Dispatches

by Steven Konkoly

  His arrival in Belfast Harbor had undoubtedly attracted attention from stranded boaters and locals. He’d stripped the boat of anything useful and siphoned most of the diesel, but a thirty-eight-foot sailboat itself could be considered useful in midcoast Maine. The scarcity of fuel would renew interest in sail power, which was why the sails were the first things to come ashore with him. A trip to Belfast was in their very near future. If the boat wasn’t an option…he didn’t want to think about it.

  “Captain Fletcher,” someone whispered behind him.

  He whirled around, dropping a hand to his holster. Nobody had called him captain since last fall, except for Ken Woods, who stood in front of him on the road with his hands in the air.

  “Jesus, Ken. You shouldn’t make a habit of sneaking up on ex-Marines. And please call me Alex,” he said.

  “That’s why I waited for you to pass. Hey, once a captain always a captain to a staff sergeant,” said Ken, stepping forward.

  “You want me to start calling you staff sergeant?”

  “You got me there. That was a long time ago. I got out a few months after the first Gulf War,” said Ken, rubbing his long gray beard.

  “My recent tenure as captain lasted about three weeks. I hadn’t worn the uniform since 2004 prior to that,” said Alex.

  “Alex it is. Hey, I couldn’t help overhear your conversation—”

  “From your house?” asked Alex, wondering where this was going.

  “Well, not exactly from my house. I saw you walk by, on the way to your friends. I thought I’d say hi, but by the time I got my boots on, you guys were already talking.”

  “So you decided to listen in?”

  “I couldn’t help it. It’s a long winter talking to yourself,” said Ken, avoiding eye contact.

  “You don’t have anyone else?”

  “No. My wife got the cancer three years ago. I’ve been trying to tear myself away from the lake to move near the kids, but…”

  Alex nodded, feeling the conflict in Ken’s voice.

  “It’s a beautiful lake. Must have been a wonderful place to raise a family,” said Alex.

  “It was. Nearly impossible to leave,” he said, barely getting the next words out. “I hope I get to see them again.”

  A few moments passed before Alex continued. “Where do your kids live?”

  Ken looked up, a fierce pride glowing in his eyes. “Two boys. One’s a family doctor out in Durango. The other runs an outfitting company in Troy, Montana. Taught them to fly-fish on the Kennebec just a few miles from here.”

  “During my brief stint as Captain Fletcher, I learned that the EMP bursts’ effects weren’t as pronounced out west. The orbital detonation likely occurred over the southeast. Tennessee or Kentucky would be my guess. Something tells me your boys are fine—and you’ll definitely see them again.”

  Ken nodded, tears streaming down his face.

  “Why don’t you tell me a little more about your spying escapade?” said Alex, eliciting a brief laugh.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion about the gardens,” Ken said, wiping his face.

  “I’m sure you couldn’t,” said Alex, smiling.

  “Right. Anyway, you’re going to need a hell of a lot more acreage to feed your crew year round. Nineteen of you? You won’t need an acre per person, but I think you’re looking at quadrupling the acreage. If you work two or three acres properly, you could squeak by with some solid hunting, trapping, and fishing.”

  “I think the lake has been cleared out,” said Alex.

  “Maybe so, but some of the more isolated stretches of the Kennebec River should be productive throughout the year. We can try the Sebasticook and Sandy River if that fails. Most people don’t have any way to get up to some of the best angling spots.”

  “I suppose you could show us where to find these spots?”

  “It would be my pleasure. You can also add my property to your acreage count. I have about three-quarters of an acre. I won’t use more than a quarter acre. That should help get you to your magic number, but it sounds like you’re going to need more seeds. I’d give you some, but I barely have enough for myself. I save what I can from last season’s garden and order whatever I need in the spring. I used to keep two seasons’ worth of seeds on hand, but I’ve gotten pretty good at reclaiming them.”

  “We can probably work something out in exchange for the use of your land,” said Alex.

