by Benton, Ken
Joel reacted before thinking, punching the accelerator, causing the man to jump back as Joel’s truck threaded the needle of available roadway. Jessie shrieked. Joel hit the crossroad pavement too hard, throwing him and Jessie up to be caught by the seatbelts. Somehow he managed to turn and face the right direction, towards the interstate, and was prepared to floor it when he noticed Archer’s truck had stopped. The man with the object stood talking to Archer through his window.
The object turned out to be a manual well pump, similar to the one Joel had installed in his well casing at the cabin alongside his electric pump. The man, a local farmer, was supposed to be bringing it to the truck stop not ten miles away, where they were going to try to use it, along with the piping in his stake-bed, to mickey-rig a way to pump diesel fuel out of the holding tanks. But his truck had broken down.
The equipment ended up in the back of Archer’s truck, Jessie ended up squeezing in with Archer and Debra, and the farmer caught a ride with the crazed driver who nearly ran him down. In the end, Joel and Archer received something of a hero’s welcome at the truck stop which almost made it worthwhile driving several miles in the wrong direction. Joel still didn’t think the hero’s welcome inferred a promise of fuel. Teamsters were definitely the upper echelon of society here.
That’s when they ran into Colonel Cowboy. Initially concerned with keeping order among the rapidly growing truck stop population, the news of a project underway for dispensing fuel captured his interest. Joel hung around long enough to understand that the colonel straightaway considered himself in charge of the operation. The truck stop manager, and more than a few of the teamsters, did not appreciate a military commander’s authoritative attitude spilling into the private sector. But they didn’t have a dozen highly-trained men with combat rifles at their disposal with which to make a convincing objection.
Because it was after 11pm, because everyone was weary from the day and still rattled by the events of it, because of the possibility of a gift of fuel for the pump-delivering hero, because they were offered prominent places to park on the near side of the sea of autos in the designated noncommercial vehicle section, and because Joel was beginning to lose his battle with fatigue, they decided to rest here until morning.
And now, in the gray light of predawn, Joel could already see some sort of commotion involving the colonel stirring up near the commercial gas pumps.
Quietly and gently he opened his door, stepped outside, and set the door back without fully closing it so as not to wake Jessie.
The crisp morning air greeted and cleansed him, reminiscent of a jump into a clear running stream in a teenage summer. Joel took a minute to gaze at the surrounding greenery of Shenandoah Valley and the fading colors of the northern lights above.
“Joel!” a female voice softly called.
He turned. There was Debra in a red flannel shirt, hunched on the ground in front of Archer’s truck next to a camping stove with a coffee pot on. She smiled, poured coffee into two mugs, and approached him.
“I hope you like it black.”
Joel accepted the mug. Its warmth brought a simple pleasure of great depth, but the feeling fled when Joel noticed Debra’s concerned expression. He realized then he was frowning despite his appreciation.
“Black is fine, thanks. But … well, maybe we should be conserving that propane.”
“For what?” Debra said taking a sip. “This seems like an especially good morning for a hot cup of coffee.”
Her words shook Joel. They were firm without being scolding. He felt something come out of him, and flashed on his father harshly reprimanding him for a random minor infraction.
“Debra, I stand corrected. Don’t think I’ve ever heard a better point made.”
She politely obliged him in a clinking toast. Joel’s eyes went back to the scenery and his heart back to serenity. To merely stand in this spot at this place in time and sip coffee accomplished momentary perfection in the purpose of existence. If only certain moments did not end.
They soon returned to the stove for refills. The significant others stayed asleep. Debra turned off the burner, offering up a coy smile in the process.
“So how is Archer?” Joel asked as they strolled towards the pumps together.
“I don’t know. As good as can be expected, I guess.”
“Under the circumstances, you mean.”
She sighed. “Yes, under the circumstances.”
“Debra,” Joel said. “Thanks for your help yesterday. All of it.”
