Life Struggles (Life Stories Book 1)

by Mark Treble

  We talked about lifts and gift shop and all sort of shit. I asked about how they power the whole thing. Seems they use the local electric utility and for backup have a one hundred thirty KW generator they put in four years ago that's only had to be used twice.

  Somebody in the Gatlinburg area had a hell of a lot of stand-by power. Or a large primary power source to disguise the electricity usage.

  I checked with the KOA Website – Kampgrounds of America – and found five local commercial camping locations, three within the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. Four of them had existed for ten years. One inside the park had started building two years ago and was not yet open to the public.

  I searched the internet for fuel consumption rates for the generators. About seven gallons per hour if running at fifty percent. So, figure ten gallons per hour each. Fifty gallons an hour or twelve hundred gallons a day if they were using all of them. Even if they were only using some of them, they were going to be a huge customer for some diesel supplier.

  It was getting late, so this was my last search. The only diesel supplier in the area that could likely supply that much fuel was in Morristown. I headed there and got a hotel, reserved it for two nights. A bit over a hundred dollars a night, but I was feeling rich. I had my book advance after all.

  I found the diesel distributor that night while cruising for a place to eat. I settled for a drive-through hamburger and fries and a large coke. I called the house to check in on Alex, and Marcus answered.

  He gave me an earful. “That nursing student came by to check on Alex and Monica was here. The shit hit the fan when she saw how Alex looked at the woman. Monica's gone and I'm afraid she isn't coming back for a while. That was yesterday and Alex is doing some moping. We went over to Luke's and swam for a bit, that didn't do shit for him. I had some weed so we smoked that, and he mellowed out a little.”

  “Ah, Marcus, he smoked weed with you?” I suspected Alex used marijuana, but suspecting is one thing. Having it thrown in my face is another.

  “Oh, shit. I wasn't supposed to say that. I'm sorry.” Marcus was contrite and I told him not to worry about it.

  Marcus continued. “Anyway, Alex told me you let him drink as much beer as he wanted. I told him you're not here and I was going to monitor his beer drinking. He didn't object too much, so I figure you do the same thing.”

  I assured him he was correct. “Alex can drink beer at the house in moderation, and can't drive if he's had even one beer. I'm surprised he misses Monica so much. I know he has a crush on Veronica.”

  “He doesn't miss Monica,” Marcus told me. “He misses the sex.”

  Well, that made sense. I showered, got in bed and went to sleep. I dreamed about kicking Cheryl's puppy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I got the hotel's “free breakfast” which still left me hungry. Someone once famously said there is no free lunch. He should have added breakfast to that list.

  I headed straight to the diesel supplier. Said I was planning to open a cross-docking operation somewhere in the area along Interstate Forty and the trucks would need a lot of diesel. The clerk called out the general manager.

  The GM was all ears. He asked me what kind of facility I was talking about, and I said one that would service the routes from Dallas to Raleigh and Detroit to Atlanta. The routes crossed in Knoxville, so the primary cross-docking operation would be near there. There would be smaller operations in Memphis and Cincinnati.

  We expected about twelve trucks a day, each with a tank between seventy and one hundred gallons. Figure eight hundred to a thousand gallons a day. Can they supply that? Of course they can.

  He showed me around the yard to see their tankers. I pretended I knew what I was doing. They had tankers with capacities from two thousand to eight thousand gallons. Eight hundred to a thousand gallons a day would be easy for them.

  I told him that the optimal location would be in Knoxville itself, but that wasn't going to happen. Too much traffic and the land was too expensive. So, it would be east or west of Knoxville, or possibly just south. He assured me that he could serve all three locations. He talked about prices and delivery schedules and in-ground tanks. He wanted to know how big the in-ground tank was going to be. I had no idea.

  “In-ground tanks aren't my area, vendors are my specialty. What size would you recommend?” I hoped I wasn't coming across too stupid. Fortunately, the guy had dollar signs dancing in front of his eyes and wasn't trying to guess my IQ.

