back yard. There was no hurry. They were frozen solid already.
He looked around the garage for things that would come in handy. Things that would help he and Eva, and some of the others, to survive.
In the corner he found two new 60 gallon garbage containers, stacked one inside the other. He looked at them. Never used. They’d come in handy to hold snow from the back yard, to drag into the house for melting and boiling in their fireplace.
He dragged the trash cans into the Martin’s pantry and scrounged what he could. Seven two liter bottles of soda. Frozen, but drinkable once thawed. And more importantly, the bottles would come in handy for storing sterilized water.
He left the canned goods behind. They were frozen and swollen now. Once thawed, the food inside would be tainted. He gathered up several boxes of Hamburger Helper, some macaroni and cheese, and dry stock: rice and beans. And a full case of Ramen Noodles. A relative gold mine.
Eva saw him trudging up the walk, dragging the trash cans behind him. She knew. She opened the door for him and saw the look of misery on his face.
“They’re in a better place now, Frank. Stay strong. I need you to stay strong.”
Frank said, “I’ll take the first watch. You get some sleep. Come and relieve me after you’ve rested.”
She kissed him and shuffled off to bed. Frank went upstairs and turned off all the lights, then opened the blinds in the front bedroom. Then he did the same for the rear bedroom.
For the rest of the night, he’d wear a path in the upstairs carpet, checking the street in front of the house for people who weren’t supposed to be there. Then he’d move to the back bedroom and check the back yard, and the empty field behind his house. Then back to the front again.
Over his shoulder, locked and loaded, was his AR-15 assault rifle. He planned to give no warning shots. Ammunition was too valuable. Once he was out, there was no way to get more. No, the plywood sign they’d leaned up against the barricade of cars was all the warning anyone would get.
Anyone climbing over the cars would be shot. And Frank was an excellent shot. One bullet to the torso was all it would take. If the intruder didn’t die instantly, he’d soon succumb to the bitter cold.
And he’d leave the body there, for others to see. He wanted word to get around the neighborhood that the residents of Buena Vista Drive were in it for the long haul. And that they didn’t play.
Chapter 6
Marty Hankins was much more than just a truck driver. He was a planner, a plotter, and a natural born leader. He grew up that way, knowing that when he walked into a room, some people would just gravitate to him. To ask his opinion of certain things. His positions on the political and societal issues of the day.
And they wouldn’t just ask him the questions. They’d listen intently for his answers. And many times, his positions would become theirs.
Marty had given up long before asking why this was. He just learned to accept it.
So it was just a given that Marty became the leader of the group of truck drivers who’d said to hell with Saris 7. They wouldn’t give up like most of the rest of the world. They wouldn’t blow their brains out or lock themselves in a garage with a running car to gas themselves to death. No. They would find a way to survive.
Marty had been planning for many weeks. And here he was, a full week after Saris 7 had collided with the earth outside of Shenyang, China. A week after the sky had become the color of chocolate milk, obscuring the sun f
or what scientists said would be the next seven years. Here he was, at the Trucker’s Paradise truck stop, with three other men and a woman, all looking to him for answers.
And Marty had them. He had all the answers. He had his plan laid out long before Saris was due to arrive. And in choosing him as their leader they’d made a smart move. He’d make sure they survived.
The day Saris 7 hit was surreal. Most of the truckers on Interstate 10 outside of Junction, Texas had dropped their trailers on the side of the highway or at the truck stop. Then they’d taken their trucks, filled them with diesel, and bobtailed it to wherever home was. They decided it would be better to die with their families than all alone on a desolate highway somewhere.
The truck stop was almost deserted by the time Saris 7 actually hit. Even though the yard, and the field behind it, was full of hundreds of dropped trailers, only the truck stop manager and two employees, and Marty Hankins’ group of five, remained.
On the second day after impact, after the skies had darkened, John the truck stop manager tossed the keys to Marty.
“I’ll be back, when and if this all blows over. If there’s anything worth coming back to. Good luck to you, Marty.”
He shook Marty’s hand.
Marty said, “Thank you, John. We’ll try our best to take care of the place and keep the looters at bay.
John looked around the place at all the empty shelves where his foodstuffs used to be. He managed a nervous chuckle, and both men understood why. There was simply nothing left to loot.
“I’m leaving the pumps turned on. As long as the power company still operates anybody who shows up can help themselves to it. Are you guys all topped off?”
Marty told him they were.
“I put signs on all the fuel pumps to let people know the fuel is free as long as the pumps are working, and that there’s nothing left to loot inside the store. Hopefully that will keep them all out.”
John went to his two cashiers still on duty.
“You guys take whatever cash is in your drawers and go home to your families. I don’t know if the cash will do you any good or not. But it won’t do anybody any good sitting here. Don’t come back unless you’re still alive whenever the sun shines again. Good luck to you both.”
The three of them – John and his cashiers, walked out the door and Marty locked it behind them. He watched them shuffling slowly toward their cars. Three doomed souls, spending their last days of life on a damaged earth.
He joined the others in the trucker’s lounge.
“Okay, time to get to work. Lenny, go unlock the yard. Do you still have the list of trailers we want to pull?”
Lenny the yard man shook his head yes.
“Tina, get your rig. Scott, you get yours. Joe, here’s the keys to mine. Grab the trailers Lenny points you to and bring them to the field. I’ll be there to spot you. If we work fast, we can get the camp set up before darkness sets in again.”
The four scattered and Marty chuckled at his own words. “Before darkness sets in,” he’d said. Like it was bright even in the daytime.
