“I don’t know. Maybe we should revisit our plan to sail out of here.”
Chapter 17
Belgrade, Maine
Kate Fletcher kneeled on the floating dock and lowered a red, three-gallon plastic bucket into the water. She waited until it completely submerged before pulling it onto the dock next to another full bucket of pond water. It was her turn to fill the toilet tanks. The two buckets represented four flushes, barely enough for the first round of early morning bathroom visits. She’d dump the buckets into the tanks and return for more, placing the filled buckets in the shower stalls. The last person to use the bathroom for more serious business would replenish the water and place the buckets outside of the door to the garage, where Kate would see them. She anticipated making at least three additional trips within the next couple of hours. All part of their new life without electricity.
She couldn’t complain—they had easy access to water, and the house was hooked up to a septic system. Their primary sanitation needs could be met without power—indefinitely if the septic system didn’t fail. Trudging back and forth to fetch water was a small price to pay to avoid using a medieval scheme of kitchen bags and receptacles to ferry human waste out of the house. A very small price.
Kate surveyed the lake. Growing pockets of slate-colored water competed with vast sheets of bleached ice that had receded from the shoreline. Long Pond would be “ice-out” within two weeks, maybe sooner if another late season storm didn’t hit the area. She hoped they had seen the last of the snow. Alex was right about their food situation. They needed to replant the cool season vegetables immediately, so they could give the seedlings a head start and clear the way for the warmer season crops. Within a month, cabbage, kale, broccoli and cauliflower plants could be transplanted from the cold frames to the garden beds, making room for beans, peppers, squash, and other warm season crops.
Still, the unexpected late April storm wouldn’t be the big deciding factor Alex dramatically portrayed. They couldn’t plant the lost seedlings for another two to three weeks anyway due to predicted frost dates for this area. Their next-door neighbor, a perpetually swearing, umpteenth-generation “Mainah,” warned against putting any exposed plants in the ground before the end of the third week of May. They’d lost a few weeks, not much more than that.
She suspected Alex’s pessimistic outlook had more to do with the long winter and the prospect of enduring another. Kate shared similar reservations. It had taken them a few years of trial and error in Limerick to produce substantial garden and crop yields, with the help of commercially available compost, fertilizer and organic pest-control products. Here, they would have the benefit of the knowledge gained at the compound in Limerick—and that was about the extent of it. The vast beds of unamended soil they created in the fall would either support their farming efforts or thwart them. By the time they could make that determination, their packaged food stores might be depleted.
Preparing the boat wasn’t a bad idea. She just wasn’t sure leaving would improve their situation. Even if they could save enough dried food to reach South America, which was at least a thirty-day voyage under the best circumstances, there was no guarantee that the food security or political situation would be any better than the United States. The journey itself was fraught with risks and uncertainties. Storms, pirates, equipment malfunctions—they’d be on their own with no expectation of assistance until they reached Bermuda or the outer Caribbean islands, and no guarantee when they did. With the geopolitical situation continuing to deteriorate, there was no way to guess the true impact of the event abroad. They’d have to carefully weigh this decision. Something Alex didn’t seem interested in hearing.
The dock creaked, drawing her attention to the shoreline. Tim Fletcher stood at the edge of the float, one foot on the platform, the other planted firmly on the sandy beach. He held two buckets in his hands. With less hesitation and a lot more balance than she expected from a seventy-two-year-old, Tim propelled the other leg onto the dock.
“Thought you could use some help,” he said, setting the buckets next to hers.
“That’s nice of you, Tim. Thank you,” she said, lowering one of the buckets into the dark water.
“Alex is almost done with breakfast. Figured we could double up on this so we could eat together.”
“What’s on the menu this morning?” she asked, lifting the bucket onto the dock.
“Breakfast skillet. Yummy,” he said, rubbing his flat stomach.
