Catalyst (Book 1): Downward Cycle

by JK Franks

  Several streets over he found the nearly deserted sporting goods store. It was indeed open, but apparently no one needed sporting goods today. The parking lot was empty. As he walked in an athletic looking black man with a flashlight met him.

  “What can I help you find today sir?”

  “Do you carry camping gear?” Scott asked.

  “Of course, just follow me.” He handed Scott a small flashlight and offered him a shopping cart. Scott quickly found many of the items he needed including a few things that Todd and Bartos had added to his list. He picked up two all-climate sleeping bags, a larger backpack, a good quality multitool, a fire starter, a mini-camp stove, a portable cook set and some extra fuel pellets, a dozen cans of cooking gel, an additional two-burner camp stove and all the green fuel cylinders he could carry.

  At this point, he assumed that nothing he had ordered online would show up, but even if it did, it would be smart to have extras. And he could probably trade them if needed.

  He picked up several additional water purification straws and chlorine dioxide purification tablets, ten packs of bungee cords, an LED headlamp and the always-useful paracord. From a nearby display case, he selected a large hunting knife, a wicked looking hatchet and a good quality pair of tactical binoculars.

  The store had a small gun and ammunition selection. Clive said he wasn’t allowed to sell any guns without a background check, however; he did offer to sell him as much ammo as he wanted. Scott chose mostly 9mm bullets but also added several cases of .22 caliber, .45 caliber and 12-gauge shotgun shells, again reasoning that he might be able to pick up at least one more weapon or use them for trade. Scott also picked up a professional looking slingshot, something he had been deadly with growing up on the farm, and he stocked up on even more bulk packs of batteries in various sizes, as well as several additional solar and fuel operated lanterns.

  Scott also was about to clean off the small sections of freeze-dried food when Clive said, “I got some more of that in cases in the back if you want.”

  Scott said he would probably take all he had.

  Clive grabbed another cart and headed to the back while Scott grabbed several smaller items and went in search of fishing supplies. On the way, he noticed racks of men’s rugged tactical cargo pants and picked up several in his size, as well as an insulated camo coverall and a separate, heavy jacket. Although the boathouse at the cottage was stocked with fishing gear, he picked up more line, hooks, artificial bait and a couple of compact fishing rod/reel combos.

  Clive met him at the front of the store with at least a dozen boxes of freeze-dried camp food. “I just brought it all out so you could pick the ones you wanted.”

  Scott looked up at Clive, “I’ll take all of it.”

  “Well, okay man, you must be heading into the wilderness or dropping off the grid.”

  Scott smiled. “I think we’re all off the grid now. I just want some insurance that I can manage a few weeks if need be.”

  As Clive rang it all up he said, “They gonna have the power on soon, don't you think?”

  Scott saw the total and handed the wad of cash to the man. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.”

  “Alright, man. Hey, pull your car up front, I’ll help you load it.”

  Not really wanting to let anyone else see the other items he had, Scott said thanks, but he could manage. He needed to do some rearranging of his junk to make room first. Clive said okay, thanked him for the business and walked back inside the darkened store.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Heading back through town, Scott decided to check to see what else might be open. The gas stations were still closed, as was the grocery store. The bank had a sign on the door: “Opening at 2:00.” Several people were already waiting near the front door. Scott decided to wait the twenty minutes until then as it may be his only chance. He used the time to try his brother’s phone again, but still no connection. He pulled the laptop from the bag, which came on instantly when he raised the screen. He looked for an active Wi-Fi connection and was surprised to see one which, judging by the identifier, was coming from the bank.

  So the bank had power. Although it was probably running on an emergency generator. He connected to the unlocked service and opened a browser window. No websites came up. He tried his VPN trick, but that failed to connect as well. The browser finally rerouted to an internal bank login screen, so he gave up and decided to walk around downtown until the bank opened.

