“The house itself is solid. Added to over the years, so not exactly aesthetically pleasing, but livable,” I concluded. “As for the fields, they are planted for hay and Wade’s already gotten one cutting off it so far this year. I imagine he’ll be able to get at least one more, if it ever stops raining.”
The rain had been with us for most of three weeks, and the soil was waterlogged. Erosion was becoming a real problem, and I’d been watching my creeks closely. That concern just went up with the stretch of Cow Creek, another waterway I swore elsewhere would be classified as a river, that snaked its way across the Bonner property. Three bridges spanned the creek along that length, and I worried the one closest to the house was in danger of being undermined by that rampaging torrent of water.
“I didn’t know Wade had the lease for that hay,” Marta said. “Is that going to cause any trouble?”
“What, with Wade? I doubt it. I still want him to get what hay he can, but as summer progresses, I’ll end up rotating cattle over there. I still need to explore that hay barn and equipment shed next time I’m over there. Wade swears that old Massey Ferguson tractor in the shed just needs a new oil pump to get it back to working order.”
“Can’t have too many tractors,” Mike said in agreement. “There’s usually one broke down waiting on parts, anyway.”
“How did you manage to pull this off? I mean, with the bank limits and all that?” Beatrice asked. Marta cast a nervous look my way, as if worried about saying anything in front of her mother might be a problem.
“Bea, the bank thing only affects cash withdrawals, and accessing your personal account. The president really put his thumb on the big banking interests, because he was worried about a run on the banks.”
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I guess that makes sense. How did he pressure the banks, though?”
“Bea, the morning after the earthquakes, you can figure every company with significant investments on the west coast suddenly became insolvent. Banks, insurance companies, well, pretty much every big investor just went bust.” I explained this point carefully, not wanting to overstress the older woman. She took it with grace though, so she must have been listening before when Mike had gone through some of this same territory with her.
“But they’re still open, because they’re too big to fail?”
I shook my head. “They’ve already failed, and we are syphoning off as much from the remains as we can. The banks are probably expecting to get bailed out, but I can’t see it happening this time, despite the vital role they play in the economy. Banks enable trade, after all.”
“I can see that,” Bea replied. “No place for businesses to make deposits or receive their lines of credit for restocking.”
“Oh, banks aren’t lending money to anybody, I don’t think. I didn’t even try to get a mortgage. I paid cash, and I used my business account. The same with the real estate agent on the other side, with the check going into her business account. How she’s going to get the funds to her client I do not know, but you are still allowed a fixed withdrawal every day.”
Once we finished shooting the breeze about the latest land acquisition, Marta took her mom upstairs to get the guest room situation handled and Mike led me out onto the porch. He’d maintained a polite expression throughout the earlier chatter, but I could see the concern written in his features now. We stopped to grab a cup of coffee, or get a top-off in my case, before heading out to claim seats on the front porch and watch the rain continue to fall.
Mike didn’t beat around the bush as he dove right into the subject.
“You really okay?”
“Does having nightmares every night since count as okay?” I answered honestly.
“Yeah, it does,” Mike assured me. “I had them too, the first few times. You’ll get over it eventually. Thing is, don’t let the nightmares eat you up. Hell, from what you’ve said, this sounded like a hairy situation, but you were doing the right thing. That counts for a lot.”
Mike never talked much about his experiences in the Army. Sure, he talked about stupid things they did or places he’d visited, but I knew he glossed over the ugliest parts. He never talked about the villagers he found massacred by rival religious or political factions, or the stupid decisions made by half-trained intelligence officers that got their own men killed in an ambush over some trivial comment.
I knew Mike had seen his share of the shit. I had CNN to keep me informed when Mike was deployed, and I followed firefights that escalated from a squad to a platoon and up to company level, lasting all day and resulting in dozens of American casualties and hundreds of Iraqi dead. He never brought it up, and I never thought it was my place to intrude.
“It’s time for us to get out,” Mike said, changing the topic on me. Or so I thought at first.
“What happened?”
“The food supplies are still coming in,” Mike said, “but the cracks are showing. Just like we talked about. Lots of stores closed, especially grocery stores. They’ve been consolidating the locations into neighborhoods. The National Guard has quietly set up checkpoints to control access to the ones that are still getting deliveries.”
“Yeah, that’s going to end well,” I popped off. “The hijackers don’t have to hit the convoys, just the customers after they leave the secure areas. Gun-free zones?”
“Affirmative,” Mike replied, then gave a tight smile. “Security companies are having a field day providing convoy and escort services to those that can afford it. They meet the civvies at the deadline, load them up in reinforced technicals, and drive them to their gated communities for delivery.”
I sighed. From what I could tell from the heavily censored news reports, food was still readily available to most Americans. No more out-of-season fruits and vegetables, and the meat case at the bigger supermarkets might not get fresh lobster tails flown in from Alaska, or wherever they got them. What was driving the banditry seemed to be the perception of scarcity, rather than any real shortages. Maybe it was a dress rehearsal for the winter and spring, when the shortages might be real.
