AFTER THE DUST SETTLED (Countdown to Armageddon Book 2)

by Darrell Maloney

  She started to pout.

  “But how can you look such a cute little bunny in the face and then kill him?”

  He bit his lip to conceal a smile.

  “Honey, I’m sorry, but this is the new reality. We can’t go to the supermarket to buy groceries anymore. We have to grow our own food to survive. And rabbits are going to be part of that food.”

  “Why not just eat the cows and pigs? They’re stinky and dirty. And they’re ugly. They’re nowhere as cute as the bunnies.”

  “Oh, trust me. We’ll eat them too, eventually. I’ll tell you what. I still have the two wire cages that we used to separate the males from the females before we moved up here. The females are all pregnant now. If you want, you can pick a couple of the babies after they’re weaned and make them your pets. You can fix up one of the cages real nice and feed them every day and take care of them. You can even name them. And I’ll promise you that we won’t eat your pets. Would that make you feel better?”

  “Yes, and thank you.”

  “You’re certainly welcome, sweetie.”

  “I want to pick a boy and a girl. Would you help me tell them apart?”

  “Um… you might be better off selecting two boys or two girls.”

  “Oh. Yes, I guess that might be a better idea.”

  And so it was that two rabbits named Monica and Chelsea would become a permanent fixture, in a shaded cage next to the tool shed. And they would spoiled rotten by a teenaged girl who had so much love in her heart she couldn’t bear to see them put down.

  The rabbits weren’t the only ones who were pregnant. Duchess began gaining weight, and her nipples became more prominent. Joyce was the first to notice, and made the announcement one evening at the dinner table.

  “We’re going to have puppies!”

  -11-

  Outside the compound all appeared to be quiet. They could occasionally hear gunshots in the distance, but they were always single shots spaced several minutes to an hour apart. Hunters, probably.

  The only activity they’d seen on the tower-mounted cameras was a lone rider on horseback, a deer carcass tied across the horse behind the saddle, riding slowly back toward San Antonio. A hunter gathering food for his family. The camera was sharp enough to show that he carried no sidearm, and the only rifle he had was his hunting rifle, sheathed and on the side of the saddle.

  Scott didn’t consider him a threat, especially when he rode past the tower without taking any interest in the surroundings.

  Scott had moved his ham radio from the den to the security console. It made more sense there, since the security console was manned twenty four hours a day.

  Three or four times a day, the radio came to life, and each time whoever was on security detail would call Scott to come running.

  Word was spreading around the world to first responders and others. Many mechanics had already discovered the same thing Tom had. But those who didn’t would call to ask questions about the process. Or just to say thanks.

  Many police departments were getting as many cars running as they could find dry batteries for. And they were putting people to work rebuilding their starter solenoids using the copper from electrical cords.

  They were in touch with the Dayton, Ohio police department as well. The Dayton police convinced a Dayton battery factory to start removing the tops of thousands of maintenance free batteries, saving the acid and taking out the shorted out cells, and then rebuilding them. The company still had no lights, so they moved their operations into the plant’s parking lot and only worked during the daytime.

  The problem was one of logistics. The country was slowly getting some of its vehicles running again. But only to the degree that old fashioned automotive parts and dry batteries were available. The San Antonio Police Department, after scouring every conceivable place to look in and around the Alamo city, only found enough parts to get eighty of their cars running. Eighty cars out of a six hundred vehicle fleet.

  The police still had most of their officers dispersed on foot or bicycle. The cars were used mostly for emergencies, mainly to back up the foot patrol cops when they were under fire or outnumbered.

  And in the front seat of the patrol cars, they carried paramedics. Many of the calls they went on were now ambulance calls, since they were only able to restore five ambulances for the entire city.

  But at least it was something. It was a start, a foot in the door, and it gave the city something to hope for, that there might actually be brighter days ahead.

  On the third day of the crisis, engineers at San Antonio’s main water plant had managed to rebuild one of their generators and two of their eight pumps. The faucets around the city got little more than a trickle, but it was enough to keep people from dying of thirst.

  But mostly it was still chaos. Most of the residents of the city were holed up in their homes, trying to conserve what was left of their food, and to defend it from thieves.

  Texas had always been a big second amendment state, and most of its residents had some type of firearm. Many had their own private arsenals.

  That was a good thing for San Antonio residents. And a very bad thing for those who went from house to house trying to steal food.

  The streets were littered with the bodies of thugs who’d been shot while breaking into homes. There was no way to call the police, or even an ambulance, when such incidents occurred. And the residents surely didn’t want the carcasses to stink up their homes. So they typically just dragged them to the curb outside their homes, hoping the city would figure out a way to come and collect them.

  And in the meantime, the bodies served as a big red flag that sent a very strong message to other potential thieves. Better stay away from this house. These people don’t play.

  -12-

  Tom was tired of lugging supplies from the Walmart truck. It was only six miles down the highway from his place, so the drive there wasn’t the problem. It was the process that was getting monotonous.

