by Peter Idone
Copyright © 2012 Peter Idone
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-4681-5170-3
ISBN-13: 9781468151701
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-260-0
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
1
The speed limit was officially re-signed to fifty miles an hour. The new limit had been put into effect two years ago to aid in conservation, due to the dire expense and unavailability of gasoline. There was little traffic on the thruway, Joe Logan noticed, aside from a number of official vehicles, a small convoy of military transports mixed in with sparse civilian traffic, and in particular, one traveling in the opposite direction that caught his attention: a horse-drawn cutaway half of a pickup bed, rigged into a cart. The load was partially obscured by a tarp, but it contained boxes and bushel baskets of produce—probably from one of the small local farms attempting to eke out a living.
Every few miles Logan passed a rusting, burnt-out hull of a tractor trailer that had been ransacked for cargo and fuel and then damaged beyond repair, even set ablaze. It was the work of highway pirates over the past several years, caused by the shortages brought about by the Dislocation. The authorities had towed the rigs off the road and allowed the remains to rust and fester on the wide grassy median like the carcasses of great beasts felled by poachers.
Now, only a few miles from home, Logan looked at the fuel gauge, something he checked as often as his driving speed. The needle pointed to empty. He passed an obnoxiously large yellow sign with black letters that read: EXIT CLOSED. At the mouth of the exit ramp, an eight-foot-high trestle-like configuration, painted in reflective white and orange and topped and bordered with a coil of razor wire, blocked the road. It was the exit that led directly to the USAF research facility at Pine Haven, which had been closed for over five years. The overpass and road leading directly to the campus were no longer open to civilian traffic. He saw another sign: AREA UNDER SURVEILLANCE. No big surprise. As of recently, the roads to Logan’s hometown of Essex were access-controlled from both the east and the west, at least as far as the major highways were concerned. Any exit or access route to the Pine Haven facility had been closed and placed under an officially mandated exclusion zone.
Again Logan checked the fuel gauge. No way could he cover the few miles to Essex Station, home. He knew he could get some gas at the next exit. A gallon or two, expensive, but at least enough to get him home and remain somewhat mobile for the next few days. Nothing else he could do; he’d have to hit up Frenchy’s and endure his prices.
Logan had tried to get a few dollars out of the guy from the job site he’d given a lift to. Upton was his name and he was more or less going in the same direction, east. It turned out to be more, rather than less, and a lot farther south than he’d anticipated. Upton struck Logan as basically inept, a lazy worker who did only the minimum to get by and used his lighthearted, easygoing comedic nature to do the rest. He was popular among the crew and managed to win over quite a few. Logan didn’t mind him all that much but thought he cajoled and made people like him just to profit from the relationship. The only reason Logan agreed to drive him close to where he lived was because there was an open gas station nearby and Upton was willing to kick in a few dollars. The arrangement was suitable. Filling stations that were open, functioning, and stocked with gasoline had been hard to come by since the Dislocation; the past few years had seen a critical shortfall in petroleum availability.
Today, another linchpin—probably the most important one—had been pulled: most of them had been laid off that afternoon. The contracting outfit’s main crew remained, but the temps, which included Logan and Upton and a dozen others hired through the employment brokers that operated during these lean times of fiscal insolvency and joblessness, were let go. It was Logan’s general rule to keep a certain distance from the other temps. They reminded him mostly of himself: that keen edge of desperation motivating every action so they would be asked back to work for yet another day. He had to rely on past experience and a good work ethic; guys like Upton possessed the charm of personality. It all depended on what the individual had in their arsenal to remain alive, if not wholly solvent.
The job had been part of a reclamation/demolition project at an abandoned U.S. mail processing center over two hours’ drive from Essex. Despite the distance and fuel cost, it was the only work available. The contractor was salvaging all the metal piping, ductwork, plumbing fixtures, and wiring from the site, including whatever machinery still remained bolted to the floor. What the building was going to be renovated for the contractor never said. Maybe it would lie empty for several more years, like any number of plants and factories that had closed for business and eventually had been torn down. Who knew? America was in the process of deconstructing its infrastructure, and there didn’t seem to be any end in sight.