“We’re not seeing any of that here,” I confirmed. “Grocery stores are still open, and trucks are still rolling. I’ve noticed they’re only getting one truck a week at the Woodshire Brothers, instead of two per week. That’s the Monday delivery. Last two weeks, they skipped the Thursday truck.”
“How the heck do you know that?”
“Simple observation,” I replied, drawing out the moment. When Mike gave me the ‘give it’ motion, I hid my grin. “Checked the expiration dates on the milk, and asked Fred when they were going to get more artichoke hearts.”
“But you hate artichokes,” Mike protested.
“Fred doesn’t know that, and believe it or not, they were sold out. So I asked him.”
Fred Willets was the Produce Manager at the local grocery store. A high-energy individual in his early thirties, Fred had been working for Woodshire Brothers since he was a junior in high school. Fred was also one of the small minority of Mormons in the community, and he lived what I always called the ‘wholesome’ lifestyle most often associated with his faith. Fred’s only vice, if you wanted to call it that, was his willingness to chat with anyone who wandered into his department. He wasn’t a gossip, but his easy manner had made my mission simple.
“Like taking candy from a baby?”
“Pretty much. You know, I’ve been thinking…”
“Scary when you do that,” Mike observed, then took a sip from his coffee to give me a moment to respond.
“With that extra space we’ll be getting from the Bonner place, I thought we might want to diversify our invitations.”
“Who?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Billy from the feed store, and his mom, Sally.”
Mike sighed. “You’re trying to fill up Noah’s Ark with…”
While Mike struggled to find the right word, I supplied one for him.
“Charity cases. Like Nancy
and her daughter.”
Mike grimaced at my choice of words, but plunged ahead anyway.
“Actually, Billy might not be a bad pick. I know he’s a little…slow in some ways, but he’s really good with the animals. But yeah, you’re the one always saying we might have to harden our hearts, and we know Wade has more people he needs to house.”
I had a list already. Marta’s mom Beatrice was on it. So was our cousin Mary and her husband Charlie. At least I could put a check mark next to Bea for the moment.
“Heard anything else from Patrick?”
Mike’s question added to the headache I could already feel building behind my eyes.
“He got a call through day before yesterday. They’ve stopped the ambulance service altogether. The chief of emergency services has opened the fire stations to their families, but that’s sort of a sore point with the locals. He’s worried about how long they can stay there. The National Guard has been called out every night this week to deal with the protesters and looters.”
Patrick conveyed his message using the shorthand all married couples use, and after the call, I thought we were going to have to sit on Nikki to keep her from taking off after her husband. She could tell Patrick was minimizing the situation, and she was not happy. Nikki was the kind of woman who would charge Hell with a bucket of ice water for her man.
“We going to go after him?”
“That’s what Nikki said. I don’t know what to say. Isn’t Marta dealing with the same sort of pressure at her job?”
Mike shrugged the question off, explaining that for now, the surgical clinics were being overlooked. I doubted that would last long, as medical services continued to be in demand. Someone would bring them into the emergency loop, sooner or later.
“Just stay,” I said again. “You got your family here, you’ve got Marta’s mom out. Just hunker down here and help keep this place going. Hell, I still haven’t figured out how to make that methane fuel cube work. I need your Mr. Science brain here, Mike, and doubt it’ll be long before we need your rifle, too.”
“You still thinking about that shootout in town?”
I looked away, my gaze catching the filly and the colt playing in the corral, frolicking in the rain. Not a lick of sense between the two, I thought as a smile creased my face.
“Naw, I’m okay. Scared me half to death, but it wasn’t near as close as I told the cops.” I was trying to reassure Mike, but I could tell he was cutting right through my bullshit. It was like a superpower for him, but he could only use it on me.
“Seriously?”
“No, I fucked up,” I hissed through my teeth. “If I hadn’t tripped, I swear I would’ve caught a face full of buckshot,” I admitted with a shiver. “I lost my situational awareness, and that gaggle of dopers out of Tyler nearly killed me in spite of themselves.”
“Then why?”
“Look, I gave you shit about what happened in Jasper, okay? But this was different. Barbara was honest-to-God about to die. I don’t know what I was trying to prove, but I didn’t want to see her get killed.”
Mike nodded at my explanation, as if he understood what I meant in those few words. “Hard way to get blooded, but you survived. Now, let’s take a look at those directions for this methane contraption. We’re going to need that thing up and running sooner or later.”
End of discussion, and I did feel better.
That evening, following an early dinner, we all gathered in the living room to catch the late news. After all the pablum and obfuscation of the last few weeks, the lead story caught all of us off-guard. I had predicted something like this from the beginning, but seeing the governor’s drawn features, the shadows under his eyes barely concealed by the makeup, drove home the reality of our situation.
The governor’s announcement was the top news story of the night, and quickly became the only story. The gaunt-faced former oil company executive who claimed the governor’s seat looked directly into the camera as he read from a prepared statement. The message had been pre-recorded, and nothing else was provided with the footage. Not even the location, though it was clearly not the governor’s office.
