by Joe Nobody
Eventually, the civil rage burned itself out. Those with pent up frustrations either starved, died, or quit due to exhaustion. Each night, fewer fires burned on the horizon, the echoes of gunshots and screaming victims eventually becoming the exception and not the rule. Cameron remembered thinking the worst was behind them.
He began mobilizing LBO’s resources, organizing his people, and making plans to salvage what was left. That’s when the ugly, inhumane beast of starvation reared its monstrous head.
As he and his security team navigated toward the company’s downtown offices, they passed one of the mass grave sites. The once well-manicured, uniformly level lawn of the neighborhood park was now deformed by a raised mound of earth nine feet wide and two city blocks long. Grass and other ground cover had healed the scar somewhat, but it was dreadfully clear to everyone that the location was the final resting place of hundreds of their neighbors and family members. People were dying in such numbers there simply wasn’t any other way to dispose of the bodies.
The death toll mounted in the hospitals and nursing homes. Gallant, dedicated caregivers tried desperately to save as many as possible, but the combination of overwhelming casualties from the violence, a shortage of medicines, and the lack of food deliveries resulted in the disintegration of the healthcare system. Nurses and doctors struggled to reach their hospitals because the roads were thick with rioters, fires, and vandalism. Those that did manage to report faced untenable numbers of wounded, feeble, and dying. Soon the generators ran out of fuel, the cafeterias served their last morsels, and pharmacy shelves were barren. The only thing that wasn’t in short supply was bodies.
The next wave of casualties consumed the nation’s elderly. Many couldn’t fill critical prescriptions and few had more than a couple of days’ worth of food. Family members helped the lucky ones, but their children and grandchildren soon suffered from bare pantries as well.
If hunger were a monster, disease was the titan of death. Within 90 days, the combination of unburied bodies, malnutrition, raw sewage, untreated water, mountains of garbage, and a lack of medical care resulted in a horrendous toll. Every germ and virus began to thrive in the petri dish that was Midland Station. Within 120 days, the city of 100,000 became a semi-ghost town of less than 20,000 stick thin, wandering zombies who mostly roamed aimlessly about, randomly looking for something… anything to eat.
Food, thought Cameron as they approached the sequestered downtown region and LBO’s headquarters. It always will be about food.
“Are you okay, sir?” The concern in Lou’s voice indicating he had detected his boss’ mood.
“I was just thinking about Isaac Newton, Lou. He was a smarter man than most give him credit for.”
“I know who Newton was, sir, but I don’t follow.”
“Newton’s third law, Actioni contrariam semper et æqualem esse reactionem - To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction. I think that law was in full effect for Midland Station. We sit on one the world’s largest oceans of oil, yet our town is in a fruitless sea of isolation. Oil is our action; lack of agriculture is the opposite reaction.”
Cameron glanced at Lou, the expression on the muscular man’s face indicating he couldn’t connect the dots. Smiling, the executive added, “We’re oil rich and food poor. We’re paying for the abundance of one necessity with the shortage of another.”
Lou paused for a moment and then surprised his boss. “I’m sure there are places that have food and would trade it for gasoline. We need to barter more.”
“Lou! Very good. That’s exactly what we’re trying to do. The problem is finding enough food.”
The only thing going Midland Station’s way was the refinery. Refinery is actually too strong a word, thought Cameron. It’s more like a large-scale test lab that can refine oil in small amounts.
Gasoline had disappeared in 10 days. The hospitals, running purely on generators, had consumed most of the town’s diesel supply in about the same period. One of Cameron’s first actions had been to secure and then restart the lab’s refining process.
Originally built to provide a service for LBO’s customers, the lab could grade, classify, and certify small samples of oil and natural gas produced by the local wells. A mini-refinery, compared to the commercial facilities scattered along the gulf coast, at full capacity the lab could refine 150 barrels per day. This was a miniscule amount compared to the 50,000-100,000 barrels per day common in Texas and Louisiana, but those facilities required extreme amounts of electricity to produce product. Cameron could run his lab off portable generators.