She shot him an inquisitive look. “I was just trying to stay alive. I didn’t even know if you were…”
“I’m sorry for the whole thing, Debra. The whole damn thing.”
“Why are you sorry? We all got fooled.”
“I should have known better.”
“Why? Because you’re smarter than us? Or have some special insight? Like a psychic?”
“Because survival skills have been something of a hobby for me,” Joel said. “I’ve read stories and played out scenarios with bad guys in my head, and should have known better than to be led into a potential ambush like that. I’m really sorry to have put you—I mean all of us—in harm’s way.”
“Stop blaming yourself, Joel, because it’s stupid. I don’t like it. The bandit on the dirt bike was a good actor.”
She paused. “I suppose I should be thankful I’ve managed to join up with a doomsday prepper when the shit has actually hit the fan. It may take me a bit to adjust to it all. Especially the way Archer is…”
“The way Archer is what?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be discussing him.”
“He acted as if he went into a state of shock or something afterwards,” Joel said. “I hope he isn’t too upset with me.”
“With you? No.”
“Is he upset with you?” Joel knew he was treading into an uninvited area.
Their eyes met for an uncomfortably long moment.
“Car salesman, huh?” she said. “And a survivalist, too?”
“Forgive my intrusion,” Joel replied. “The way you two were behaving, I thought maybe you needed to talk about it to someone. Maybe I do, too.”
Her hard blue eyes softened. “I don’t think he is upset with me in every sense of the word. But he is startled and confused. He was afraid to come close to me, like he didn’t know me all of a sudden. So at the one moment in my whole life I most needed consoling, I found myself alone.”
Joel nodded. “I think I know how you feel.”
She motioned with her chin before taking another sip. “Guess we should find out what’s going on here.”
Joel looked back to the commercial fuel pumps they’d been gradually nearing. Angry voices growing louder broadcast signs of a mounting tension between a gathering of drivers and Colonel Cowboy. Two nearby soldiers sensed it as well, who broke into a trot to arrive, bringing the number of soldiers supporting the colonel to five. The drivers outnumbered them by at least four to one.
Joel and Debra shortly joined the scene. The manager of the truck stop was also there, appearing considerably less friendly than when he accepted the well pump from Joel last night. He now stood in a defensive position between the army force and a couple of men attaching the pump to its pipes.
“You are overstepping your authority, Colonel,” the manager said. “This is corporate-owned property. Unless you are instituting martial law, I can ask you all to leave—”
“A state of emergency has been declared,” the colonel barked. “And this property is clearly a public place, becoming more public by the hour. Don’t play lawyer with me, son. It’s my job to control civil unrest.”
“There’s no civil unrest here.”
“It’s happening all over the damn country,” the colonel replied. “And if you start pouring gas into cans, with all the people packed into this place like sardines overnight, it’s likely to cause a stampede, and a flammable one at that. Don’t tell me it’s not my business. I know my bu
siness.”
The manager waited a minute before replying. Joel gave him credit for being wise enough to carefully choose his next words.
“By all means do what you feel you need to for keeping order, Colonel. You’re welcome to that, and it’s appreciated, even if completely unnecessary. But that’s the limit of your authority, unless martial law is declared. Don’t interfere with civilian business matters, please.”
The colonel raised his voice again. “Well thank you for your benevolent blessing. I’ve given your request due consideration, and have determined that the best way to keep order is to stop you from pumping any fuel out of the ground, especially in some slapdash way—at least until I get an answer from Washington on the matter.”
“What’s slapdash is your communication system,” the manager said. “Playing a kindergarten telephone game with walkie-talkies.”
“It’s what we got for now.” The colonel held his walkie-talkie up. “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if I get word on this kindergarten relay system that the President has indeed declared martial law before the end of the day. In these kinds of situations, field commanders such as myself are trained to make the best decisions they can in the interim. So you just keep that contraption above ground for the time being.”
