Shatto's Way

by Roy F. Chandler

Roy Kline smiled ruefully, "Forgive me, Toby. Perhaps I have been too long from the podium.

  "I have failed to answer. What can I say? All of the evidence indicates that our course has been irreversible since the asininities of Kennedy and the pretentions of Lyndon Johnson's Great Society. Reagan offered us a final desperate choice, but the terms were too painful for the flabby American to face. Pay later has become the national way. But again, I wonder."

  He rose, striding twice across the room. Finally he stood behind his chair grasping its back much as he had held countless rostrums in as many classrooms.

  "Even the most informed disagree. All I can offer is advice. Only you can judge the certainty within you. You have been right before. If you ignore this belief and it is correct, the cost to you may be terminal.

  "If you accept this signal you will be set back in your career and your security. Both are largely recoverable.

  "My advice is this: if you trust your insight this time as much as you did others that proved correct, act on it. Make what preparations you consider wise and do it without reservation.

  "Nothing is worse than a half-assed effort, Shatto. If you trust it, go for it and to hell with what anyone else thinks!"

  +++

  Chapter 7

  Like most university towns, State College had good bookstores. With a little scouring, Toby purchased a cross section of the current crop of doomsday, survival, and crisis-oriented publications. They ranged from quick buck paperbacks to massive tomes replete with quotations and footnotes. He tossed them into the rental's back seat and headed home.

  He met rain at Mifflintown and drove slowly with wipers overwhelmed by an unseasonal downpour. He tried for an FM station but got only hard rock that further soured his mood. News out of Harrisburg warned of impending teamsters strike and governmental fumbling in preparing an equitable rationing system for the increasingly severe fuel shortage. He shut the announcer off at the first commercial and tried again to think through a course of action.

  The rental slewed successfully through his own lane and on impulse Toby continued on, ramming the car along the old rail bed and up to the cave door. He worked the combination, swung the heavy steel away, and drove into the cave's dry comfort.

  He piled his books on his father's old desk and examined them. Roy Kline had been little help and he doubted any answers lay within these many pages, but he could hope. Perhaps one of the self-appointed experts would provide an insight that could steel his mind and get him off dead center. He made himself comfortable and began.

  The books spoke of shortages, riots, and disasters. Others covered nuclear holocausts and ways to survive. Some explained imminent financial, environmental, or social collapses and how to profit from them. All were vague on when their particular catastrophe would occur and many of the opinions had been written years past.

  Each guaranteed a good life if the fortunate reader followed the author's advice. Toby expected some of the writers had made a lot of money.

  Before he left the cave a new day was breaking and the rain had passed. He wondered if he should consider the brightly washed dawn as an indicator of his thoughts, but his eyes were scratchy from hours of reading and his systems were still cued to Middle East time. His thoughts were lethargic and he chose to sleep it off and allow his subconscious to work on what he had read.

  +++

  It could help to sleep on a problem and Toby Shatto greeted the evening refreshed if still unsure.

  When he had watched the team practice he had noticed the game schedule stapled to a post and he recalled that tonight Greenwood would meet Newport under the lights on the away field. That would be convenient. He could enjoy the game and surely encounter old companions.

  He dug into his closet for suitable clothing and departed wearing presentable Levi pants and a lightweight Woolrich shirt against the fall chill. He pulled a knit cap advertising Lyter's Auto Parts down to his ears expecting he looked about the same as he had a dozen years ago when he had gotten the hat.

  At Newport High School he had a devil of a time parking. He found a spot on 4th Street and walked up the hill. Crowd sounds filled the night and it looked as though the stone buffalo laid out on the slope above the athletic field had been freshly painted. He paid at the familiar weary gate shack and crunched across the overgrown track to find a place behind the visitors' bench. Across the field the Newport boosters nearly filled the permanent stands, and both high school bands were in place.

  He stood off for a few minutes watching the teams warm up and searching the bleachers for old friends. He found the ones he'd hoped for seated in a bunch and as usual being a little too raucous.