  Once at the truck, he had to break down each pallet of mixed boxes to see what he could use and what he could set aside. Then he had to load as much as he could into his old Ford. And once back to his modest ranch, he had to find hiding places to put everything in case marauders ever tried to rob him. He’d made two such trips a day for two straight weeks, and it was getting old.

  But at least he could see the back wall of the trailer now. To him that meant the light at the end of the tunnel.

  And the bright spot was that he had more than enough canned goods, pasta, and Ramen noodles to keep him fed for two or three years. And a lot of other foods thrown in to boot.

  He’d been single long enough to know that there were certain shortcuts a man could take to prepare his food. One night several months before he had a hankering for Kraft macaroni and cheese. It was only after he boiled the noodles that he realized he was out of milk.

  So he did what single men have done for many generations. He improvised.

  Tom cooked the macaroni and drained it, just like the box said. But instead of adding a quarter cup of milk and a quarter cup of margarine, he added three eighths of a cup of Wesson oil. And he found out that it looked exactly the same. It was just a tad bit oily, and a tad bit less creamy, but it was darn good eating. In fact, by the time he finished his meal he decided he liked his version better, and made a habit of cooking it that way every time.

  He was happy to see not only six cases of macaroni and cheese on the truck, but a case of Wesson oil as well.

  He also took things he knew he’d never use, like women’s products, and perfume, and foo-foo smelling soaps and such. He figured that maybe, just maybe, he could do something else single men had been doing for generations. Bartering stuff they didn’t need for things they could use.

  In this case, he was hoping to keep Linda, Joyce and Sara in perform and soap, in exchange for a couple of loaves of fresh baked bread occasionally.

  At least that was his plan.

  Tom had power running
to his house again. He’d overhauled the diesel generator he had in his shed, and gotten it working again. His house didn’t have a breaker box. It had an old fashioned fuse box which used glass tubes of different wattage.

  The EMPs blew every one of his fuses, but he had spares. And since the spares were in boxes instead of being screwed into the fuse box, they were spared the damage.

  As it turned out, he was lucky. His well pump survived intact and the majority of his ceiling lights still worked. The television came on, but it just hummed and the picture stayed black. But that was okay because he knew the TV stations were out of commission anyway.

  And also because he could count on one hand the number of times he’d watched the damn thing in the previous two years.

  What Tom really missed was his stereo. He used to pop CDs into it and crank it up loud, so he could sing Folsom Prison Blues with Johnny Cash, Whiskey River with Willie Nelson, and Cool Water with the Sons of the Pioneers.

  He still had the CDs. Maybe he’d see if Scott had a spare player he’d barter for a case of M&Ms or something.

  He finished loading up the car and was getting ready to head back, when he remembered the three gallon diesel can on his front passenger seat.

  He only ran his generator in the daytime. He was afraid that lights on in his house would attract the wrong kind of company. So as twilight approached each evening, he killed the generator and read a book by a single candle’s light in his back bedroom.

  But even running his generator only during the daytime required diesel fuel. And his plan was to stock up so he had enough to last awhile.

  He had four old 55-gallon drums on his property. They’d been there for so long he couldn’t even remember where they came from. They were empty and smelled of herbicide, although any markings they once had on them had rusted away.

  The inside of the drums, though, weren’t rusted at all. So they’d make good containers for storing diesel fuel.

  The tractor which hauled the 53-foot trailer from one Walmart to another was equipped with twin hundred gallon saddle tanks, one tucked beneath the running board on each side of the cab. It appeared the truck driver topped off his tanks in the city of Junction, on Interstate 10, about twelve miles away.

  That was good news for Tom, because they were both almost full. And two hundred gallons of diesel fuel would power his generator for a very long time.

  His Ford was another matter entirely. It needed gasoline. But it was surprisingly good on gas, and he never took it anywhere except to and from the truck. So the gas in his tank would last him awhile. When he did run low, there were several stalled vehicles on the same highway as the Walmart truck he could siphon some from.

  He knew he’d feel a little bit guilty about doing that, when and if the time came. It would almost be like he was stealing it. But then again, chances were that none of the vehicles would ever be used again. And if he didn’t make use of the gas, it would just go to waste.

  So he didn’t figure the little bit of guilt he’d feel for taking the gas would prevent him from doing it.

  He took the three gallon diesel can out of the front seat and used a section of garden hose to siphon enough fuel from the truck’s driver’s side tank to fill it.

  It was a slow process, transferring the diesel fuel from the truck to his drums, using a three gallon can. But it was the only can he had, and he fully expected to make at least forty trips to the trailer to get everything he could use from it. He never realized how much merchandize a full sized trailer could hold until he started sorting through it all.

  So if he didn’t get all of the diesel, three gallons at a time, he’d darn sure get most of it.

  He put the full can in the front floorboard and headed back home. Six miles up the highway, he turned onto the nondescript county road that fronted his house, and then Scott’s house a little farther on.

  It was getting late in the day as he made his turn, and the sun was low enough in the sky to make it hard for Tom to see in front of him.

  Had that not been the case, he’d have seen the two men who were two hundred yards farther up the highway from where he turned off of it. They were walking toward him with the sun at their backs.

