Shatto's Way

by Roy F. Chandler

  The multinational banks convulsed and international banks floundered. Financial institutions met in extraordinary sessions. Secretaries of State and Treasury in every Western European nation consulted in borderline panic. The American Federal Reserve agreed to purchase American Treasury notes and to print more money as support against panicked bank runs. Again a weekend offered respite for either salvage or confirmation of failure, and governments dispatched mediators, bankers flew hither and thither, and businesses grimly surveyed their limited alternatives.

  The man on the street shrugged and wondered at the excitement. So what if banks fell? The government insured them didn't they? Who cared if the fat cats bled a little? To hell with the Communists anyway, we shouldn't have loaned them anything to start with. The people were more concerned with the next meal and a little coal or oil.

  On Monday the chaos began. Even the dullest corporate manager understood the devastation of credit collapse. Those who could, fled to gold. Those who couldn't, tried for anything material. Money was instant trash. Stocks became nonnegotiable. Who wanted paper? No one!

  Filter down was almost instantaneous. Inflation exploded hourly as desperation seized first the bigger businesses and, too late to respond, the small businesses. Wildly each sought protection or survival in anything material. Prices quadrupled hourly. Customers clutched their dollars and refused to buy, only to see prices raised and raised again until in desperation they paid a new price with immediate offers from all sides to sell for even higher rates.

  Hopeful entrepreneurs bought and sold, frantically building their profits almost geometrically but finishing the day with piles of bills worth less than the original entry.

  Most citizens, bewildered and unbelieving, chose to wait out the craziness, but the insanity did not end.

  For a time chaos escalated, but the goods disappeared and no more arrived. Within days the plants were closed and the mines shut down. Farmers could not transport and feared to sell. Throughout it all, TV and radio compounded the fears and the confusions. Commentators announced each financial debacle and wallowed in each riot, failure, or temporary fortune.

  Men were shown prancing with fistfuls of bills even as women queued before almost empty stores to count out life savings for bread or beans.

  Government spokesmen appeared to counsel calm and offer reassurances. When looting began guardsmen arrived, but the cameras showed distant viewers how it was done, and looting became the way to acquire anything available.

  As the store windows crashed Governors resorted to desperate measures. The long-abandoned order to shoot looters on sight was reissued and the TV cameras dutifully recorded the sights and sounds of the unlawful dying. Unfortunately they also dwelt long on grieving elders and orphaned children, arousing an emotional backlash that inhibited the essential thoroughness of military crackdown. As a result, too many thieves were not shot and plundering remained safely attractive.

  Of course burning began and cities flamed. As bankers tore their hair, insurance companies frantically retrenched in hope of staying alive, but the mobs raged and property burned as innocents died in flames and beneath uncaring feet.

  Martial law was nationally invoked but there seemed no universal will to perform the terminal violence necessary to halt the mobs. Young people joined in for the thrill, helping the more professional profiteers, radicals, and anarchists pursue their pillaging. Madness prevailed, and the churches and universities were trashed as readily as the stores and offices.

  Conditions were calmer in Perry County. Without fuel and jobs, commuting ended. People stayed home to watch and wait. They anxiously studied their TV and longed for the missing newspapers for more trustworthy news. Friends and relatives arrived from the cities seeking security. They brought little with them, but most Perry homes had something put away and surely the troubles could not last long.

  If the Soviets savored their successful maneuvering it was with emptily rumbling stomachs for even the limited western grain sales were halted. Soviet armies mobilized—to keep internal peace or to attack the west? No one knew for certain but tensions soared to new levels.

  Every nation fled paper currency, and as most held, the dollar suffered unto death. Washington floundered as the Outs saw the opportunity to replace the Ins and consensus appeared impossible.