  They saw each other about the same time and Pepper Long leaped up with a howl to greet him. Grins and arm punches mingled with handshakes, and a place was made for him beside Chop Clouser's imposing bulk.

  The reception warmed his heart and ate through the cynicism of experience. He supposed there would always be something special among old team members. The national anthem cut off questions and they rose as one to stare solemnly at the band.

  The great song, the closeness of friends, and the familiar scenes unexpectedly tugged at his emotions, and he experienced a powerful tenderness and surprising hunger for the things he thought he had left behind.

  Having him there brought back the old memories to them all. The game became only casually watched as they blew the familiar old stories into shapes to fit the need of the moment.

  "Pepper, remember the game with East Juniata when they carried Buster Roth off the field on a stretcher and he was back with everybody cheering like crazy about four plays later? What a phony!"

  "Whatever happened to Buster, anyway?"

  "He lives in Lewistown, you dope. Can't you remember anything?"

  "What I remember are things like old Toby calling Chop straight ahead into the line and old Chop would come crawlin' out of the pile with dirt all over him and when he'd smile he even had it in his teeth." A lot of laughter.

  "You ever get tackled, Tob?"

  "Only when you bums let 'em through."

  "Remember the game you missed handin' off to somebody and when they got the mess untangled you were lyin' there with your helmet cracked like an egg? Hell, I've never seen one break like that again."

  "Yeah, I think Chop sat on me that time."

  Chop rolled his eyes at Toby showing his big square teeth.

  "Seems to me that all the other backs did was block or plow into the line while Toby danced around floating nothin' passes out to Pepper—who dropped most of 'em."

  Toby grinned. "Well, Chop, we had to gain more than a yard a play." There were some snickers, "And I got feeling pretty bad about those big old linemen from West Perry or somewhere making cleat marks all over you. It was just merciful to go to the air now and then."

  Looking ferocious Chop one-handed his empty beer can into a small ball of tortured aluminum. Toby was impressed. Chop probably weighed 240 or more now, but it wasn't all fat, that was for sure.

  Somebody else was impressed and said, "Jesus Christ, you been hand milking lately?"

  Clouser fixed him with a baleful eye, "Nope, just sendin' out a warnin' not to get too funny with old Chop Clouser."

  Toby snorted and tipped him backward over the top seat of the bleachers. Caught off guard, with Shatto's full weight on him. Chop struggled for balance.

  Toby could feel Chop's great muscles gathering to bounce him off when, just in time, Pepper Long got him from the other side. They still barely held him but others joined in.

  Someone suggested, "Maybe we ought'a pants Chop for old time's sake."

  "Hell, that wouldn't take even one eye off the game!" They let Chop up and he straightened his Jacket, shrugging his huge shoulders. "Lucky you let go. I was just about to toss a couple of bodies down into town somewhere."

  Bill Long slipped a beer from the cooler between his feet and popped the cap. "Here, Chop, an' keep it hidden. We ain't supposed to be drink
in' in here—remember?"

  Pepper said, "You know it's been, what? Maybe fourteen years since we played together, but here we are still jerking around like we were eighteen or something. Christ, you guys never grow up!"

  "Us guys? Hell, Pepper, you're worse than any of us.

  "Hey, Tob, last time they had an alumni game you know who got in uniform? Fat old Pepper, that's who. They let him play a couple of minutes, Damndest sight you ever saw. He couldn't bend down enough to start like an end ought to, and the play was near over before he got to moving. Toby, it was embarrassing to watch."

  "Glad I didn't see it."

  "Well, I needed a week or two of conditioning, Tob. Then I'd have done better."

  Someone gave him a prolonged raspberry.

  "Well, our old team was all right in its day. We won a couple."

  "We'd a won more only we had a handicap."

  "We had a couple and you were the biggest!"

  Amid the laughter, "No, I mean a real handicap. Remember? We had to do everything Shatto's way. Who led the practice drills? Who called the plays? Shatto, that's who."

  "Man, he's right! No wonder we never got anywhere. Hell, lookin' back on it I see we might have been state champs."

  There was concerted groaning.