  And although Tom never saw them, they certainly saw him.

  -13-

  It was an absolutely beautiful day. And for a change, the group was more or less caught up on their chores. The corn was growing quite nicely in the north field, the animals were all happy and getting fat. Duchess was ready to give birth any day, and they still hadn’t had any trouble with marauders.

  It was too gorgeous a day to let go to waste, so Scott announced that he and the boys were going fishing.

  “Oh really,” Joyce said. “Just like that?”

  “Yep. Just like that.”

  “And what if Linda and I want to take a day off and go fishing?”

  “Then you can come along. Sara can watch the monitors and call if she sees something out of the ordinary.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, what if she wants to go too?”

  “She doesn’t. We already invited her. She said she hates fishing.”

  Then Linda started in.

  “Wait a minute. You invited Sara but you didn’t invite us?”

  “I thought it would give her and I a chance to bond a little. You two have bonded with her, but I’ve been so busy lately I haven’t had a chance to.”

  But Joyce wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.

  “So you figured you guys would just go relax by the side of the lake, and then bring back a big bucket of smelly, slimy fish that Linda and I would have to clean and cook for you. Is that it?”

  Scott gave up. He rolled his eyes and said to Jordan, “Tell them, son.”

  “Dad wanted to surprise you. We were going to catch a few catfish, and we were going to clean them and cook them with some cornbread and beans, while you two took a night off from the kitchen and watched chick flicks with Sara.”

  Joyce and Linda looked at each other and suddenly felt foolish.

  Then they burst out laughing. Linda said, “Well, far be it from us to dampen such a great plan.”

  Joyce added, “Yes, indeed. Happy fishing, men. As you were and all that. Better get on your way now, the fish aren’t going to wait for you forever, you know.

  As Scott, Jordan and Zachary headed out the back door, Joyce caught Scott’s eye and blew him a kiss.

  She said to Linda, “You know, dear, that husband of ours isn’t such a bad guy after all.”

  The fish were still getting used to the new pond that Jordan had dug out for them the previous summer. Presumably, there were still worms coming out of the new mud. And a swarm of mayflies had swept through the area a couple of nights before. Many of them stopped for a sip of water and drowned or were eaten as they skirted the top of the water.

  Whatever they were full of, the fish showed little interest in the bait the guys were offering. At least at first.

  That gave them plenty of time to talk.

  “You guys remind me to plant some trees along the bank of this thing so we can have some shade to sit in later on.”

  “Where are you gonna get trees, Dad? Aren’t the nurseries like, closed and stuff?”

  “Don’t listen to him, Dad. He’s such a dork. They don’t have to be open. They deliver. Duh…”

  Scott laughed at both of them and shook his head. Sometimes they seemed absolutely clueless.

  “No, I’m thinking a couple of oak trees. I’ll gather some fresh acorns and bring them down and plant them sometime in the next few days. Right next to the water. And then mother nature will do the rest.”

  “And that’ll make shade next time we go fishing?”

  Scott laughed again.

  “No, but we’ll twist the green branches if we need to to make sure a good strong branch goes directly over the water. In your lifetime, you’ll be able to watch your grandkids swing on a rope into the water below. And you’ll remember this day,
when we sat here cursing the fish for not biting and saying we wish we had a shade tree.”

  “I can’t curse the fish. Every time I say ‘damn’ you yell at me.”

  “I do not. Only when your mom or another female is around.”

  “Why only then?”

  “Cursing is like farting. It’s okay to do it when you’re around your friends, or other men. It’s part of being a guy. Women say we’re barely civilized. We like to scratch our ass when it itches, fart when we want to, tell dirty jokes and curse. But women are more refined. They’re God’s gift to man. They make our life so much more pleasant. So we treat them with a little more respect. We do things like open doors for them and compliment them when they’re feeling a bit down. We tell them we love them so they know they’re appreciated. And sometimes we give them a night off from cooking and hope the damn fish are biting. But we don’t fart in their presence or use foul language. It’s just disrespectful. They don’t like it and shouldn’t have to listen to it. Women are soft and sweet and refined, compared to us.”

  Zachary looked at him.

  “Dad, I’ve heard mom curse. Sometimes she’s worse than you.”

  Scott pondered his words for just a moment.

  “Yeah, well, she’s not always refined. Sometimes she just gets down in the dirt with us apes and wallows around in it for short periods of time. But generally, treat her with the respect she deserves. Joyce too.”

  He looked at Jordan.

  “And Sara as well. She’s turning into a woman. If you two stay in love, then it’s likely you’ll marry someday. Always treat her with dignity and respect. Don’t ever lay a hand on her, and watch the words you say to her. Angry words can hurt more than a slap to the face. If you love her, tell her often. And more importantly, show her. Be kind always.”

  Jordan merely nodded as he absorbed the advice.

  Zachary said, “I’m still not happy that I don’t have a girl. I mean, you’ve got Joyce and Butthead has Sara. Even Mom has Mr. Haskins. Shoot, Duke has Duchess. Who do I have?”