  Harris Springs was a quiet little beach town that had been fighting hard for years for an identity. Most of the architecture was unimpressive, with low flat roofs not daring to rise in the face of frequent hurricanes. The town had been founded as a fishing village in the early 1900s, and although not a major tourist destination, its few beaches, intracoastal waterway and nearby wildlife sanctuary were regularly featured on travel shows as a hidden jewel of the Gulf Coast. While the local population numbered less than a thousand, during the summer months that number often swelled to seven or eight times as many. The locals viewed the tourist and seasonal residents with something between disdain and moderate toleration at best. They did appreciate the money the visitors spent, though. The tourists’ dollars allowed for low utilities, reasonable taxes, and some of the better schools in the area. The local clinic was more of a hospital because of the steady stream of sunburns and jellyfish stings the visitors stumbled in with during the silly season. Over the years, Scott had become less a visitor and more of a permanent resident and now had no desire to ever leave the idyllic little town.

  A hundred yards down from the bank Scott noticed that the local bike store was open. Probably his favorite place to visit, he was glad to see through the window that Hank, the owner, was just inside the door.

  “Hank, glad to see you open. How are you doing?”

  Never much for conversation, the older man looked up, smiled slightly and nodded, “Oh, I’m doing alright, Scott. Don’t need no power to run a bike shop.” He was pumping up the tires on his rental fleet of beach cruisers with a floor pump.

  Scott decided to get a few things while he was there. He stocked up on a lot of the better quality tubes and even a few of the expensive but durable Gatorskin road tires that would fit either of his bikes. He had some spares already, but he knew that it wouldn’t hurt to have extra. He also got a handful of patch kits, just in case he had to do more patching than replacing from now on. Although he was assuming the worst, he really could not come to grips with the possibility of not being able to ride his bike. Of all the silly-ass things to focus on, he thought. Handing over more of his dwindling cash, he headed back to his Jeep and added the bike supplies to the haul. Although still just before 2:00 p.m., he noticed that the gathering of people in front of the bank had thinned considerably, and the few remaining were heading through the unlocked doors. Scott locked the Jeep and followed them in.

  All things considered, everything at the bank went much better than expected. Their account records had been updated in the last twelve hours, and Scott's balances looked correct. He learned they were running on backup power from a solar array on the roof. It had been installed a few years earlier as part of the town's meager “Green Initiative.” The manager’s plan was to stay open as long as the power lasted and hope the regular power would be back on soon. The teller said that Scott could withdraw any amount he wanted, though anything over $10,000 would have to be approved by the manager and reported to the IRS.

  “We have to fill out the forms. Although I'm not sure how they will get them now,” she said with a laugh. She did add, though, that since he had multiple accounts, he could take up to the $10,000 in cash from each one with no forms to complete. He filled out the separate checks and a withdrawal slip, and she began counting out the cash. He requested half of it in smaller denominations, so it took a while.

  Once he had the stacks of cash, he asked her the easiest way to liquidate the rest of his accounts for cash. “The simple
st way would be to request a large sum cash withdrawal from any one account—move everything to that account and then put in the request. If we have the cash on hand, you should be able to get it within three days. Although—right now it could take just a bit longer.”

  It seemed the bank had ample reserves right now since none of the expected armor car pickups had arrived to take excess cash back to the main branch in Jackson. She expected there would be no problems receiving his funds. He completed the forms to combine his accounts and signed the required funds withdrawal order. She told him to check back in a few days. Scott walked out of the bank with $30,000. He was feeling much better about his situation—until he remembered it could be worthless paper tomorrow. He only remembered much later that this would be the last he ever saw of the rest of his savings.

  Back on the road, Scott hoped he could get a few more of the essential resources he felt were critical. He felt he also needed to spend the cash while it had value. One of the gas stations on the way out of town was now open, but limiting fuel to eight gallons per person. There were only a few people in line, so he waited and put the eight gallons in the Jeep, bringing the needle to nearly full. That was fine for now.