  “I'd say not bigger than ten thousand gallons. That way you'll empty the tank in a week to ten days. You don't want diesel fuel sitting around too long, you know.” I didn't know, but nodded my head. Did the fuel get bored and try to run away? I kept my thoughts to myself.

  I thanked him, took a brochure, his business card and an invitation to come back real soon. I gave him my current burner cellphone number and explained I'd left my business cards in the hotel. I promised him I would come back, then turned to leave. As if it was an afterthought I asked him about any of his larger customers I could call as references.

  He gave me three local references, none of which was a campground in the National Park. And, none of them used more than a couple hundred gallons a day. I asked him if he had any customers who used the amount I was talking about with whom I could speak.

  “There's one, but my agreement with them says I can't tell you who they are.” He looked at the ground as though he was ashamed of himself. I assured him it was OK.

  “We've got a truck leaving for them real soon, and I'll have the driver ask them if I can use them as a reference. I'd love to tell you who they are, but I can't. I hope you understand.” He was begging for my understanding, and I reassured him that his loyalty to his customer was very impressive and a point in his favor. He brightened considerably.

  Next stop was a gas station to fill up. I waited outside the yard and within forty minutes a two thousand gallon tanker departed. I figured they would use one of the smaller trucks to navigate the narrower roads in the park, and hoped this was the one.

  I followed it out of town and onto US Route 441. We passed through a couple of small towns I'd never heard of, then Pigeon Forge and finally Gatlinburg. From there our tiny convoy went on roads I couldn't find on any map, branching off from one to another. I turned on my GPS and instead of “Recalculating” it said “You've got to be kidding.” Actually, that was a joke. It showed I might be on a road or a trail or a something.

  You may be wondering how I was able to tail the truck without him knowing. That's easy. He wasn't looking for a tail. How many times do you go about your normal business and not look to see if someone is following you? Right. That's what he was doing.

  About twenty miles into the park the truck came to a road branching off to the right. There was a small sign pointing toward the road and reading “Tennvol Campgrounds.” That was the new one that wasn't yet open. I followed the truck up the narrow road and soon learned that it wasn't actually a road, it was a driveway. There was no exit until it dead-ended at a clearing in the woods. A fence divided the clearing from some buildings I could see perhaps half a mile away.

  There was a guard at the gate. This wasn't a high school kid directing traffic or welcoming people to the campground. The guy was in a starched khaki uniform and had epaulets on his shoulders. He spoke to the driver, had him get out, and inspected around and under the vehicle. Pretty unusual for a friendly greeter. In fact, very unusual for a friendly greeter.

  The gate closed after the truck had gone through. I pulled up to the fellow in uniform and got a better look. White, just under six feet tall, dark suntan, dark hair, dark glasses and muscles straining at the seams of his uniform. This guy was a serious security guard.

  “Can I help you?” It sounded like a fucked-up English accent to me, but then what do I know?

  “Yeah, looking for a campground for my family for next month.” Seemed like a believable story to me.

  “We're closed until construction
is completed. Go someplace else.” Security guard was not smiling. If this was a campground that wanted paying customers, it sure had a funny way of making them feel welcome.

  “Can I just go in and look around?” Another believable question.

  “No. Turn around and go back the way you came.” The not-quite-English guy wasn't smiling. I turned around and started back.

  The truck driver may not have been looking for someone following him, but I did. And before I left the driveway there was a blue SUV coming down after me. I should have dropped breadcrumbs on my way in, but I hadn't. I put “Knoxville Airport” into the GPS, which helpfully said “Please drive to highlighted route.” The problem was that nothing was highlighted.

  Well, I knew if I went the wrong direction it would eventually tell me it needed to recalculate, so I turned left to go back the way we had come. A couple of wrong turns, and eventually I could see a highlighted route. I just sort of aimed for it and, after two dead ends, found myself in Gatlinburg. With a blue SUV still on my tail.