“At least let us fill the refrigeration units,” one of the drivers said, “or we have truckloads of produce that’s all going to spoil.”
Others quickly chimed in agreement.
“Sorry,” the colonel replied in a more sympathetic tone. “Once you start pouring it, the risk of a gas riot jumps too high for my taste. At least until I can get some more soldiers assigned to this facility.”
“Well then I’m opening my trailer,” one of the drivers announced. “And letting them all have the food before it goes bad.” He pointed to the auto parking area.
“Me too,” someone else said. “Screw it.”
“Now hold on a second,” the colonel began to object.
But he seemed to think better of picking another battle this early in the day, and ended up conceding to a controlled free food distribution. The drivers of three refrigerated trailers that had run out of diesel fuel for the refrigeration units decided to open them up. The colonel had them placed at the front of the lot and stationed some of his men to keep the giveaway orderly.
Word was slow to get out. The drivers and soldiers were up earlier than most of the civilian crowd in the auto lot. Joel and Debra meandered their way back to have another cup of coffee with a noticeably dispirited Jessie and Archer before rummaging up a couple bags. Jessie remained aloof this morning, speaking only in short replies to Joel.
By that time the produce trailers were open for business. When word about it finally got out, it got out fast. By the flurry suddenly spreading across the sea of autos, it was easy to see that it was time to go get the food. The girls decided to stay at the trucks and chat while the guys tried to beat the bulk of the crowd. Because Joel refused to run, they ended up waiting in line despite being parked closest. The colonel with two of his soldiers stayed at the pumps, continuing the standoff there.
The line moved fast. The trailers, still quite cold inside, featured an assortment of winter-stored crops such as squash, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, leafy greens, apples, and pears. Empty produce boxes being kicked aside had begun to become an obstacle. Joel knew it was pointless to take too many of these perishables—except for two items.
“Make sure you get potatoes and mushrooms,” Joel said to Archer.
“You already took some, didn’t you?”
“They aren’t just table fare,” Joel explained. “Those are also crop seedlings. Each potato is six or eight plants ready to grow. Each potato plant is four or five pounds of potatoes. And every mushroom stem can be a dozen or more mushrooms.”
Archer went back to the potatoes, but not before someone wearing a baseball cap, who may have overheard Joel, snatched the entire top box away. Archer frowned and bagged a half-dozen from the next below it, at a height now below his waist. The guy who took a whole box then added two additional boxes of other produce items to his stack and carried it all off the truck. Joel noticed one of his hands was bandaged.
“That’s enough for us,” Joel said to Archer. The two of them followed the hoarder down the tailgate ramp.
The hoarder turned left into the commercial truck lot while Joel and Archer went straight. The soldiers only seemed concerned about crowd control, not about even distribution of food. Joel noticed the hoarder walking towards a U-Haul truck parked among the rigs.
“Hang on a sec,” Joel said.
They stopped. Joel watched the hoarder arrive at the U-Haul, step up into the cargo hold, and set the produce boxes down. He couldn’t be sure, but there did appear to be cylindrical objects inside it as well. The hoarder then took off his overcoat and removed his hat. A mess of red hair sprung out.
“Dammit!” Joel said. “It’s them.”
“Who?” Archer asked. “What are you looking at?”
The big man showed himself next to the U-Haul now, and spoke something to the redhead, who began walking back to the food line.
“This isn’t right,” Joel said. He turned to Archer. “Go ahead back to the girls. I’ll catch up.”
Archer, still acting clueless—though not quite convincingly—complied.
Joel waited for the redhead to rejoin the line before approaching one of the soldiers.
Chapter Eleven
“All right,” the sergeant said to Joel after the colonel radioed him back. “Come show me.”
Joel hesitated, but the sergeant’s commanding mannerisms made it difficult to refuse him. What the hell.