Logan had a little heavy machinery experience and operated the Bobcat, knocking down cinderblock walls and chiseling sections of concrete flooring with the pneumatic drill. He didn’t use the machine all that often, but was usually assigned when one of the contractor’s men was out sick or absent for one reason or another. He knew the temps’ employment term would soon be up, but he wasn’t worried. The contractor, Phelps, had asked him if he was interested in staying on. He wouldn’t be at the controls of the Bobcat or forklift all the time, but there was enough to do to keep him busy for at least another month. He went for it, despite the drive and camping out in the parking lot two, sometimes three nights a week to save money. A job like this could get him through most of the winter. He would be able to pay the exorbitant utility bills and half the yearly house and property tax, and stock up on some decent groceries. He would be able to coast on the odd job here and there, or snow removal, either independently or with the county, depending on the weather.
But at two o’clock that afternoon, a half-hour before quitting time, everyone was summoned to a meeting on the loading dock at the rear of the building. In the main hall, Logan was ordered to shut off the machine and climb out of the cockpit. Phelps informed the temps that their services were no longer required. A representative from the employment broker’s office handed out checks all around. Logan also noticed two other men, tall, weighing a couple hundred pounds apiece, and carrying small arms under their coats: added insurance in case any of the temps decided to act out. It was becoming more common that employees became violent when subjected to a layoff—not that anyone failed to see it coming. Armed security or a police presence of some kind was a typical protocol when employment brokers were involved. If any bonuses were expected, the temps were out of luck; there were none. And Logan wasn’t going to stay on as he’d been promised. Behaving with almost expansive magnanimity, Phelps took Logan aside and explained that his brother-in-law—his wife’s little brother—had arrived from out of state, and wanting to keep peace at home, he had to take him on. He would be Logan’s replacement. Phelps thanked Logan for his excellent work and said he would keep him in mind if anything turned up.
Logan had choked it down. It was best that he didn’t get pissed off, act like an asshole, and ruin what
ever chance he had, no matter how remote, of getting another job, especially with the broker’s rep and hired guns nearby. But the urge was strong. What he wanted to do was throw one good punch, with all his weight, frustration, and disappointments behind it, right into Phelps’s stomach and watch him fold. For too many nights in a row, he’d been sleeping on a thin foam mat inside a sleeping bag in the back of the pickup, eating wretched-tasting canned food heated over a camp stove, with a tarp thrown over the pickup bed to help keep out the damp and cold. His presence in the work site’s parking lot was welcomed because he provided some kind of security, gratis, on those nights. And for what? Bullshit. Other people’s bullshit. Logan had been fed a story, and Phelps knew that he knew it. With nothing to be done about the layoff, everybody acted polite, and Logan felt almost humiliated for having to behave with civility. So he took it out on the guy he was giving a lift to, that silly prick Upton.
They had exited the interstate almost seven miles earlier when Logan said, “I thought you said a couple of miles?”
Upton stared pensively through the windshield. “You should be coming up on it anytime now.” He stretched his legs out and dug deep into his pockets. “Here’s a few bucks for that gas money.” He placed a crumpled bill and a handful of change—mostly dimes and pennies—into the cup holder. “Let me out here.”
Logan pulled onto the shoulder. They had just passed a gas station, but it looked as though it had been shuttered for months. There were no signs, and the pumps were streaked with rust. Grass had grown through the cracks in the asphalt. “There’s no gas station is there? You little fuck.”
“No, I’m tellin’ you, a little farther up ahead, I swear. Less than a mile.” Upton jumped out of the cab.
Before he had a chance to close the door, Logan said, with as much sincerity and poison as he could muster, “If I ever run across you again on another job, you little cunt, I’ll impale you on a length of rebar.”
Shocked by the vehemence of Logan’s words, Upton recovered enough to say, “I have no doubt that you will.” Then he slammed the door shut and started to run. Logan cursed all the way back to the interstate. He had another twenty miles to go before reaching Essex.