  Toby put in, "Now wait a minute. Didn't I always pick myself to make the touchdowns? And didn't I always stay out of the way when you were struggling on defense?"

  He grinned. "Why if it weren't for my example in those old days, Greenwood football wouldn't be what it is today."

  Chop nodded toward the scoreboard. "Our boys are two touchdowns behind, Tob. Sure looks familiar. We'uns owe you a lot, Toby . . . an' you're gettin' some of it right now!"

  His huge arm belted Toby backwards so that he hung head downward with only his shins scraping painfully on a lower seat keeping him in the stands. Someone fumbled at his belt buckle and said, "Let's pants him instead of old Chop."

  Painfully Toby growled, "You'd better not. Tese women ever see me without pants, you'll all be out of luck from now on."

  Chop let him up amid groans and snorts of amused disdain.

  "Toby, we've seen you in the shower an' unless you learned somethin' special from them A-rabs . . . we ain't got nothin' to worry about!"

  +++

  In the morning Chop Clouser followed him down to Camp Hill where Toby turned in the rental car. Coming back up the river in Chop's rumbling pickup gave them time to talk.

  They had spent a lot of time together growing up. Back then Chop had lived one farm over, and they had been best friends.

  The Clouser family was a big one, but he'd been close only with Chop. The two of them along with Ted Shuler and Hanna Roth ran the woods, fished, and built forts together. Ted had died in a truck collision near Perdix and Hanna was married and living in Alexandria, Egypt. It had been Hanna Toby had called on his way home.

  Toby Shatto had been the leader back then, and they had played the games his way. High school had been no different, and although Chop and Toby were co-captains, Toby Shatto quarterbacked and directed the play.

  Chop Clouser was no dumbbell, however. He just didn't lead. Chop liked to be part of things. He liked a team effort; everybody pulling together seemed the way things should be. Big, dependable old Chop was always there and always ready. Need two yards—give it to Chop Clouser.

  But amiable Chop could be rougher than most would guess. Riled, he fought with a ferocity that left people badly hurt.

  They all remembered the bunch from Lewistown that cornered them up in Mifflin. Chop had pounded his man until teeth were broken off, his nose smashed, and a two-inch gash opened over an eye. The beating was so horrendous that it had taken the fight out of all of them, and the Lewistowners had loaded and driven off without even the usual "Next time!" threats.

  Riding now beside his big friend, Toby could wonder how he'd kept Chop from working him over a few times. God knows they'd had squabbles enough during those years.

  The McDonald's at Summerdale Junction was closed with a sign hung that said, "Meat deliveries delayed indefinitely."

  Chop grunted in disbelief, "My God, even McDonalds is coming up short. I thought they owned their own ranches, trucks, and all."

  "They do, but they don't own oil wells and refineries." Almost tentatively Toby added, "We haven't seen anything yet, Chop."

  Clouser shot him a speculative glance, "You taking up where your Pa left off, Tob?"

  Shatto let a time go by before he answered. He hadn't decided what he would do, and he wasn't sure he cared to advertise around. Still, should he not speak candidly to Chop Clouser about it? What would that mean? That he thought Chop too stubborn to understand? Or that Chop didn't deserve a chance to decide for himself? Or maybe that he didn't want Chop hoorawing him about it later?

  "You really want to hear, Chop? And don't say you do if you're not interested 'cause I'm not pushing what I think on anyone."

  "Oh God, Toby, you're going to tell me the world's coming to an end. I should have known it!"

  Toby smiled a little grimly, "Then nuts to you, Clouser!"

  They drove more slowly through Perdix. "Still a dangerous piece of road, Tob."

  "Sure is. God, how many people have been killed or torn up along here, Chop?" He counted on his fingers.

  "I can recall nearly a dozen including poor old Ted. Usually a truck involved too, it seems like."

  "Uh huh." Then a protracted silence.

  "Ok, Shatto, I can't stand it no more. What do you figure is going to happen." Chop grinned at himself.

  Toby said, "Hmmm, you lasted about three miles, Chop. I had you figured for at least the Quail Call Restaurant."