  I continued up Route 441 and it turned off. Thank God. I guess I was getting paranoid. I headed straight back to my hotel and tried to call Jeff Cronin. I left a message. So I wrote up what I had found. Basically, the Tennvol Campground was nothing of the sort. It was fenced, gated and guarded, and had about one megawatt of generating power. Security was tight. It was worth a serious look. I sent the report off to Jeff.

  I had put the chain on the door to my room just like I always do in a hotel. You never know when a drunk will barge in on you going into the wrong room. And, that blue SUV still had me spooked. I had seen a steak house just outside of town and decided to head there for dinner.

  I looked through the peephole and nobody was outside. I must be getting paranoid, but I looked both ways in the corridor before heading to the elevator. Nobody rode down with me, so that was good. I got in the car and exited the parking lot. The steakhouse was a couple miles out of town, and I was looking forward to a decent dinner. I hadn't eaten anything since the free breakfast.

  I got about a mile out of town when a car pulled out to pass me. I figured he was drunk from the way he swerved. The next thing I knew I was in a ditch. I hit the OnStar emergency button before the driver's window shattered and I heard somebody yelling at me. Damn that sounds like an off-kilter English accent. Then the world went dark.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I woke up in the back of an SUV with my hands and legs tied. This shit was getting old. At least this time I probably wouldn't wind up with a butt-plug in my ass. Luke told me what the rubber thing had been. I didn't ask for details.

  “Who are you?” That was the friendly greeter. This was not looking good. And I still had my library books to take back.

  “I'm Ethan McQuade, a reporter for the New Orleans Daily Post. I'm doing an article on newer campgrounds in the South and wanted to look at yours. Who are you?” I hoped they believed me. Then again, even if they did, they had me tied up and I had to assume they realized I knew who the lousy English accent belonged to.

  “Wat doen ons met hom?” That was another guy in the same uniform. Great, one guy with a lousy English accent and another one speaking incredibly bad German.

  “Ons kan nie laat hom gaan.” That was the sort-of English guy. This was getting weird.

  What do I mean, getting weird? I was forced off the road, kidnapped and tied up. Martians would have been getting weird, these guys' speech was just a footnote to the existing weirdness.

  “What do you guys want?” I needed to get them speaking in English if I was going to be able to figure out what was going on. Two problems with that. A, I think I already knew what was going on and hoped that Special Agent Cronin checked his voicemail and email, and B, What was I going to do about it anyway?

  “We want to know who sent you.” That was second guy, who could have been a weight-lifter cousin to friendly greeter guy.

  “My managing editor sent me. You can call the paper and talk to him. His name is Melvin Price. New Orleans Daily Post. The number is…” I was cut off.

  “Ja, we found your press card and called the paper already. They said you were out of the office.” This should have made me feel better. Confirming who I was didn't look like it was going to make my situation any better, because they'd already done that and my situation looked pretty hopeless.

  “We take you with us.” At least they weren't going to kill me and dump me here by the side of the road. They were going to kill me and dump me somewhere else. That's much better.

  I heard a siren in the background. Maybe the police were on their way? I had hit the emergency button on the OnStar thing and they'll send somebody. I hope. But they'll send somebody to the car, and all I can see is darkness. I don't think they stayed by my car to have our pleasant chat.

  Weight lifter guy got in the driver's seat and friendly greeter guy moved to the front passenger seat. We started moving and were soon on a decent paved road. I think I recognized a few landmarks and figured we were headed toward Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg.

  They hadn't bothered buckling me in, but I could hardly see how that was going to do me any good. In fact, the female end of the buckle was under my ass and it was uncomfortable. Not to mention it had a very sharp edge that had poked a hole in my pants. Great, now I won't be dressed properly for my funeral.

  The sharp edge kept tearing my pants further and further. Then it hit me. Maybe? I moved my wrists over to the sharp edge and ran the rope across it. Wonderful. It was sharp enough to poke a hole in my clothes, but with the rope it felt more like sawing against a spoon. This wasn't going to work. But, I had no better ideas, so I kept sawing away.