***
Running on fumes, Logan turned off the highway onto Farm Road, the exit past the barricaded road to Pine Haven. It would take him to Frenchy’s fuel depot, and if the situation worsened, with any luck he could coast down the decline to within yards of the place. If not, then it wouldn’t be much of a hike on foot. He hoped not, though; he would have to pay a deposit for the gas can to carry back to the truck.
After he drove past a cluster of maples and scrub pine, the pasture of the Lennox Dairy Farm came into view. It was a small, family-owned operation. Oddly enough, several vehicles—a type of van—were parked in the field, and a group of figures milled about. There was the unmistakable odor of something burnt, like popcorn left in a microwave for too long. As he slowed down, he understood why. A cow shed and silo were undergoing a controlled burn. The smoke that boiled from the structure was acrid and black. A taste of oil coated the back of Logan’s throat. The figures in the pasture were dressed in some kind of utility overalls, green, like OR scrubs, with equipment or some kind of apparatus buckled to their chests and backs. Their heads were enclosed in hooded face masks. The gear wasn’t a biohazard suit, more like the suit of a high-altitude aviator or deep-sea diver. There was something a little antiquated about the look, at least from Logan’s distance. Something smoldered in the field: numerous dark and lumpy piles with small, orange flames licking the charred remains and exuding dark wisps of oily smoke. Cattle. Logan could smell the distinct odor of cooked meat and petroleum-based accelerant. Those were flame throwers some of the figures carried; there was no other way to describe the double tank strapped to each one’s back, with a short hose leading to a pistol-grip nozzle. He thought such instruments—or weapons—were outlawed.
Heads began to turn in his direction. Logan had slowed to a stop and had been staring at them for a full minute. The entire group of costumed figures stood motionless and looked. It was eerie how they all stopped what they were doing, apparently to look at Logan. The protective masks made them appear as faceless humanoid creatures.
Logan stepped on the gas, what little remained. A quarter of a mile farther, he had to come to a full stop. He was being flagged down. A darkgray utility vehicle, up-armored and bristling with antennae, straddled the middle of the road. He recognized the logo painted on the open door panel: three slanted bars of color, white, red, and black, with a sticklike symbol he couldn’t make out. It belonged to the private military contractor that provided security for the Pine Haven facility, Tactical Response Team Emergency Management and Control, a subsidiary of a large defense firm that did business with the USAF and had taken over guarding the site after Air Force police had finished last spring. Wearing dark BDUs, a helmet, and body armor, a compact assault rifle slung across his chest, a TRT operative, or Tactical as they were called locally, walked up to the driver’s side of the truck.
They liked to invoke some serious intimidation in this getup, Logan thought. He rolled down the window. “What’s going on?”
“Let’s see some identification,” the Tactical said, his eyes hidden behind acid-orange shields. Logan got out his driver’s license and handed it over. “Business or pleasure?” the Tactical asked.
“What possible reason would I have to come to a godforsaken place like this if I didn’t live here ass…as you can see from the address.” Close, Logan thought; he’d almost called him an asshole. That might have proved more costly than the pleasure from uttering the insult. Lately, Response Team Management and Control had been enlarging the scope of its jurisdiction beyond the boundary of the Pine Haven property and the exclusion zone established after the accident. The Tactical returned to the armored radio car, leaned into the passenger side, and punched in all kinds of data on the keyboard of the vehicle’s onboard computer. The driver kept his eyes on Logan the whole time. “I’m not a threat, for Christ sake,” he said aloud, although the Tacticals couldn’t hear him. The chip embedded in the license would reveal the pertinent details of Logan’s stats. In less than two minutes, the Tactical returned and gave him his license. “Not your usual route home judging by our records.”
“I didn’t know I had a usual route. If you’re so interested, I’m headed for the fuel depot. I haven’t enough gas to make it home. And you’re right. I never take this exit, OK?”
“What’s that smell?” The Tactical placed a gloved hand on the top edge of the door. For some reason Logan found this gesture to be the most intrusive of all. The Tactical was sniffing after the strong odor of flint from the steel cutting blades that permeated Logan’s sweatshirt, denim jacket, and work pants.