After a brief introductory statement, the governor quickly addressed the state of unrest in several major cities, naming them and touching on damage done in each location, including identifying the city officials killed or severely injured in each, as well as announced the number of police, firefighters, and other first responders who had also perished.
Nikki began crying as the governor listed those lost in Austin, and I felt a sting in my own eyes as the governor recited the names and numbers for Houston. I guess I carried more affection for my old stomping grounds than I even admitted to myself, but I listened close, because I could sense he was building up to something.
Next, he announced an immediate travel ban in effect throughout the state. This restricted drivers to stay in their counties unless they had a work permit or were traveling out of town on business at the time of the announcement. This order specifically exempted interstate and intra-state trucking, as well as package delivery services. In addition to the travel ban, he instituted a dusk to dawn curfew. Nothing about enforcement or penalties, but I figured the gloves were coming off.
With his unsmiling mug staring straight into the camera, the governor promised further details to come, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
Further, he was announcing the closure of all non-essential state offices, but then he promised that many would be offered the opportunity to work from home if possible. Nothing was said, of course, about federal employees, but I think we could all see the handwriting on the wall.
The State of Texas was hunkering down, preparing for the storm to come. In the meantime, Mike and his family were stranded here until he could get a travel pass back to Fort Worth. I wondered if it was petty of me to be so pleased by the governor’s order. Whatever. Now all we needed to do was get Patrick home, and we would have our core group gathered as planned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mike and I spent the rest of the evening going over our plans and contingencies. This was not to say the other adults were ignored, but Nikki was not in any condition to contribute and Marta was occupied trying to settle her mother and the kids in for their stay. She also took charge of Nikki’s two children, running them through their bedtime preparations like a drill sergeant.
That set the tone for the rest of the weekend and into the following week, as we worked to shore up our shortcomings and prepared to lock down the homeplace. We met with Wade on Monday, explaining the purchase of the Bonner farm and how we now had additional spaces to offer for shelter, but stressing the need to add some protections to the house and surrounding structures. The three of us took some time to inspect the Bonner house, the various outbuildings and the condition of the fences. Other than where I’d had the new fencing installed after purchasing our farm, the other three sides were completely dilapidated, with collapsed fence posts and rusted and detached strands of barbed wire. This was not unexpected, given the lack of maintenance, but it was added to the list of things that needed to be done.
The Bonner property was a very similar to the one I already owned, a rectangular strip of property running twice as long east to west, with the paper company’s pine forests neighboring them along the east side. To the south, the Bonner property was also bounded by another five thousand acres of International Paper land, though I knew quite a few locals who used the heavily-forested area as their own illegal hunting lease.
As we walked the soggy grounds of the property, I was remembering when I was first cleaning up the old Ferguson place, four years ago. The weather had certainly been better, but I’d sweated like a hog those first few days as my body struggled to readapt to hard physical labor. Wade had a couple of teenagers he’d used for general clean-up and bush hogging, and I’d worked with them at first from sunup to sundown, hauling brush and cutting down saplings that had sprouted around where we would situate the h
ouse and barn.
Once that was done, then we’d demolished the house, pulling aside what little lumber remained solid and setting the rest aside for the landfill. We’d recycled what we could, including some old bricks stored under the house for some reason, and then repeated the cycle on the crumbling barn.
I’d actually found some useful, though rusted hand tools scattered in the back of the barn, and Wade laughed at me when I gathered them up and dumped them in a five-gallon bucketful of detergent. Using a kitchen scrub brush, I’d thoroughly washed and then dried them using old shop towels I had in the back of my truck.
“I think you need some better kitchenware than that, boss,” one of the youngsters had teased. Bennie was a good kid and a hard worker, seventeen back then and out of school for the summer. “That stuff is nasty.”
“No, Bennie, just old and worn, like me,” I’d joked back. Later, I’d used a block of sandpaper to knock off the scale and corrosion, then finished with a small can of kerosene as a cutting lubricant to complete the job. When I was done, I was the proud owner of a cast-iron cooking grate that looked like it originally arrived in the state riding on a covered wagon, a brass pot probably used as a spittoon, four tarnished silver spoons, and an oddly-shaped device I identified as an old bullet mold.
I also had several fully functional tools and implements, including a set of adjustable wrenches, a come-along needing new chains, and a heavy table-mounted vise. These would all be moved to the shop in the detached garage, once it was built. I’d held onto the bullet mold, intrigued by the piece of history.
“What’re you thinking about so hard?” Wade asked me as we paused by the old wellhead. There was an actual hand pump still in the ground, and I wondered if it still worked. The leathers would all be rotten and in need of replacement, of course.
“Just thinking about how we worked on my place that summer,” I replied absently, pushing at the spongy earth with the toe of my boot.
“Ha! I thought we were going to lose you to heat stroke that first day,” Wade confided. “You just weren’t going to quit, and those boys just kept egging you on.”
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