Tim looked the gauntest of everyone in the extended group. Age combined with minimum rations had pulled the skin taut across his face, exaggerating his sunken eye sockets. Like everyone, he complained of chronic exhaustion, but it seemed to have visibly worsened for him toward the end of the winter. He moved fine, but looked utterly drained. This morning he appeared pensive, almost brooding.
“Breakfast skillet number five-three-two-one-seven?”
“Negative. Number five-three-two-one-six. Ham and peppers,” he said and winked.
“My favorite,” she said, standing up.
Tim grabbed two of the buckets by their handles and lifted them off the dock.
“Just grab one. I can run back for the extra bucket,” said Kate.
“I’m not that broken down, Kate.”
“I know. Just be careful at the end of the dock,” she said.
After they had helped each other off the dock and started across the backyard, Tim turned to Kate.
“I’m worried about Alex,” he stated.
“He’s worried about you,” she said, wishing she had just shut up and listened.
“I could use another thousand calories per day, but so could we all. That’s not what we’re talking about. He’s acting despondent, and it’s starting to spread to the rest of the group. What’s going on? And don’t tell me PTSD. He was fine until we started planting the cold frames,” said Tim.
She lowered her buckets next to one of the long garden beds and pretended to examine the soil. They had removed the sod and tilled the soil in ten-foot-by-thirty-foot strips with the shovels last fall. The rows were oriented north-south so none of the rows would overshadow the others. The tallest plants would be placed at the northernmost end. They had spent entire days strategizing the garden during last September, and the rest of the fall diligently digging and preparing the beds. They treated it like the deadly business it would be next year.
“He’s worried about next winter,” she said.
“Already?” he asked, irritated.
“He’s not seeing the garden and our natural surroundings as a viable scenario. Frankly, I’m starting to question it myself,” she said.
Tim sighed, kneeling next to her. “I’m not sailing out of here on a boat. We’re too old for that shit.”
Kate stifled a laugh. “He’s thinking of it as a contingency. Like last year. We’ll do everything we can to make the garden work and assess the situation in September.”
“Hurricane season.”
“We’d start out as late in October as possible. Sail down the coast to Jacksonville and wait for a good stretch of weather. A few good days from there should put us below the southern limit of the fall gales.”
“A lot can go wrong on a trip like that, especially for a crew that’s never been more than ten miles offshore.”
She couldn’t argue with him. He was right on every count, and she wanted more than anything to stay in place. Ultimately it wouldn’t be their decision. The ground under her fingers would make the final call. If the ground didn’t yield enough food for nineteen people, they’d take at least four mouths out of the equation. Maybe everything would be back to normal in the United States by the fall. However, that was doubtful.
“We might not have a choice,” she said, running wet soil through her fingers.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” said Tim. “Until then, square away mister doom and gloom. He sets the tone for everyone.”
Chapter 18
Belg
rade, Maine
Charlie dipped his hands in a plastic bucket filled with a diluted bleach solution and opened the bathroom door. Alex stood in the front doorway, next to the kitchen, dressed in woodland camouflage pants and a gray, wool sweater.
“Make sure you rinse your hands in the bucket,” said his wife.
“I know the procedure. I’ve been living the dream for eight months now,” he said, trying not to sound annoyed.
“And shut the door!” yelled Linda, appearing to hand Alex a cup of steaming coffee.
“Jesus Christ, it’s not that bad!” he said, pulling the door closed.
“Well, it hasn’t gotten better, so do us all a favor,” she said, turning to Alex. “Fresh grinds put him in the crapper earlier than usual.”
Alex hesitated to sip the coffee.
“See! You’ve grossed him out, Linda. Sorry about that, Alex. I promise nobody crapped in your coffee mug.”
His friend shook his head with a confused grin.
“I had never considered the possibility of…that. Until now,” said Alex.
A few grunts and groans came from the sleeping bags in the family room, the only signs of life from the group of five teenagers strewn across the floor in front of the wood-burning stove.