LBO’s engineers had worked round the clock to double that output. The effort resulting is a surplus of gasoline and diesel fuel. But you can’t eat MOGAS, thought Cameron.
The founding fathers of Midland Station probably didn’t realize they were establishing a town right in the middle of a climate zone that enabled very little food production. While cattle ranching was a vast industry, the modern day business of livestock depended on dietary supplements and food sources beyond what grew naturally on the land. Transportation was a necessity as well. Without fertilizer, pesticides, diesel, and grain shipments, agricultural production within reach of the city all but ceased. Lack of electrical power for irrigation sounded the final death knoll.
Some local farmers and ranchers ventured into town, offering to barter food for fuel and other available resources, but the supply didn’t nearly satisfy the demand. The 20,000 surviving residents required a minimum of 60,000 pounds of food per day. Before the collapse, the average American consumed 5.5 pounds per day, but that was a time of luxury and waste. Twenty tons of food per day, seven days a week, 365 days a year was a monumental problem for the community.
After the worst of the rioting and outbreaks of disease, a vacuum of leadership drew down the resources of the entire community. Some neighborhoods banded together, armed men patrolling the streets to thwart looters and cagey strangers. Other small organizations, such as churches, synagogues and the VFW tried to fill the void, but the scale of the problem was beyond their reach.
Lewis Brothers Oil was a natural candidate to fill the void. The huge corporation had a command and control infrastructure in place, with Cameron at the top. LBO employees fared better than other citizens; LBO’s facilities were well protected during the riots and had survived relatively unscathed. To a desperate, downtrodden population, the company became their only hope.
Cameron didn’t want to run the local government. He had no wish to manage the entire town. But that’s what happened in Midland Station. LBO organized food availability, generators for electrical power, medical care, and logistics for the community. The company’s earthmoving equipment dug the mass graves while LBO managers rallied the neighborhood to bury the dead in order to halt the further spread of disease. LBO generators powered the pumps that refilled the water towers so residents could drink and bathe.
After the complete deterioration of the American economy, Midland Station gradually evolved into exactly what the young boy at the school had called it - a company town. Like the small settlements in the West Virginia coal belt, every resident worked, ate, drank, and motored at the pleasure of the company. People shopped at the company store, were treated by company doctors, and used currency that was printed on company machines.
At first, the citizens embraced the effort. Anything was better than what the community had just endured, and the spirit of cooperation was high. However, that all changed when things didn’t improve.
The grind of the daily routine deteriorated the community’s spirit. There was no belief in a more promising future. Hope gradually evaporated, replaced with frustration and apathy.
The inevitable abuses of power only served to exacerbate the situation. It was difficult enough for elected officials to remain within the guidelines of civil service. Those holding authority in Midland Station now were LBO managers who didn’t have to defeat an opponent in the next election. The police, actuall
y private LBO security personnel, no longer worried about watchdog groups or internal affairs investigators reporting directly to the mayor. The checks and balances in place prior to the economic collapse no longer existed, and the morale of the populace suffered for it.
Justice was harsh and often metered by company men, not elected professionals schooled in the ways and means of the law. Key LBO employees lived better lives, ate better food, and received better work assignments than their non-company neighbors.
Cameron James Lewis knew and understood all of this. It was why he had begun the public relations campaigns like this morning’s visit to the school. In his mind, there wasn’t any other solution. He and his staff had debated, analyzed and proposed numerous different cures, but all led to even more horrendous and complicated situations – at least in Cameron’s mind.
One recent suggestion included holding elections to install a new city government. That idea, floated during a management meeting, engendered a withering outburst from Cameron. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to forfeit company assets to some dipshit new mayor. Let’s say we did have elections and some clown won. What’s he going to do? Where’s he going to get food? A city government would seize everything my family has worked almost 100 years to build. LBO is the only thing that’s working and keeping the community alive. There is no way to predict what would happen if someone outside the company seized control.”