  He went by the Farmers Supply Store. Like most places now, it was dark. Unlike the bank and the gas station, they apparently didn’t have a backup power source. Unfortunately, going in, he discovered they had sold out of portable generators as well. He decided to look for other items and found several things he felt would be helpful: more plastic storage bins; an ax; propane tanks for the outdoor barbecue; and some additional cold weather and camouflage gear. As a final purchase, he went to the feed and seed section. Now this is definitely a long-term strategy, he thought. Especially considering it was the wrong time of year to plant most things.

  He was trying to find the non-GMO seeds, which made the task harder. Genetically modified organisms were products of hybrid seeds. While seeds had been crossbred and hybridized for centuries, the ones today were often genetically modified as well; they would grow fine, but you wouldn’t be able to take any of that crop’s seeds to replant the following year. Non-GMO seeds were a purer version, the crops of which produce seeds that will propagate year after year. The seeds had been one of the items Bartos had added to Scott’s list. Satisfied with his selections, he checked out and tried one more stop before heading home.

  Unfortunately, the food stores were still closed, but there were a few trucks with trailers in the parking lot with items to sell. They appeared to be local farmers, probably with late harvest crops to sell. Seeing an opportunity to fill a need and make something from the crops, they were setting up shop here where people would naturally come to buy food. Scott appreciated the mindset of farmers, growing up on one taught you to be pragmatic. Already they were adapting to what was possible instead of dwelling on what was lost. They appeared to be doing a brisk business as well.

  Careful not to get items that would spoil quickly, Scott’s was not a large haul. One man's wife had set up some jars of preserved vegetables, jellies, pickles and preserves, though, which all looked great. Scott bought nearly everything she had. He made a couple more great finds including local honey, fresh eggs and smoked ham. He loaded up everything, then had an additional thought. He went back to talk to the farmers. Mainly, he wanted to find out if they planned on coming back, and when. But he also wanted to know where their farms were and if they would be open to him coming directly to them to trade. Being the best customer they’d had all day, they eagerly said yes and gave him the information he needed to find them.

  On the way back to the cottage, Scott was feeling really good about things. The power being off was inconvenient, and yes, it was incredibly sad that so many lives had been lost, but this was not going to be his doomsday. We could adapt to this… hell, people already are, he thought. As he drove around the next bend in the road, all those thoughts vanished in an instant.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The first sign of trouble was the car stopped at an odd angle on the road ahead. The vehicle appeared to be running, but the driver’s door was open. Scott slowed to a near-stop as he drew closer, but seeing the body lying partially out of the old model sedan, he stomped on the brakes, sending some of his precious supplies crashing toward the front of the cab.

  He felt a shiver up his spine again; this could be a trap. Or it could be someone in genuine distress. He could just drive on by. Or he could stop and help. Of course, he had left his pistol at home. But he did have a knife in his EDC bag. Pulling off the road, he positioned the truck as close to the stopped car as was prudent. He scanned the side of the road, hoping to see no one lurking in the shadows.

  Scott cautiously approached the person; an older man, he could see now. He reached the man and checked for a pulse, still scanning his surroundings for trouble. No pulse. In fact, the man's lifeless arm was cold and beginning to get stiff. He saw a plastic line running to an oxygen canister. Looking at the small gauge, he noticed it was on red which he guessed meant empty. Several other bottles were in the seat, also reading empty. The dead man wore a medical alert bracelet, as well as what appeared to be a recent hospital bracelet. Putting the facts together, Scott made some deductions.

  The man, who apparently had severe respiratory issues, likely ran out of oxygen either waiting for a delivery, or more likely, because he depended on one of those oxygen generators that required electricity to operate. When that failed, Scott guessed, he started using the bottles and, on his last one, must have decided to drive himself to the hospital. Sadly, he didn’t make it. His lungs had been starved of oxygen here in his old Buick in the middle of the road. One more victim of this damn blackout.