  Splinter groups throughout the world leaped upon reeling establishments with fanatical fervor. Immense bombs detonated in congenital trouble spots. Assassinations multiplied and were claimed by acrimonious groups unheard of before. Something called "Americans for Populist Liberty" held New York hostage with claims of an atomic bomb in place. Fortunately, AFPL had been infiltrated and the bomb's location disclosed. Experts announced that the bomb might have worked!

  Panamanian dissidents stormed and destroyed a lock in their Panama Canal, closing that waterway, and at least one American nuclear power plant was dangerously damaged by a sniper using a military LAWS rocket against it.

  Chop Clouser called and Toby answered from his extension in the cave. "Jesus, Toby . . . " And waited.

  "Yeah, Chop. It's as bad as I figured. Christ, what a mess."

  "What'll happen next, Toby? My God, I can't see how it can get much worse."

  Toby snorted, "For God's sake, Chop, this is just the beginning. It's only been a week or so and people aren't really starving yet. Get ready to hold 'em off, Chop, and I'm not kidding."

  "Well, we're pretty safe out here, Toby. There's no gas and they won't get out to these valleys. Hell, they'd freeze to death if they tried."

  "Chop, a hungry man will walk that thirty miles from Harrisburg like it was around the square. They'll come, Chop, and they will be like locusts. If you've got it, hide it good. Then be ready to shoot people if you have to. This isn't going to be a fun time, Chop, and you can tell your people that!"

  "You're really making my day, Toby. Why in hell did I ever call you, anyway?"

  Toby laughed shortly. "Because I'm the only one around here that's got even half an idea of what's happening and you know it. That's why!"

  He didn't wait for an answer, "And Chop, expect the power to go off and the phone to go out and stay out. I'm surprised they're still working.

  "Say, doesn't Bertha have diabetes, Chop?"

  "Yeah, but . . ."

  "But, hell, Chop! You get in that truck and get to the nearest pharmacy that claims to have her medication.

  "You buy it all, Chop. Don't let him say 'No.' Pay whatever it takes, then go on to the next place. Man, this is for years, Chop. Who knows when there'll be new drugs coming in? And Chop, the hell with shelf life. It's better to have something than nothing!"

  "God, Toby. I never thought about that. We've got more than a month on hand but . . . Oh man." Chop hung up.

  ++

  Chapter 11

  Without electricity, the catastrophe became real to Perry County. Toby's radio claimed that workers failed to appear and resulting damage had forced many generators off line. Others were on reduced output because of fuel shortages.

  Toby Shatto suspected Perry County's outage was simply an escalating inability to repair lines and transformers. With the world scurrying about like stirred ants with most in search of food and warmth, who could be persuaded to climb poles? Certainly electric poles made wonderful fuel, and with no electricity coming anyway, more than one chilled if shortsighted individual heated his home with a creosote-saturated telephone pole.

  Winter settled in with a ghoulish determination to increase human misery and for a time urban populations endured. Then, hollow-eyed and belly-taut, they headed for where they hoped food would be.

  Some foolishly believed conditions would be better closer to the nation's capital. There they swiftly starved in rude shelters amid media reported rumors of cannibalism. Most gathered their meager possessions and departed for the country.

  There were no automobiles. The few who tried were broken down by people clinging to them, or they found the roads junked to impassibi
lity. Some motorcycles led the exodus and there were bicycles and carts.

  Few city people had proper winter marching shoes but there was no real choice. They stumbled toward the farms seeking shelter in barns and outbuildings and hoping to share in the solidly provisioned butteries, pantries, and root cellars which farm families were known to have.

  Unfortunately, times were changed. Farmers too shopped at convenient markets and wives no longer spent their hours preserving food.

  Armed with desperation, starving hordes flushed into the countryside. In the face of empty larders or stolid rejection many remained civilized and moved on, but enough did not, and rural dwellers went down before the onslaught. Generations-soft Americans demanded their rights and took without understanding until there was no more. Those following fought over the remains or ousted the latest occupiers in bloody clashes.

  Perry County fought back with instinctive ferocity.