The SUV pulled into the headquarters’ underground garage where Mr. Lewis’ assistant waited with a tablet computer and forced smile.
“What’s up, Linda?” Cameron stated more than asked.
“Your first appointment of the afternoon is waiting for you, Mr. Lewis. He’s early.”
Rubbing his chin, Cameron studied his secretary’s expression. “Is everything okay? I mean… I’m wondering why you decided to wait down here and not at your office.”
Shifting her weight from one foot to the other while staring at her shoes, the woman responded, “That man makes me uncomfortable, Mr. Lewis. I’m not sure why, but the way he looks at everyone makes me shiver.”
Nodding with a knowing air, Cameron motioned for Brenda to walk with him. “I understand. He is a bit of a character and operates at the lower levels of society.”
The executive and his entourage rode the elevator to the top floor of the 14-story building. With his security detail in front, Cameron entered his private office to find a guest surveying his environment through the suite’s floor to ceiling windows.
“Good day, Mr. Lewis.”
Cameron ignored the greeting, hanging his jacket on a hook behind the door and then moving immediately for his desk. “I’m not happy with our arrangement, sir. You’ve been late on the last two deliveries. Yesterday’s was considerably short on product.”
“And I accepted less payment for the product. We had equipment difficulties,” he answered. “It happens.”
“When we entered into our contract, you promised to deliver 10,000 pounds of food per week in exchange for gasoline, generators, liquor – and of course the continued care of the patient. So far, you’ve missed that mark half the time. I’m feeling the need to cancel our contract and secure another supplier.”
“Mr. Lewis, we’ll catch up. We’ve found a new source that should provide a significant amount of goods.”
“Where you get the food isn’t my concern, sir. I’ve got 20,000 hungry people, and they’re getting restless. I need you to hold up your end of the agreement.”
West Texas
January 17, 2016
Theodore Bonaparte Belou rubbed the five days of gristly, salt and pepper beard darkening his chin. Unlike so many men of the times, Mr. Belou’s facial growth had nothing to do with lack of access to shaving accessories, his appearance and habits relatively unchanged since well before the collapse. Why waste the edge of a perfectly good razor more often than need be, had been his motto for years.
The elder man’s eyes scanned row after row of discarded machinery, rusting metal and broken components randomly deposited across his 20-acre patch of West Texas paradise. He was searching out his son, waiting to see if a critical part could be salvaged from the yard. Another truck had broken down, the loss disrupting their business enterprise and drawing the ire of Mr. Cameron Lewis.
The product of a Louisiana Cajun father and a Nationalist French mother, Mr. Belou had located to this very swath of arid sand 46 years ago. Chasing fortune and sick of the damp Louisiana swamps, the latest oil boom in central Texas had lured the young man away from his boyhood home.
Rig-boss, after foreman, after field manager had turned him away. There were droves of men seeking jobs, and most had experience in the oil field. A discouraged Teddy had been just about ready to return home when one sympathetic supervisor had pointed to a rusting heap of drill pipe and busted valves scattered nearby. “Haul those off for me, boy, and I’ll pay ya fifty dollars cash.”
“Where would I haul them, sir?”
Pulling a pencil from above his ear, the man tore a corner from his brown lunch bag and began sketching a map. “This here land is leased by our company for storage. Dump that junk along there. No one ever goes out that way, so put it anywhere.”
And he did.
The $50 paid for a bag of food and a full tank of gas in his beat-up old Chevy pickup. It also inspired an idea. The next few days, Teddy visited rig after rig, offering to haul off scrap, trash, and junk. He had been stunned at how quickly clientele had been established. Sleeping in his truck and occasionally showering at the truck stop, Teddy survived. The roll of money stashed inside his glove box grew larger by the day.