  After twenty minutes I had made no progress on cutting the rope, but the sharp edge caught on something. I strained to my left to try and get it unstuck, and all it did was make the rope tighter. So, I strained to my right and it made the rope a little looser. Another strain to the right and it loosened a bit. Another lean to my right and it loosened some more. Three more and I could get a hand out.

  Rope was still tied to my right hand, but it was free. I got to work on the rope around my ankles, but I had to bend over to do so.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” That was weight lifter, who had seen me bow my head in the rear view mirror.

  “I'm getting car sick.” It was all I could think of.

  “If you vomit in my car I'll beat the shit out of you.” That was weight lifter again. Since I was going to die anyway, what's a little beating? The threat was meaningless. I kept my head down and my fingers busy until I had my ankles free, then sat back up.

  “I'm feeling better now.” Friendly greeter assured me that I should enjoy it, because it wasn't going to last long.

  When I sat up I saw signs for hotels all over the place. Then a sign for Dollywood. I was in Pigeon Forge, which should be called “The city of stoplights.” Every couple of blocks there was a light. Except in front of us they were all green. I wasn't going to get a chance to escape at a red light. So, I'll have to do it on a green light. The next intersection I opened the door and fell out.

  Dropping from a moving car at twenty five miles an hour isn't as much fun as you might think. I felt something in my ankle give way, then my head hit the pavement. Then a motorcycle ran over me. Then I saw the SUV burn rubber down the road. I was safe.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” That was a very large, very fat man dressed all in leather. “My bike is wrecked, you cocksucker.” Then he kicked me.

  Fortunately somebody got out of a car and came to see what was going on. Very large fat man in leather was standing over a pile of clothes with spreading blood stains. The pile of clothes moaned, and somebody called an ambulance.

  A few minutes later an EMT was kneeling next to me taking my vitals. “Can you breathe? Are you hurt? What's your name? What happened?”

  Yes I can breathe. Yes I am hurt. My name is Ethan. What happened is kidnapping and terrorists and blood.

  “Etha
n, the bleeding looks worse than it probably is, don't worry about it. I'm not a terrorist, I'm a medic. Look, we're going to take you to a hospital.” Thank God.

  In the ambulance I lay on a stretcher of some sort and the EMT was speaking into a microphone. “Enroute Ten-Fifty PI. ETA six minutes. Probable Ten-Ninety-Six.”

  I'd watched enough television drama to know that Ten-Fifty PI meant an accident with personal injury. Ten-Ninety-Six was a mystery. Maybe it meant journalist?

  The next thing I knew I was on a bed with a youngster about Alex's age asking me questions. “Where are you?” In an ambulance. “What year is it?” Ah, 1776? “What happened? Kidnapping and terrorists and blood weapons.

  “Doctor Phil to Emergency, Doctor Phil to Emergency.” Hmmm. I wonder what that means.

  An older woman appeared and ordered a CT of my head and neck. I tried to talk about kidnapping and terrorists, but she wasn't paying a lot of attention.

  “Haloperidol lactate two milligrams IM STAT.” Hunh, I thought that was for crazy people. Then I started feeling very relaxed and had trouble controlling my muscles. In a couple of minutes I forgot what was so important I had to tell them.

  “FBI.” I tried that after my head got out of the CT machine.

  “How long have you been with the FBI?” That was the radiology technician. Fuck. This was not going as well as I had hoped.

  From the CT scan I was sent to X-Ray for my ankle. Nobody wanted to listen to what I wanted to say, but I had a lot of trouble remembering what that was.

  Chapter Twenty

  I woke up in a hospital room. I tried to move my arms but they were apparently tied to the bed. My legs too. I couldn't really think straight. My mouth felt like I had eaten a package of cotton balls. And I was thirsty as hell.

  “Water.” I said that every two minutes until a nurse showed up four days later. Actually, I think it was thirty minutes, but four days does make a better story.