  The guns came out and people forted up. Defenders warned and then killed to save what they could, but a heavily defended home implied worthwhile booty, didn't it? Probably not, but the starvers believed it possible and waged assaults reminiscent of medieval wars.

  Isolated places fell easiest, for no help could reach them. Usually the places burned either during an attack or in frustration thereafter when little was found.

  Bands of vicious men formed to forage for themselves. Armed with anything they could seize, the gangs ranged widely, migrating when pickings slimmed. One such band came to Toby Shatto's.

  +++

  Scouting Turkey Ridge for squirrels usually wasn't very productive in December, but the fat grays also seemed a little confused by the harshness of the early winter and a few could be found scouring for overlooked nuts.

  Toby intended to use as little of his stored things as possible and squirrels were a renewable resource where Chunky soup might not be.

  Hunting also got him out and away from his radio.

  Solar cells were charging batteries without difficulty but reception was only sporadic because most stations had gone off the air. Those that remained broadcast at pre-announced times and he could tune his powerful receiver to distant places without fear of missing any local reception.

  All the news was desperately bad. He had to wonder if anyone at any level was succeeding at any task. The President was heard more regularly than the weather, but his pronouncements had gone from suspect to unbelievable. Chaos was reported everywhere and, despite promises, conditions continued to slide. Massive food riots and upheavals were reported inside the Soviet Union with thousands storming the border mine fields and machine guns only to find almost equally intolerable hunger in the West. Even China was writhing like one of its mythical dragons, but more stoic, with fewer expectations, they suffered and endured.

  He had not found game this day. The air was bitter and the ground frozen rock hard. Sound carried far in such cold and he heard voices and smashing wood while still high on the hill.

  Until now Toby had been spared intruders. He had toppled trees across the already abandoned looking lane and although many had passed, none had turned in.

  Other places had suffered and Chop had fought a pitched battle. The villains had erred with Chop and his family, for the Clousers sought cover among their buildings and protected one another. Four invaders were found dead and blood was evident in other places. The farm suffered small buildings burned and a pair of good cows killed and clumsily butchered. Chop and some others took after the thieves but dared not go too far lest the place again be attacked. Toby heard the shooting but wasn't sure who was doing it or which farm it came from. By the time he arrived the bandits were gone.

  Now it sounded as though he had his own outlaws to contend with. The racket was coming from the old house and he thumbed buckshot into his pump 12 gauge before he started down.

  Although they made enough noise for an army only a half dozen rough looking men were on hand. Busy with prying away the plywood covering nailed over the front door, they were unaware of Shatto's approach.

  He had to move carefully or the crunch of his footsteps could have been heard. Even more exposing was the plume of condensation from his breathing. He tried to exhale into his Jacket front and smother his steaming breath.

  Before calling out he made certain there were no others and that he stood near a thick oak tree for quick cover.

  When he spoke, he made himself sound strong and authoritative. "Knock it off down there and get off this property!"

  As he expected, the men froze in awkward positions, their features obscured by clouds of breathing. Even so he nearly died.

  What he had not anticipated was one's instant response. While the others looked him over the man leveled his rifle and started shooting from the hip. The first round ricocheted from the frozen ground halfway between them, the second broke twigs above him, and a third snapped by his ear before Toby could react.

  Belatedly he leaped behind the tree, shock turning his knees rubbery and cold sweat starting all over him. Others opened fire and bullets tore at the tree protecting him.

  Toby Shatto had never fired a gun at anyone and the sudden transition to combat left him shaken. His mind told him that the gunman had a semi-automatic rifle which had allowed him to shoot so fast, and the thought of exposing himself to such a weapon was frightening.

  Yet another part of his mind told him to act now, while he had targets and before he was encircled. With shaking limbs he knelt behind his tree his gloved hands clumsily gripping his weapon. Then, gathering his nerve he held his breath and poked his head and shotgun around the trunk. He thanked heaven he had gotten close enough. Within forty yards his shotgun could have the better of it.