  "They're closed, Tob, but there's a place further along where you can buy my lunch. Now tell me what you think before I let you walk home."

  Toby turned in his seat so that he could talk directly to Chop as he drove. Then he got right to the point.

  "Chop, this country is in too big a mess to describe.

  In fact, the whole world is walking on eggs. What holds it all together is anyone's guess. How long it'll keep going is another.

  "Hell, you know all that. And you know that nobody agrees with anybody else about what to do about it—assuming anything could be done.

  "Ok now, I don't know that I know anymore than you do. Maybe I heard so much about everything coming down for so many years I can't look at it fairly. All I can tell you is this: For a million little reasons, I think the big collapse that most people expect will happen someday is going to happen now.

  "I don't mean in a year or so, Chop. I mean within weeks, maybe a month, maybe even a couple of months, but so soon we don't really have time to get ready."

  Chop's big face was twisting around as though he was about to explode but all he said was, "Hey, Toby!"

  "Yeah, I know, Chop. You look around and everything looks solid with most things going like they always have. Well, all I can say is that it's going to end—before winter is done, Chop.

  "This big old pickup will never run again is my guess. People we know are going to be starving and if you've got a cow left, it'll be because you hid her good and maybe shot someone to protect her."

  He turned ahead again and relaxed in his seat. "I'm not kidding about this, Chop, and I'm just touching a few points. Nothing is ever going to be the same for us, and that's assuming we're among the survivors."

  Clouser drove for a while, then tried to speak. "Toby, you . . . damn it, Toby, you can't just , . ." He glanced out the side window and said, "Oh, hell!"

  Toby laughed softly, slapping him on a big shoulder. "All right, Chop. You wanted to hear it straight and that's it. You don't have to believe it, and to tell the truth I hardly can myself. I guess it's too easy to not believe or too awful to accept." He scrubbed his face vigorously with both hands. "All I can add is that I'm starting to get ready tomorrow."

  Now he did laugh aloud and his laughter was a little wild. "Fact is, Chop, I'm waiti
ng until tomorrow because today I don't know what in hell I am going to do."

  +++

  Chapter 8

  Chop's restaurant was also closed so they drove fast along the Susquehanna above Duncannon and ended up in Liverpool at Jesse Holman's for lunch.

  Following Glenna Holman's Lebanon bologna and cheese sandwiches they got out George Shatto's strong box which Chop muscled into George's truck with more than a little effort.

  "What the hell's he got in here, Toby? Must be lead or gold." Toby doubted there was much of either. Stuff just accumulated over a lifetime.

  George's ammunition also added heavy weight to the truck's load, but half the homes in Perry County could come up with a similarly mixed case or so of rifle, pistol, and shotgun shells.

  Laid out on the truck bed George's guns weren't impressive. There was the old .35 Remington pump gun and an older muzzle loading double shotgun from the black powder days. George's 30/06 was a pre-'64 Winchester with a Lyman Alaskan scope. It was a nice dependable rifle and they took a few moments throwing it to their shoulders and sighting around.

  George had a good Ithaca 12 gauge and a pair of .22 caliber rifles. The single shot Stevens Toby and Chop had both learned with needed handling, but it was the American 180 with its drum magazines that raised a host of memories.

  Jesse slipped the silencer quietly into Toby's pocket but Toby brought it out laughing.

  "It's Ok, Jesse. Chop knows about it. He was in on testing some of the earlier models and fired this one many a time."

  Chop took the blued metal tube, his big hands making it look small.

  "You know, Toby, I've wondered a lot of times if this was still around. Whew, squirrels never had a chance when we were using it." He sighted through the tube and popped it back into Toby's pocket. "Sure wish your Pa had made an extra. There's getting to be so many people around you're nervous about taking a shot. Be nice to just quietly knock a varmint off without some newcomer claiming you were endangering their safety."

  George Shatto had not been a pistol shooter and there was only one handgun. The pistol had a stock made of unusual wood; it was two barreled and had percussion locks. Between the barrels the name "Rob Shatto" was deeply engraved.