  Worse yet, there was nothing Scott could do. Driving him to the hospital would be futile and a waste of time and gas. He couldn’t call anyone to help or pick up the body. Finally, Scott put the man in the back seat and pulled the old car off the road. He turned on the emergency hazard lights, walked back to his Jeep and left. He knew he should do more, but in the circumstances, he wondered, what more could—or should—he do?

  The rest of the drive home was somber, his thoughts less optimistic. Like most people in America, he had spent most of his life thinking that disasters were what happened to other people. During Katrina, 9/11, the Persian Gulf Wars and the various local tornado outbreaks and floods, he had suffered from what was called the CNN Effect; he would stay glued to the TV, watching the endless parade of personal tragedy and minute-by-minute updates. It had become a morbid form of entertainment. An anesthetized version of reality where death and loss carried the same detached level of involvement as a football game or a movie. Reality shows, which everyone knew were mostly scripted and manipulated for added drama, had been the top of the TV ratings for years. Most people are insulated from the real hardships of life.

  The loss of his parents had been as close as he had come to knowing death. Even that, though, had been handled so delicately by the assisted living facility, and later the funeral home, that it was…antiseptic. Real, yes, but less painful than it should have been. Now with planes crashing overhead, ships sinking just off shore and an unknown man lying dead just down the road, Scott felt this was not just a new day; this was a new and very dark world.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Back home, Scott worked hard to erase the memory of the dead man from his mind. Unfortunately, he kept coming back to the image of the man’s lifeless face. He felt helpless and selfish. Did the man have a family? Would he even be missed?

  What if that happens to me? he thought.

  What had Bartos said? “A million people may be dead by week's end.” A million people in the world one week and gone the next. That still seemed too hard to grasp, but the one man in the road was real, very real.

  He unloaded the supplies and organized all the items, dividing some of the bulk food into smaller Mylar and plastic bags for longer-term storage. He then added canned goods and other items to create weekly boxes of food.
The fresh items went to the kitchen to be eaten first. Some of the boxes of food went into the garage for storage, and some went back in the trailer for bug-out supplies. He did the same thing with the water and the hardware, keeping items he would need sooner in spots that were more accessible, and the longer-term—or, as he was beginning to think of them, “Desperation Time” items—in storage areas and the trailer. You little godsend, Scott thought of his motorcycle trailer.

  Finishing up, he decided to fix some dinner while it was still light enough to see. Checking his pictures from the day before, he made his decisions on what he needed before opening the refrigerator. He was impressed at how cool it had stayed. Quickly grabbing everything and putting a few of his newly purchased items in the fridge, he closed the door. He put water on to boil for pasta and began chopping up some of the zucchini, squash and mushrooms to sauté. He added wine, butter and grated Pecorino Romano cheese to create a creamy sauce. Dropping the stuffed pasta shells into the now boiling water, he felt that even simple meals like this would probably be a luxury from now on. The fresh pasta only took a few minutes to cook through, and he drained it then dropped the shells into the cream sauce. Giving the pan a few quick flips to bathe the large ravioli in sauce, he plated the mixture and topped it off with the tender veggies and a bit more grated cheese.

  Over the years since he’d moved here, to a life of mostly solitude, he had gotten into the habit of making at least one good meal a day for himself. It was too easy to just eat junk food, microwave something or even just do without. Making a meal like this was second nature to him now and made him dread the possibility of living on rice and dried beans, or worse—freeze-dried food—for any length of time. The food was delicious, and he quickly finished it off, wishing he had a fresh cup of coffee for afterward. Scott frowned, looking to the counter at the expensive coffee machine, which was completely useless right now. He knew he had a French press somewhere in the cabinets and thought Bobby had left an old coffee percolator that could be used on the gas range. Both of those seemed too much effort at the moment, though. Instead of enjoying a good cup of coffee, he cleared his dishes from the table and washed them, as well as the cookware he had used. He then finished off the remaining bit of wine.