  Across his barrel he could see the shooter raising his rifle to shoulder, and as his bead touched the man's chest he squeezed his trigger just as he had on countless small game animals and a few deer.

  Recoil was always heavy but it went unnoticed as he brought the gun back into line. Without thought he had operated the slide and was prepared to shoot again, but the rifleman was already dropping his weapon and staggering about.

  A bullet spraying bark into his face broke his trance, and he fired quickly at a figure running for cover and just as quickly at a third. Both went down, one with a yell that turned into a lingering scream that stood his hair on end until it dwindled to a thick gurgle followed by silence.

  Sweat stung his eyes, and in wiping it away, he exposed an elbow. Instantly bullets slugged into the tree and someone called instructions in a shrill and panicky voice.

  He risked a look and got away with it, seeing someone dip from sight off to his left. If they flanked him he was finished, that was for sure.

  Behind him a small fold of earth offered better protection and he scrambled for it trying to keep the tree between his body and the enemy. He lunged the last few feet feeling something burning his right calf and slid into the gully's temporary cover.

  The fire in his calf disturbed his thinking. It felt as if a hot soldering iron was pressed into his flesh. Looking quickly he saw a small discolored dimple that might be a closed up hole. He supposed he had been shot, but it wasn't bleeding so he tried to ignore it.

  Keeping his shotgun muzzle out of the dirt, he began crawling along the bottom of the swale heading where the flanker would probably appear. He concentrated on keeping his breathing shallow so it would not expose his movement. He felt his pant legs tear and his knees rip as he struggled painfully across the frozen ground.

  Between the fiery leg and sweat stinging his eyes he almost forgot to reload the shotgun. He replaced the three ejected shells using the last of his buckshot. The rest were seven shot, fine for squirrels but almost useless against a man. Well, if he could get away he would do so. Once back in the cave he could arm properly. Thought of the cave's security was tempting and he had to fight the impulse to try running for it.

  A wall of brush barred his way and he hesitated, seeking a route around it. Just beyond, a shoe
crunched on the frost-raised ground and looking closely he could see movement and the fog of labored breathing. Without hesitation he popped up, leveling his shotgun where the brush was thinnest, and fired point-blank into the side of a man looking toward the tree he had been using.

  He dropped as a hail of bullets tore the space he had just occupied. The shots came from near the house, however, and he heard nothing from the man he had just shot.

  A voice called but no one answered. A discussion between two men followed and then more calling. Toby thought about it awhile; if he really had downed four of them only the two talkers remained. He tried to visualize the man he had just fired at.

  The figure had held a gun; a rifle he thought. At that close range his shot wouldn't have expanded at all. If he had hit where he aimed, nine .33 caliber balls had gone in as one and that was enough to down a grizzly bear. Had he shot true? He knew he had.

  Keyed to jerky alertness, his breath coming in rapid gasps, Toby shoved his way through the brush. The body lying almost at his feet still startled him, but the ragged hole beneath an armpit and already glazing eyes turned fear into a struggle to keep from vomiting.

  Swelling relief, the nagging throb in his calf, and more calling from below distracted him enough to save his stomach.

  The dead man had been carrying a scoped hunting rifle. Toby looked at it for a long moment before realizing its value. He propped his shotgun over the body, pulled his right glove off with his teeth, and checked the rifle's condition. It seemed undamaged, and half opening the bolt showed a full magazine.

  With his retreat to the swale the range had become too long for his shotgun but the rifle would be more than enough. He read .308 Winchester on the barrel and grunted satisfaction. His knees scraped painfully and his wounded calf complained anew as he slid into a solid prone position within the brush, but he poked the rifle barrel clear and scanned the house area through the scope. The first shooter who had so nearly gotten him, sprawled face down and unmoving, one foot still on the porch.