  “Don’t worry about me. I have more than enough—” Ken paused, a look of discomfort spread across his face.

  “Your secret is safe with us,” said Alex. “Especially since you probably know most of our secrets.”

  “I really didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m just messing with you, Ken. It’s a bad habit of mine,” said Alex, extending a hand. “I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  Ken looked relieved. He firmly shook Alex’s hand, a sense of purpose flashing across his face. Alex saw a strong and loyal ally in Ken. A force multiplier in terms of survival, not another mouth to feed. If they could find a few more like him in the neighborhood, they’d have a much better chance at staying on the lake.

  “Then we’ll need to get our hands on more seeds. We have two major seed distributors in the Waterville area. One is co-op and gets most of their seeds from outside sources. The other produces their own line of organic seeds.”

  “Johnny’s Seeds?”

  “Exactly. I think we should pay them a visit,” said Ken.

  “I can’t imagine they’ll be selling seeds,” said Alex. “The place is probably wiped out—or ransacked.”

  “I don’t think anyone up here would ransack Johnny’s Seeds. They’ve been a local institution for more than forty years. The question is whether they managed to keep the farm up in Albion operational during the fall. That’s when they do most of the work. If they kept it running, they should have a good supply of seeds.”

  “I’ll run this by the group and pick you up in about thirty minutes. How far away are their warehouses?” said Alex.

  “The seeds are kept in Winslow, about ten miles from here, but it might be worth starting out in Albion, at their research farm. That’s where they test seed germination and determine what they’ll sell. If they’re operational, we’re in business.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Alex.

  Chapter 20

  Waterville, Maine

  Waterville felt a lot closer than it had looked on his map. They had crossed under the Maine Turnpike overpass within fifteen minutes of pulling out of the driveway, transitioning into an uncomfortably urban area lined with strip malls, fast-food chains, and car dealerships. The area still had a rural feel, like the outskirts of most Maine cities, but Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that they were far more exposed in Charlie’s neighborhood than he had originally estimated.

  The streets were barren of cars. The only vehicles visible from the road sat in motel parking lots off Kennedy Memorial Drive, likely abandoned several months ago. They passed a large strip-mall parking lot on their right, anchored by a Harrigan’s grocery store and a CVS. Ringing the empty lot, missing or partially shattered windows adorned the businesses.

  “Looks like things got ugly in town,” said Alex.

  Ken stared at the eerie scene, not moving his head. “I think we should take the long way to Johnny’s Seeds. Driving through downtown Waterville might not be the best idea. We can swing up through Albion and circle back to the Winslow warehouse area if the farm is a bust. We’ll pass over a creek after a few traffic lights. At the intersection after the creek, take a right. That’ll put us back on Route 137, which crosses the Kennebec River south of the city. Nothing but trees and open country down there.”

  “Sounds better than what we’re seeing here,” said Alex, turning his head to look into the backseat.

  “Stay alert, buddy. Keep an eye out behind us.”

  Ryan nodded eagerly, turning his body in the rear passenger seat to make it easie
r to see through the back windows of the SUV. Alex’s son cradled the same HK416 rifle he had fired at Eli Russell’s militia during the attack on their home in Limerick. Ryan was rarely seen without the rifle, a constant reminder of how things would be vastly different for their children. Barely nineteen years old, his son’s trajectory in life had shifted in the blink of an eye. The traditional path carved from a middle-class life of comfort and ease erased by a cabal of petty Chinese party officials and bitter military generals. The thought of it surfaced Alex’s anger.

  He hoped the U.S. had retaliated with more than words and saber rattling. In a dark place within him, Alex wanted to hear that the U.S. had bombed them out of existence. He knew it meant thousands, possibly millions of innocent deaths, but he couldn’t envision any other option, and staring across a deserted parking lot at just one of thousands of abandoned business malls dotting the American landscape—he didn’t care.