“I just finished up a construction job.”
After peering inquisitively into the cab, the Tactical circled around the truck, looking in the pickup bed. Logan’s toolbox and stowed camping gear were in plain sight. That was as much of a search as he was going to get. “What’s with all the arson?” Logan asked, pointing toward the dairy farm behind him.
“Hoof-and-mouth,” said the Tactical. “They’re culling the herds in these parts.”
“The entire county?” The Tactical did not answer. For a reason he could not credit, Logan thought this wasn’t the truth. It sounded like something he was told to say, a preprogrammed response. The Tactical waved him through. Slowly, Logan negotiated his truck around the radio vehicle, and several hundred yards farther on, he turned left onto Raven’s Perch Road.
Frenchy’s was another two miles northwest, down an uneven, narrow, gravel road flanked by woods. Dirt roads branched off intermittently: actually, long driveways belonging to houses obscured by the dense growth. Logan remained on the one-lane gravel road to its very end.
The fuel depot occupied an old farmhouse, the surrounding landscape overgrown with dense thicket and vines. Tall oaks jutted above the scrub pi
ne and saplings. An outbuilding, its large garage bay doors open, stored an agglomeration of machine parts and what looked like a small tractor. Pieces of heavy equipment lay about the property rusting: a backhoe, dump truck, and Caterpillar, the yellow paint now faded to a dull chalky wash. The earth-moving equipment hadn’t moved in years; the surrounding vegetation held the decaying machinery in its grasp. Mounted on the façade of the house was a large placard sign in black lettering, handwritten and sloppy, which advertised heating oil, bottled gas, kerosene. A single gas pump sprouted two hoses—one for diesel and the other for regular—but showed nothing to indicate price. Too many fluctuations, Logan thought as he pulled up beside the obviously locked pump and turned off the motor. “Made it.” He breathed with relief.
He went in the door with a sign over it that read office. A two-sided counter enclosed the operation’s billing center, with its desk, computer, office chair, and an assortment of boxed supplies on the shelving at the near wall. Beyond the billing center, what at one time would have been the kitchen, card tables and folding chairs were set up on the torn, ocean-green linoleum floor. Another table held a coffee urn, ceramic mugs, and all the fixings, along with a sign that read “Free.” Underneath was a tapped beer keg. That wasn’t free. Five men were gathered around two of the card tables. They were locals, on in years, dressed in rough, well-worn overalls and coats. They were silent, almost morose as they drank their beer. This was an early drinking crowd.
To no one in particular, Logan said, “I’d like to buy some gas.” One of the men gestured to the rear while his table mate called out, “Frenchy.” As he waited, Logan was tempted by the coffee, but judging by the color of the liquid in the urn’s gauge, he figured it had been on all day. Besides, the mugs seemed to be of dubious cleanliness.
He hadn’t been to the fuel depot in months; there was no need unless he was in a pinch like now. His father had done business with Frenchy years ago, when the family house furnace burned oil. Frenchy would drive his small red service tanker and make deliveries. Around the time Logan was in high school, they were buying heating oil more often than necessary. Sean Logan was no fool and discovered he was getting stiffed. The oil tank in the basement was getting only three-quarters full, and he was being charged full price. Plus it was low-grade oil and burned dirty. Having had enough, his father put in a gas burner the following spring and piped in the supply from the Valley Utility Company. He didn’t tell Frenchy, though. The old man knew what Frenchy was like; he knew the whole family. Back-alley cats and junkyard dogs were how his father described the Durants. So, the following autumn when Frenchy pulled the tanker up to the side of the house to the capped pipe that fed into the oil reservoir, it was blocked. A slight gush of fuel oil managed to splash all over Frenchy’s pants, right around the groin. He was mad, humiliated, and uncomfortable, and started yelling obscenities at Logan’s mother. She smiled pleasantly and begged his pardon for the oversight—the gas burner was brand new, after all—and suggested to Frenchy that he go home and have a good wash. Then Frenchy’s jaw dropped when she recommended that “after scrubbing the oil off your family jewels,” he wash his filthy mouth out with soap.