“He’s one of them,” Joel said pointing to the front of the line. “The redhead, there, with the bandaged hand. Already took a stack of boxes over, and he’s back for more.”
“Simmons!” the sergeant called to the soldier at the head of the line. “Don’t let that one in there, with the red hair.”
He turned back to Joel. “Let’s go.”
Joel led the sergeant to the U-Haul in time to stop two other accomplices from loading four stacked boxes of produce in each of their arms, which hid everything but their hands from the waist up. The big man, apparently content to be queen bee and stay at the hive, also showed himself.
“Put those boxes back in the food trucks,” the sergeant ordered. “You guys have taken enough.”
The two worker bees set the boxes down to meet their confronter. The scowls that formed on all three faces when they recognized Joel were fearsome to behold. Joel was glad he’d sent Archer back to the girls.
The greasy-haired shotgun man burst into fast strides at Joel, neck tats bulging.
“Any time you say,” Joel said dropping his produce bag.
The sergeant stepped between them and pushed his rifle sideways into the on-comer, thank goodness. Joel hadn’t been in a fist fight since high school. This guy was a toughened street thug. Joel was a car salesman. He needed his choice of weapons if there was to be a dual, a proposition in which he was decidedly more confident. But he wasn’t going to show weakness, especially when he was the one bringing justice upon them.
“You heard me,” the sergeant repeated. “Put those last eight boxes back in the trailers, and stay out of the food line. All of you.”
The rage of death burned cold in his eyes, but the greasy-haired adversary complied, along with the other worker bee. By now the redhead returned, looking perplexed.
Joel used the opportunity to slip away into the commercial truck lot, taking a roundabout route. He checked behind him frequently. When he was sure no one followed him, he weaved his way back to the diesel fuel pumps.
There he encountered an unexpected scene. The well pump had been assembled and sunk into the receiving port of an underground fuel tank. Joel arrived as the first spurts of diesel fuel squirted into a large gas can. Three dozen teamsters attending the ceremony broke into cheers.
Th
e joy was contagious. Joel felt a wave of relief from the tense drama of a few minutes ago. He spotted the colonel and managed to make his way to him. The colonel, upon seeing Joel again, smiled and tipped his cowboy hat.
“You letting them sell gas now, Colonel?” Joel asked.
“Diesel only.” The colonel shrugged. “Weighed all my options and made a command decision. Not sure where a lot of these trucker boys think they are going, and it’s gonna take a hell of a long time to fill the ones who win the draw to go first. Most will probably only end up at another truck stop just like this one in Nebraska.” The colonel paused to watch them switch gas cans at the pump. “I half-expect to be busted down to captain for this.”
“My truck is diesel,” Joel said. “I only need a few gallons. I’m the guy who brought the pump. What are the chances I can get topped up?”
“I would think good, son.” The colonel pointed at the manager, currently engaged in a hectic conversation with the crowd of drivers. “But you’ll need to ask him.”
“Eh,” Joel said. “I think I better get on the road.”
“Where you folks headed?” the colonel asked.
“Knoxville.”
“The hell you say. That’s where I’m from!”
Joel smiled. “My place is on the outskirts of Oakdale. You’re always welcome if you’re in the area.”
The colonel reacted with a suspicious look this time and lowered his tone. “Much obliged. Safe traveling to you.”
Joel only nodded before turning to leave. Strange how the colonel’s attitude did an about-face upon receiving Joel’s invitation. Perhaps he caught himself becoming too friendly with the civilians he was supposed to be policing. Or maybe the Knoxville coincidence was pushed beyond his comfort zone by the more pinpointed Oakdale reference.
As Joel approached his old red truck, dirty from the road but still reflecting the first rays of sunlight over the mountains, he noticed the activity around the parking lot. Many jogged past him tightly gripping various types of containers loaded with produce, including some with two full flat boxes stacked. For a second, Joel regretted initiating the latest confrontation with the U-Haul gang. If everyone was hoarding, why bother?
