by J. B. Craig
“Neither did I”, he said. “I was just fishing, and then this happened!”
As the 2 boaters rowed towards each other, they continued to talk, and verified that neither one had seen any survivors. Finally, the two would-be rescuers approached each other. Greg in his rowboat, and the other one in a canoe.
“Ah would have been here sooner” said the stranger in his Virginia Drawl, “but mah fishing boat engine wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t even turn over, and it’s never been a problem before. What have you found?”
Greg looked at the skinny old man with white hair sticking out everywhere. He had a bushy beard, a long white ponytail with rubber bands attempting to hold it together, and a white tee shirt on. “I found a dead stewardess, and a few random body parts, but I think most of the folks were strapped in and are down there somewhere.”
“Well, Shit”, said the old guy in a Virginia drawl. “I guess the Crabs will be eatin’ good this week. Hey, do you have a phone? Mine’s dead, and I guess we need to call someone, but I’d a figured they’d be here by now.”
A creeping feeling started doing the goose-bump walk up Greg’s spine. Transformers blowing, plane crashes, boat’s not starting, a car wreck and 2 phones both not working. This was not good. This was very, very not good. Greg had prepared for something like this for 20 years, and most of the stuff he prepared was 600 or so miles south, at home with his wife.
“Buddy, I think we got a much bigger problem than a plane crash, or even a power-grid down scenario. Way bigger. Look how that fishing boat is dead in the water. Wouldn’t they be here? I don’t hear any sirens, and there’s no traffic moving on the Maryland shore. I just noticed that.”
“Well, yeah”, said the wiry old biker (labeled that way by Greg, now that he could see his tattoos by the light of the dying fuel fires). Our power went out just before the plane hit the water. You prolly heard the transformers blow. Maybe this is the power grid collapse that the government has been saying Korea was trying to do to us with that cyber-hacking stuff.”
“Sir, you might as well paddle on home. I think something worse than a grid-down scenario happened. If cell phones are down, vehicles with electronic ignition won’t work, and the lights are out, we are well and truly fucked! This is either an EMP, or a CME.”
“Speak English, Son.” Said the white-beard.
“Either we were attacked by a Nuke in the high atmosphere, causing an Electro Magnetic Pulse that’s an EMP, or we were unlucky enough to experience another Carrington Event, or Sun Spot gone bad – a Coronal Mass Ejection, the CME. It’s what happens when a sunspot gets all big and dark, and then the Sun Pukes a river of hurt out. If our part of Earth is in the way of that, it would be really, really bad. Ions and crazy stuff I don’t understand fries anything with a circuit in it. The last one happened in the 1850’s, and fried everything electronic in this part of the world. The only thing is that in the 1850’s, all that meant was fried telegraph wires, and telegraph operators having a headache if plugged in. Now, EVERYTHING that has a circuit board is done. Everything over a given area, anyway. The size of the area depends on where the EMP went off, or what part of Earth was facing the sun when the solar storm hits. I’ve been reading about this for years and preparing for it. Want to hear what’s crazier than that?”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything THAT crazy, so I’m not sure I want to hear something crazier”, he said.
“Yeah, neither do I,” Greg said. “Everything I prepared for something like this to happen is over 600 miles South, outside of Atlanta with my wife. All I have to deal with this is what’s in my bug-out bag. The BOB has all my camping, survival and prepping shit in it. My advice to you is to go home, run the water if you have any pressure, fill up everything you can, and get ready for some dark days. After water, you need the 3 B’s. Bullets, Bandages, and Beans.”
“Well, I’m pretty good on all 3”, said white-beard. “I’ve heard a little bit about what you’re talking about, and I think you’re right. You take care of yourself, and if you need anything, I live right over there.” He pointed to the vicinity of Beasley Point.
“I’m over in Rock Harbor”, said Greg, as he pointed over to the other side of the Nomini river. “Luckily, it’s our family’s house, and it’s only used a few times per year since Pop and Grandma Chambers died. It’s way better stocked that the average house, but I’m still fucked, because my wife and son are in Atlanta, and my daughter is in Philly. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m like a donkey between 2 bales of hay.”
“Chief Chambers? Son, I knew the man, and served with him in the Navy. I haven’t been to his house, but I’ve attended some of those soirees in the community center, and we had more than a few drinks together. You might be luckier as you think. That man never threw away anything, and he prepared for a bunch of scenarios. You know he worked for NSA, right?”
“Well, I heard rumors about that,” I said. “We only talked man stuff after I did my time in the Army during Desert Storm.” Greg said, and started to wonder about what might be at the old family house. This is the house that all family members had said for years that they would go to if anything ever went south, from a Zombie apocalypse to nuclear war. Now he was the only family member there.
“Well, I imagine that’s true. Looks like you’re right about the shit hitting the fan, and I’m sorry you’re away from your family, but you could be in a lot worse shape. I have to go take care of my livestock and the neighbors around me. Take care, and I’ll see you around, soldier. Stay strong and watch your back!” said the old-timer. “My name’s Les, short for Lester. I always do more with less!” The old man cackled and paddled his canoe away, with his ropy muscles pulling his canoe against the current to get home.