“Just kidding, buddy. What brings you over this early?”
Alex motioned for Charlie to join him outside and stepped through the front door, disappearing into the front yard. Charlie stepped into the dining room and nodded at Ed and Samantha, who had already taken Alex’s cue and pushed their chairs back. The group of adults met halfway up the gravel driveway, waiting for Charlie and Linda. He walked slowly with his wife, who couldn’t easily walk without a cane. None of the nearby hospitals could provide the level of orthopedic surgery she required to properly reconstruct her ankle. It was something she would have to endure until things got back to normal.
“What’s up?” asked Ed, glancing anxiously at the trees and evergreen bushes surrounding the property.
“Nothing’s wrong. Sorry about the secrecy. I just didn’t want to get the kids involved right now,” said Alex. “I wanted to talk to you about a contingency plan, in case the summer’s harvest doesn’t add up.”
The smiles and squints in the early morning sun slowly faded to uneasy grimaces.
“I know I’m not the only one that’s more than a little concerned about next winter,” said Alex.
“Where’s Kate?” asked Samantha.
“We’ve talked about this at length, and we’re on the same sheet of music,” said Alex.
“It’ll be tight, Alex, but we’ve done the math,” said Charlie. “I know some great hunting spots less than a half-hour away. Isolated places that people can’t get to without a car. As long as we save some gas for the trip, we’ll come back with a lot of meat.”
“I think you’re overestimating what we can bring in with hunting. The winter was a bust,” said Alex.
“We just need to get far enough away from the lakes. Away from the people. One moose represents about three hundred pounds of meat.”
“Good heavens,” said Samantha, shivering.
“Don’t knock it, Sam. Done right, moose is good eating. Right, Linda?”
“You’ve never dressed a moose…or shot one,” said his wife.
“I’ll figure it out if I bag one,” he mumbled, knowing that the odds of finding a moose were slim to none.
“Anyway. I’m talking about a contingency plan, in case the math doesn’t work out.”
Another thought hit Charlie like a bolt of lightning. “We can use the sailboat for fishing, especially in the fall. I know how to cut and dry fish. That’s how they used to survive the winters in Iceland and Norway.”
“The contingency plan involves the sailboat,” said Alex.
“I thought Kate talked you out of sailing to the Caribbean,” said Linda.
“She did, after I talked myself out of it,” he said.
“Then why the sudden one-eighty? We have a good plan. The storm set us back a little, but that three weeks isn’t going to make or break us,” said Ed.
“I agree, but if we have a serious shortfall from the harvest, the group will be better off with fewer people to feed,” said Alex, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “And everyone remaining behind can squeeze into the other house.”
“Why would we do that?” asked Ed.
Charlie understood immediately. “Damn it. You think of everything, don’t you? I can’t believe I missed that.”
“Missed what?” Samantha demanded.
“So we can defend ourselves. This whole neighborhood’s gonna run out of food!” yelled Charlie.
“Keep it down,” hissed Alex, looking around the yard.
“Sorry. Sorry,” whispered Charlie.
“Let’s limit this discussion to the adults, for obvious reasons. Even if we manage a strong harvest and shoot a moose, I think we need to consider moving everyone into the bigger of the two houses. Possibly right after the last food comes out of the ground. Just to be safe,” said Alex.
“Maybe we should have a community meeting. Try to encourage everyone to raise food, hunt, fish—whatever it takes,” said Linda.
“That’ll draw too much attention to our own food security efforts. I’d prefer nobody had a full picture of what we’re trying to accomplish. We barely have enough seeds for our own gardens.”
“It’ll be hard to hide what we’re doing. We’ll probably have to triple the square footage of our current beds. We barely have a tenth of an acre tilled as it is. Homesteading wisdom dictates anywhere between a half-acre to an acre to feed one person for a year,” said Charlie.
“We only have three-quarters of an acre between the two lots, anyway,” said Ed.
“We’ll keep to ourselves as much as possible,” said Alex.