A few weeks later, he pulled into his original customer’s location, the Edwards #14 rig. Shocked at finding the worksite all but abandoned, Teddy made for the small mobile home that served as the rig’s office. After knocking on the door, he was greeted by the agitated foreman. “We’re shutting down, Teddy. The money ran dry just like the well. The investors have pulled out. Anything that’s left after midnight tonight, you can haul off.”
“What about the land where I’ve dumped the scrap?” Teddy asked.
“That lease was paid in full for 99 years, Teddy. If you’re camping out there, no one should bother you for a long, long time.”
The next morning, Teddy’s truck was seen pulling a relatively nice house trailer toward the junkyard. He took full possession of his new home that afternoon, discarding the few reminders of Edwards #14.
Over the years, Teddy became known as T-Bone. He wasn’t sure how he earned that title. It might have been because of his given name. Perhaps it was due to his claim to fame – his personal, entrepreneurial effort - running what many of the locals referred to as a boneyard. Regardless, Mr. Belou embraced the handle – it sounded more like a proper Texas name, and he liked fitting in and staying under the radar.
T-Bone quickly diversified his stream of income, adding spare parts sales to his junk hauling enterprise. The improved business model ensured that T-Bone made money regardless of the direction the iron moved. Within a year, he hired another oilfield drifter to help. At 18 months, he expanded his small business again, broadening his “commercial fleet” by acquiring a second truck with more towing capacity.
Movement in the distance interrupted T-Bone’s reminiscing about the good old days and snapped his attention to the present. His oldest son was sauntering back toward the house empty-handed, the firstborn’s disappointed shuffle a redundant indicator that their truck was going to remain out of service until a suitable widget could be salvaged.
As he watched the now middle-aged man return, T-Bone couldn’t help but notice how much Lyndon reminded him of his mother.
Three years after his first haul, T-Bone had decided to venture home for the Christmas holiday. Swelling with pride at his success and sporting a truck that was only two years old, T-Bone had made the drive to rural Cajun country brimming with gifts, new clothes, and the confidence of a “home-town boy done good.”
At first, his family’s reception had been icy, indicative of skepticism born of poverty-induced disappointment, some uncles even openly condescending to him. “Ain’t no way an uneducated boy like you has got spending money in his pockets. You been out robbin’ banks, son?” Another had voiced his disdain with “Nobody here got no use for a show off, Teddy.”
Angry, frustrated and ready to bail, T-Bone had toughed it out. Vowing to head back to Texas first thing after the presents were opened, the young man had withdrawn, opting for the solace of isolation over the festivities of the family reunion. He had no way of knowing that his life would change forever on that Christmas morning.
Eva’s father was an uncle’s old army buddy who was passing through. Sitting on the porch swing, T-Bone would never forget watching the off-green Ford LTD with its clanking muffler pull into their lane. When the rattletrap old junker finally smoked to a stop, the image of the leggy beauty that climbed out of the backseat would be imprinted in his mind forever.
The young girl’s family led a simple, pastoral life, surviving mostly off the land with a little help from the county when times were really bad. Her dream of escaping to the far away Lone Star state was an idealistic concept Eva had nurtured since she was a youngster. A mystical place where jobs were available for the asking fueled bedtime stories about a land of milk and honey, intriguing the little girl who sometimes fell asleep with a rumbling tummy. While the security of a constant food supply would have been romantic notion enough for Eva, her suitor’s genuine infatuation sealed the deal.
T-Bone would have considered kidnapping the girl if her desire to escape a mundane, and sometimes precarious, existence hadn’t been compelling enough. He was relieved to find the new love of his life eager to make her own move. On New Year’s Day, Eva secretly left a note for her parents and slipped out the back door to T-Bone’s idling getaway-truck. As soon as the Texas state line was in their review mirror, the two tied the knot in front of a Justice of the Peace in Beaumont. The newlyweds honeymooned in a swank Houston hotel, Eva fascinated by what T-Bone called “room service.” What began as a young man’s fancy quickly grew into a deep love and affection on both sides.