  Alex drove the SUV through two empty intersections, crossing over a wide, rushing creek. Signs for Route 137 urged him right at a split in the road just past the creek, depositing them on a two-lane, tree-lined road that stretched as far as he could see.

  “This is better,” said Alex.

  “Yep. Not much down this way. Just keep following the signs for one-thirty-seven. All we’re gonna see is a gas station or two. Maybe a variety store.”

  “The less we see, the better,” said Alex.

  His hopes for an uneventful trip were dashed a few minutes later when he spotted a police cruiser sitting in the middle of the road in front of the entrance to the bridge. The road widened as they approached the guardrails lining the side of the bridge. The police car barely covered half of the width of the road. As they closed the distance to the cruiser, Ryan leaned through the gap between the front seats, peering ahead with binoculars.

  “Winslow Police Department,” said Ryan. “I don’t see a car at the other side of the bridge.”

  Alex considered his options. He didn’t feel like dealing with the police, or any authority figures right now—or ever.

  “Don’t even think about it, Captain. This is probably just a formality. Checking to see who’s cruising on over from Waterville,” said Ken.

  Alex slowed the SUV to give them time to prepare for the encounter.

  “Ryan, shove both rifles under the tarp in the cargo compartment and flip the seat up. Keep them low. Stuff your pistol in the cup holder on the driver’s side door and cover it with your hat. Make sure the hat completely covers the pistol and won’t jar loose if you open the door.”

  “Got it,” said Ryan, going to work in the backseat.

  “Why the cup holder? Shouldn’t he stuff it in the backpack?”

  “If they force us out of the vehicle, the pistol will still be somewhat accessible.”

  Alex squirmed in the driver’s seat and drew a compact semiautomatic pistol from the concealed holster behind his right hip. He tucked it into one of the center console compartments at the bottom of the dashboard and closed the compartment.

  “Why isn’t yours going into the door?” said Ken.

  “Because I need immediate access,” said Alex. “If this gets ugly, stay as low as possible.”

  “How will I know if it gets ugly?” asked Ken, already shrinking in his seat.

  “Watch my dad’s right hand. If it starts to move toward the pistol—things are about to get really ugly,” added Ryan.

  “Jesus. Maybe we should turn around and try a bridge farther south,” Ken suggested.

  “In my experience, all bridges are bad news. Actually, this doesn’t look so bad. I have a good feeling about this,” said Alex.

  “He doesn’t say that very often,” said Ryan, winking at Alex through the rearview mirror.

  “That’s reassuring,” Ken stated flatly.

  “If they ask us to exit the vehicle, we kindly decline and tell them we’ll stay on this side of the Kennebec. Stick to the story. Windows down,” Alex said, lowering his window.

  He stopped the SUV several feet in front of the cruiser and killed the engine, keeping the key inserted in the ignition. Two officers stepped out of the police car and approached them, splitting apart in front of the SUV. Neither kept their hands close to their service pistols, which gave Alex the impression that Ken’s assessment was correct. This would more than likely be a quick check to make sure Alex’s group wasn’t bringing trouble to the other side of the river.

  The officer on the driver’s side of the SUV walked up to Alex’s window, while the second officer took a wider approach to the passenger side. The officer on his side didn’t wear a nametag, and his uniform looked worn and dirty. He glanced at the officer’s face, noticing that he looked gaunt, his eyes slightly sunken and red. He looked more exhausted than anything. Probably malnourished like the rest of America.

  Alex wondered how he looked to the officer. Too well fed? Would that color the way they were treated? Another quick look confirmed that the patches on the officer’s cold-weather jacket matched up with Winslow Police Department. That had to be a good sign. If the officers were fake, he doubted the imposters would have slipped into the Winslow police station to retrieve seasonally issued gear. Was he being paranoid? No. Alex wasn’t taking any chances. Eli Russell’s men had killed two soldiers at a security checkpoint wearing stolen uniforms.

  “Morning, officer,” said Alex, fully intent on letting the officer lead the discussion beyond the opening pleasantries.