“I’m Greg Creighton,” Greg said as he introduced himself, and Les waved over his shoulder. He took one last look around and saw nothing floating around that could be rescued or used, so he put his back into the oars, and started the long row back to the house at Rock. The incoming tide would make this trip a true test of his less-than-combat-ready strength, and the upcoming months would be a true test of his internal fortitude. Who would he go to save? Should he stick with the agreed-upon plan, and wait for the rest of the family to come to Rock?
By the end of the long row home, he was breathing hard, and sweating profusely. He thought along the way, and determined that, for now, he would hold in place, and hope for the best. This decision would be debated in his head many times over the coming months, but he needed to make sure that when family did show up (and he couldn’t contemplate the thought of them not showing up), the family homestead would be as safe, and as stocked with food, water and supplies as possible and that he could survive for whomever did make it to the house on the Rivah, as it was pronounced by many Virginians.
After Greg tied off the boat and staggered up to the house, he opened a bottle of wine, poured a tall water glass full, and plopped down into Grandpa’s chair, looking over the water and thinking back to how he got into this apocalyptic situation.
Greg and his soon-to-be ex-wife spent years trying to make it work, but once the twins went off to college, there was nothing left holding them together. She was a successful executive at Home Depot, and Greg spent years following her from one posting to another, always finding a local non-profit with a mission that he could get behind, and leading it until the next move. His experience in non-profit mergers and acquisitions gave him a sort of specialty niche. He got his MBA several years back, and was going to write a business-school book about Nonprofit M&A. Several colleges had newly developed programs in Nonprofit management, and he was planning to be a professor at one of them in the fall. But first, this book needed to be written, and he had planned to do it here. With a dead Mac, it would be a lot harder, and possibly obsolete if the world was back in the Dark Ages.
Over the years, while he was very successful at work, he was less successful at physical fitness. While raising his kids, he changed f
rom a soldier to an old-dude. 25 years after leaving the Army , he was large, and out of shape. Greg had high blood pressure, under control with medicine, but was pushing 290 pounds on his “big-boned” 6’1 frame. He had silvering brown hair, and about a half-dozen tattoos, where they couldn’t be seen in work clothes. He hoped this fishing trip would also be the start of another diet and fitness program. When he got in shape, he got more than his fair share of looks, but lately, he’d seen glances, and the “old, fat dude” verdict from too many women in the world, even those that were clearly older than him.
His bad habits were not a good recipe for a long life, but in his defense, he was fighting PTSD from the Gulf War and couldn’t sleep well on a normal day. It was his drinking and his PTSD that finally caused his wife to eventually give up, which may have been the reason she started cheating on him. To her credit, she spent time trying to get him out of the La-Z-Boy and off the booze, but he didn’t act on her pleas. He understood that he wasn’t fully present, so other than his hurt feelings over the affair, it was going to be a mostly amicable divorce. He was not looking forward to telling the kids, though. One of the things he wanted to do while at the river house was to visit his daughter, Maria at college, and break the news to her. His wife Leigh was going to tell their son, Jared, who was attending Georgia Tech. Maria and Jared were twins. While not strictly a “daddy’s girl” and “mommy’s boy”, Maria was slightly closer to Greg and Jared was closer to his mom, Leigh. He could only really connect with his son when fishing, hunting or camping. Otherwise, they bumped heads, and too much time together would naturally devolve into a macho pissing contest. Both his son and daughter were “Alpha’s” in their respective peer groups, but for whatever reason, he didn’t rub his daughter the wrong way.
He knew he drank too much to help him sleep, but was not willing to get into a sleeping pill situation, although he couldn’t say why – it just seemed different than drinking. His sleeping problem had been there since he got out of the Army after the firsts Desert Storm. Some said he should get help for his PTSD, but he served with brothers who had it a lot worse. He felt like he would be stealing their VA benefits if he went in and whined about his own bad dreams. He was always a bigger than average guy. Even when he was a soldier, his “fighting weight” was 225. He hoped that this time away from his everyday habits would be the start of a new fitness program, even though he had attempted several, and failed them over the years. A week ago, he started doing push-ups again, and after his first few pathetic attempts, he could do 25-30 in a set, which was encouraging – he hadn’t totally lost it. He was starting to get what his wife called the “dog bone” muscle in his triceps, an early first sign that he was moving back towards decent shape.
Just before arriving at the family place, he stopped at the local convenience store, Dubbed “Rock Harbor Mall”, as a tongue-in-cheek homage to its tiny size, by the locals many years ago. It had received a face-lift since his last time here, just after Grandma died. Packing up her stuff, and giving it away to various family members and charities was hard on him. At least Grandma packed up Pop’s stuff.
Greg grabbed the usual bread, milk, cheese, and other food that he would need as he got the house ready for moving in. The separation with his wife was now legal, and he had to get ready for life in his new home, which was really the old family place. Since she made a lot more money, and worked in downtown Atlanta, he let Leigh keep their property, with the understanding that he would come back to get more of his stuff over the next several weeks.