Scientists had explained before Saris 7 hit the earth what to expect. They said there would be a dark brown sky that would darken everything and make the earth freeze over. But they said the days wouldn’t go completely black. You’d still he able to see a few yards in front of you, they said. And if you looked up at the daytime sky, you might even be able to pick out the sun. Only it would look like a small yellow marble in a sea of brown. And it would provide no heat.
Marty walked to the huge empty field behind the truck stop. He used a pair of wire cutters from his truck’s tool box to cut the barbed wire on the fence, and give his friends access to the field.
He went to the far side of the field and waited. A minute or two later, Tina pulled in with a 53-foot white trailer. It had “Walmart” emblazoned on each side in big blue letters. He spotted her into place, told her to stay in her truck, and rolled down the trailer’s legs. Then he pulled the pin to release the trailer, disconnected her air lines and electric pigtail, and slapped on the door to let her know she was free. She drove off to get another load as Scott Burley drove into the field with the second trailer. This one was red in color, with the KFC logo painted on its sides. Fifty three feet of frozen chicken, cut up and ready to fry. That trailer would come in very handy in the months ahead.
Several days before Saris hit, as all hell was breaking loose and truckers were abandoning their trailers by the hundreds, the group walked through the yard and selected the trailers they wanted.
They chose the ones with metal seals on the doors. They knew those trailers were full. They also picked the ones with refrigerator units on the front of the trailers that were turned on. Those were full of perishables. But they discounted the reefer trailers with their temperatures set at forty degrees. Produce and dairy products were worthless to them. They wanted meat. And frozen food products that were easy to cook. Or already cooked.
That’s why half the trailers they selected had Walmart painted on their sides. They knew that those trailers would be full of food they could prepare on a campfire. Or in one of the microwaves inside their trucks’ sleeper cabs. And as an added bonus, there was a good chance each trailer would also contain other items they could use. Clothing, blankets, tools, furniture… opening each trailer would be like opening a grab bag.
Marty spotted Scott into position. He had Scott pull up tight next to the first trailer. And when a three inch space wasn’t good enough, he had him back up and try again.
“Scrape the paint, Scott.” He said. “I want the trailers touching.”
Scott Burley stayed in the cab while Marty dropped the trailer for him. Just as Scott was pulling away, Joe pulled in, driving Marty’s truck, towing the third trailer. Perfect timing.
Within an hour, the group had fifteen 53 foot-long trailers side by side, forming the north wall of their compound.
The south wall, twenty four feet away from the first, was a lot harder and took a lot longer. Each trailer had to be backed in, yet still had to touch the trailer that was backed in before it. Luckily, all of the drivers had many years experience behind the wheel, and knew what they were doing.
Once the south wall was complete, three trailers were backed into position on the east side, so their back doors were facing the inside of the compound like the other trailers.
Then Joe brought a flatbed trailer full of plywood and lumber. He and Marty took the tarps and straps off the load and shoved it off the side of the trailer, and off to the side out of the way. By the time they were finished, it was a tangled mess of two by fours, four by fours and plywood. But there would be plenty of time to sort it all out and stack it later.
Seven years worth of time.
Once three of the four walls of trailers were in place, their task was almost finished. They retrieved three tankers full of diesel fuel and placed them in the field north of their new compound. They’d have taken all four tankers in the yard, but one of them had a leaky air line and the brakes wouldn’t disengage. So they settled for three. They read the gauges and did the math, and figured that 17,000 gallons of diesel would be enough even without the fourth trailer.
They knew that diesel would be liquid gold to whatever survivors might come around in the months ahead. So they were careful to place the tankers on the north side of the compound, hidden from view of the truck stop and the highway that ran past it.
The last step was building the west wall, using the last three trailers they’d picked from the yard. Before they closed the door on their compound, though, they drove all three of their tractors into the center of it. They used one of the truck stop’s yard tractors to place the final three trailers into position.
When they were finished, they stood back and examined their handiwork. They had a secure compound, one hundred twenty feet by twenty four feet, surrounded by the back doors of thirty six trailers full of food and supplies. The only way in or out was to crawl under the
trailers. It would be safe and easy to defend from marauders.
There was more to be done, but they’d finish the details in the morning. That’s when they would take the heavy tarps that covered the lumber on the flatbed. They would cover the opening at the top of the compound with the tarps, cutting holes for each of the six exhaust pipes to peek through.
They would take the plywood they’d pilfered from the lumber trailer and lean it up against the bottoms of the trailers, all the way around the compound. They had enough half inch plywood to place it five sheets thick. Two and a half inches would be thick enough to absorb high velocity bullets, and would be too heavy for someone to crawl under the trailer and just push over. However, they could easily lay the sheets down one at a time whenever they needed to leave the compound for any reason.
Lastly, they needed to set up the equipment they’d taken from the truck stop. A portable pump and two hundred feet of fuel line. They’d run the line to one of the tankers in the north field, and would crank up the pump any time they needed more fuel for their rigs.
Four portable diesel generators would provide power for the floodlights, which would run 24/7 in the darkened compound.
Lastly, they set up a good sized campfire in the center of the compound that they’d keep burning for the next seven years, or as long as it took, until they could break out of their self-imposed prison. To keep the fire burning, they’d start with the lumber from the flatbed. Then they’d burn anything in the trailers they didn’t think they’d need.
They’d offered Lenny, the yard man, the option of staying in the compound with them. But he declined. John, the truck stop manager, had hooked Lenny up by letting him set up home in a stock room. He had a bed and a couch in there, as well as a space heater, TV, DVD player and microwave. To power everything, he had a good sized generator that vented to the outside of the building. When he was finished with it, it wasn’t much different than a college dorm room.
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