  “Morning, Mr…?”

  “Fletcher. Alex Fletcher. We’re out by Great Pond.”

  Shit. Did he really just tell them that?

  “Whereabouts on the pond?” asked the officer, putting one of his hands on the car door and leaning over to examine the interior.

  “Jamaica Point,” said Ken. “Not right on the point.”

  “It’s nice over there. One of our officers has a camp over on Long Pond. What brings you over this way?”

  Before Alex could respond, Ken answered, “I’m taking these city slickers up to Benton to fish the Sebasticook. The Belgrade Lakes area was tapped out last fall. Figured we might get lucky with the trout.”

  “You’re not from the area?” asked the officer, addressing Alex.

  “Scarborough, Maine. Our house was swamped by the tsunami. A good friend of mine owns a camp next to Mr. Woods,” said Alex, nodding his head at Ken. “We stayed with him for the winter.”

  “With Mr. Woods?”

  “No. With my friend. Mr. Woods—Ken—offered to take us up to the Sebasticook. Said it’s some of the best fly-fishing in the area.”

  “There’s some good spots on this side of the Kennebec,” said the officer.

  The second police officer approached the window to the cargo compartment and cupped his hands to get a better view inside. Alex felt his face flush. The fishing poles and tackle boxes sat on top of the tarp hiding their rifles. He hoped it wasn’t obvious that something was hidden underneath. Beside the fishing gear, they had loaded a water cooler and a few pairs of fly-fishing waders.

  Ken leaned over the center console. “Nothing beats the Sebasticook. Especially up between Benton and Clinton.”

  “Well, there’s no disputing that,” said the officer. “Just be careful up there. The folks that pulled through the winter on this side of the river might not take kindly to your presence. Make sure you use public access to the river and avoid private property. It’s been a long winter.”

  “Sounds like things got pretty bad in Waterville. We swung south to avoid driving through the downtown area,” said Alex.

  “Smart move. I’d say your chances of successfully navigating through the downtown are about fifty-fifty in one of these,” he said, patting the window well. “Anyone lucky enough to end up with a running car has kept the fact pretty quiet. They have a tendency to disappear right out from under you. Be careful where you drive. Things have been civil over here, but a functioning vehicle might be too big of a temptation for some.”

  �
�Thanks, officer,” said Alex, noticing that the second officer had finished his inspection of the cargo area.

  “You have a good day, folks,” said the officer next to his window, backing away to give Alex room to drive.

  Alex turned the ignition and made sure the second officer remained clear of the SUV while he pulled forward. In the back of his mind, he envisioned the officers drawing their weapons and firing point blank into the vehicle. Fuck! Every situation turned into a worst-case scenario in his mind. Alex knew it was a survival mechanism—an extreme mechanism honed over the two disasters. He wondered if it would ever go away. The Jakarta pandemic had left him in a heightened state of paranoia. The event had catapulted him into the big leagues—a pathological state of distrust.

  In keeping with the thought, Alex turned to Ryan once they had cleared the police cruiser and driven onto the bridge.

  “Break out the rifles. Sounds like this could turn into the Wild West pretty quick,” said Alex, opening the compartment holding his pistol.

  “Good job back there, Ken. You saved me from fumble-mouthing my way into a strip search,” said Alex.

  “Well, I wasn’t exactly lying. If we can spare the time, I’ll show you what these rivers can give up. Trout should be swimming. They love the cold water. That’ll last another month, maybe two at most. As the water starts to warm, the trout will hide in the cold-water streams. You can still find them, but the rivers will teem with easier catch. Perch and bluegills. I’m telling ya, if you find the right spot, you can fish the rivers from ice-in to ice-out. Your son will love it. Ever been?” asked Ken, turning in his seat.

  “No,” said Ryan, scooting up on the rear passenger bench to hear what Ken had to say.

  “Nothing like casting on the water with a cooler full of ice-cold beers.”