Getting in the long line at the store, he was starting to regret his decision, as it seemed every construction worker in the area was at the deli counter, ordering food. The good news was that it meant that the food was good, if they were here. A very large Hispanic man turned to look at him, and smiled. Greg took the opportunity to start a conversation. “What’s the best sandwich here, big guy?” For Greg to call a guy “Big Guy”, the guy had to be large, and this man was.
The big guy looked down at Greg, smiled, and said “Hero” and pointed at the sandwich listings.
Greg smiled back. “Perfect. I can eat half now, and half for dinner. Thanks, man!”
“De Nada, Amigo.” He was clearly a man of few words, so Greg kept to himself, looking around. The place was much cleaner than the last time he was here. They had put in a covered porch on the front of the store, which used to be the parking lot. Most of the construction workers were sitting outside, eating their sandwiches. The big guy’s turn at the counter was up. He asked for 2 Italian Hero’s, and when he got them, he handed one to Greg. “Enjoy, Amigo” he smiled at Greg and paid the woman behind the counter. He followed his buddies out to the porch and ate while leaning against one of the porch rails, as all 8 of the seats were taken.
When Greg got to the front, the woman behind the counter looked at him. “Hey Stranger, welcome to Rock Harbor Mall. What else can I get you besides that stuff.”
Her smile was genuine, and she clearly knew the locals. “Anything biting yet?” He looked over at the corner rack of fishing gear.
“I’m told not yet, except for the occasional catfish and maybe a croaker in the channels. FYI, Esteban out there bought your Sandwich, so you’re OK in my book. Just a fair warning, he likes them spicy, so I made it his way.”
“Oh hell, he didn’t have to do that! I just asked him what was good here.”
“In my place, everything is good. But his ‘special hero’ is damn good. I make one his way and bring it home for dinner every Thursday… and breakfast every Friday. They hold up well in a fridge or cooler.”
“Your place, huh? Under new management, I guess. I haven’t been here in 2 years, but I love what you’ve done with it.”
“You know Rock Harbor, huh? If you haven’t been here for a few years, you may not like it so much now. Mr. Essington bought up all of the inland lots, and those are his guys out there. His son, Tripp is officially the developer. They turned the harbor into a bunch of McMansions on quarter-acre lots. Despite the ‘Assington’, as he is called by many of us, he has influence. Despite that, those guys out there are a good bunch. If you’re headed that way, you can save them the walk, which is a few miles, as you know.”
“Well, thanks for the info, Ma’am. It’s the least I can do to repay the sandwich.”
“Don’t call me ma’am…”
“Oh? You work for a living?”
She smiled back at him. Looking at the Army tattoos on his arm. “You got it in one, soldier. I see you do, too.”
“Well I did, now I’m an almost-divorced and unemployed wanna-be author, but I plan to get back to it, eventually.”
“Outstanding. I want a signed copy when you write whatever it is. You better step out there, they’re about to walk 2 miles back to work. They get paid by the hour, and Trip doesn’t pay them for lunch, so you’ll more than make up the price of the sandwich if you give them a ride.”
“Catch you later. I look forward to talking military stories with you.”
Greg called out to the guys, who were starting to walk the way he was going. “Hey, man! Thanks for the sandwich. Let me give you guys a ride. I can probably fit 4 in the cab. He started throwing his bags from the back seat into the truck bed. The rest can fit back there, around the kayak and gear, if the big guy doesn’t break my springs.”
One of the smaller guys, a dark-skinned guy with ropy muscles coming out of his construction company t-shirt started yelling orders in Spanish. Guys on his crew politely pushed Greg out of the way, and started gently piling his bags from the back seat into the truck bed. At that point, based on some internal hierarchy, they took places in the back seat of the truck, and the bed. Esteban, the giant was the last one in, and the guy giving orders got in the passenger seat.
“Muchas Gracias, Amigo. I am Angel (it sounded like An-Hell). We all appreciate the ride.
“Any time, Amigo. My Spanish is no Bueno, but I understand y’all are working on the Rock Harbor peninsula. I’m g
oing there, so it’s no problem. Plus, that big guy back there bought my lunch.”
“Oh, you have Esteban’s special? Es Muy Caliente! I see you have milk in the bag. You will need that. He’s from Mexico City. The rest of us are from Honduras. He likes it much spicier than we do. Greg checked out the rearview mirror, to see the 3 guys in the bench seat smiling at each other, and he heard ‘Este’ and ‘Caliente’ and ‘Hero’ several times.”
The drive took only a few minutes, with the houses, community center, tennis courts, pool and mansion all tugging at Greg’s heart, and memory. Angel pointed Greg at a house under construction. It was on the inside of Seahawk Circle, not far from Greg’s family house, but on one of the many inland lots that Greg’s grandfather had sold to a developer years ago. Greg recalled wondering when anyone would buy one of the lots. The last time he was home, there was only one house built on the inland lots. It was just across from the boat ramp and had the only inland view of the harbor that the ground floor of a house could have. He recalled it belonging to Mike and Jennifer, a young couple who bought the lot and put in a two-story house, which was rare for the peninsula. Almost every lot that was developed had a rancher on the water. The Historic Rock Harbor Mansion was the only original multi-story house on the Peninsula before Mark and Jennifer built theirs.