“What about the community watch idea? I still think we should post people at the entrance to the neighborhood. Probably another group along the lake as well once the ice clears. Our gardening efforts are likely to draw attention from the houses across the water,” said Charlie.
“We’ll have to put some serious thought into that. I like the idea of a shared security arrangement, but we simply can’t extend that sense of community to our food. If security becomes an issue, we can move everyone over to our house earlier and post a sentry team to watch over the gardens here.”
“It’ll be crowded over there,” said Ed.
“You won’t notice the difference. If anything, you’ll have a little more room and a lot more privacy,” said Alex, nodding at the house.
He was right about that. Charlie’s open-concept A-frame cottage appeared to be designed specifically without privacy in mind. The single bedroom loft was open to the family room below. Even a whispered conversation could be overheard from the lower level. The house Alex’s family occupied had more of a traditional layout, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms. They could easily fit into the house without a problem. The logistics of feeding and keeping nineteen people busy in a confined space during the winter would be a challenge, but they’d work it out. They always did.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Charlie.
“I hope we can stay together,” Ed said, patting Alex on the shoulder.
Alex’s distant look focused, and a warm grin broke through his ominous façade. It was good to see the old Alex shine through from time to time. He hadn’t been the same since Boston.
“This is one hell of a group. I’d do anything for you guys. I don’t want to leave, but it might not be my decision to make,” said Alex. “We should draw up plans to dig more garden beds.”
They immediately took his cue to change the subject.
Samantha asked, “Do we have enough seeds?”
Another round of silence enveloped the group.
“My dad says we have enough to replicate the gardens in Limerick,” said Alex.
Charlie glanced at the patchy, light brown grass surrounding the driveway.
&n
bsp; “We have a lot of digging ahead of us,” said Charlie.
“This is going to kick our asses for the next thirty days,” stated Alex. “The sooner we get started—the better.”
“Shit. I thought gardening was supposed to be relaxing,” said Charlie.
“It is when your life doesn’t depend on it,” said Alex. “Let’s meet over at my house to start figuring out what we need to do.”
After Alex disappeared behind a thick stand of pines lining the dirt road, Ed sighed.
“He doesn’t look convinced that this will work,” said Ed.
“I don’t think he was ever truly convinced,” said Charlie.
“Then why did he stay? Not that I’m suggesting anything was wrong with the decision,” said Samantha.
Charlie knew why Alex had chosen to stay. He couldn’t stop looking out for them. Alex’s contingency plan was a thinly veiled continuation of his selfless leadership. Behind the rugged individualism and harsh pragmatic outlook, Alex’s bond to the group was unbreakable—even if it meant physically leaving them behind.
Chapter 19
Belgrade, Maine
The mud sucked at his boots, drawing his thoughts to the security situation. With the snow gone and the roads passable, they’d have to be vigilant. Winter survivors would be out in force, foraging for food and supplies wherever they might find them. Homes would be the first logical choice. Charlie was right about posting a guard on the waterfront. A pair of binoculars in the wrong hands could put a threat at their doorstep, if they didn’t already have one brewing in their midst.
He glanced at the house to his right. Maybe a neighborhood meeting was in order—to assess the situation. Thinking back to Durham Road during the Jakarta pandemic dampened his enthusiasm for the idea. He didn’t have a good track record with neighborhood meetings. Maybe a door-to-door assessment was a better idea. Keep the neighbors from joining forces and ganging up on them. He hated thinking like this, but wishful philosophy didn’t keep you alive.
The meeting had gone better than he had hoped. Deep down inside, they all knew he was right, even though nobody wanted to acknowledge it. He barely wanted to admit it. Who knew? Maybe they’d pull off a miracle, and the boat wouldn’t be necessary. He sincerely doubted it, but planned to put one hundred percent of his energy behind trying. It was all he could do. The decision was truly out of his hands. Of course, this all depended on the boat.
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