CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
We started out just before daylight, risking the dusk ‘til dawn curfew. In an ideal situation, the drive to Ft. Worth from the farm took over four hours, but we budgeted our time for the trip to take twice that. The idea was to get a few more miles behind us before the outlaws started stirring, and it seemed our plan worked as we proceeded unmolested for the first fifty miles along Highway 69 before running into our first obstacle.
We debated which vehicle to take, but we ended up with Mike’s King cab pickup because not only did it have the extra carrying capacity of the full-sized bed, but he also had the ninety-eight gallon add-on fuel tank to get us home if we couldn’t fuel up along the way. We all strongly suspected that might be the case, but I brought all my loose cash just in case, or in the event we found a good deal somewhere.
Mike drove and I rode shotgun. Marta wasn’t happy sitting in the back row bench seat, but she knew I would be just about useless back there, crammed in like a sardine. Like the two of us, she was a walking arsenal, armed and armored for a fight, but unfortunately, that armor tended to poke you in uncomfortable ways in tight confines. I’d never been in that situation, but I got a running commentary from Marta on how each bump in the road threatened to rupture an organ. I got to be the verbal punching bag because ten minutes into the trip, she stopped talking to her husband altogether. Seems she’d wanted her SUV for the trip instead.
The warning came with red cones and flashing lights ahead.
But our first bit of trouble wasn’t one any of us could shoot our way out of, since the bridge being washed out just south of Alto meant we had a long detour ahead of us.
“Can we get on 294?” Mike asked as he began backing up nearly three hundred yards to reach the nearest turnaround, since the shoulders remained flooded even with two days of relatively clear weather.
“Don’t know, not looking at the map right now,” I replied with tension in my voice. “I’ll check after you get us out of here.”
“What’s wrong?” Marta asked, and I heard her shifting her carbine around in the back seat.
“Good spot for an ambush.” Mike muttered, giving us his two cents while also answering his wife’s question.
“You see something?” Marta queried again, her voice rising.
“His danger sense must be getting tuned in by now,” Mike replied tersely as he studied the rearview camera, angling the truck to make a quick direction change. “Bryan’s seen enough action, he came smell when he’s in a tight spot, honey. Just comes with the territory.”
“Well, he’s got me worried now, and I don’t see anything.”
“Me either, but if I was going to hit a truck somewhere, it would be right in this area,” I responded, rolling my window down and adjusting my grip on the FAL laid crossways in my lap. I’d have been better off with a short-barreled option like Marta was carrying, but I now preferred the range and punch of the larger and longer rifle I carried. Everything was a tradeoff.
After a few more tense minutes, Mike had the truck going in the opposite direction and I had a chance to look down at the road atlas stashed in the side door pocket.
“Turn right ahead on Highway 21. We’ll want to take it to the other side of Weches, then hang another right on 227. That’ll let us connect with 294, and we can take that to 323, which runs into Palestine.”
“Oh, I know the way from there,” Mike interjected. “As long as we can avoid more washouts, I mean. Now, Bryan, any reason why you decided to go with the paper map instead of the GPS on your phone?”
“Yeah, I can’t get the detail down to a high enough resolution to make out terrain features,” I grumbled, “and the system isn’t updating. At least with the highway road atlas, I can tell where we should have bridges. You can see the waterways that intersect the roads, at least,” I explained in more detail.
“That’s kind of scary,” Marta added from her backseat position. “I’ve gotten used to my phone telling me when there’s an accident ahead, or if the road is under construction.”
The conversation died out again as Mike reached the turnoff and I relaxed a hair. The narrow, two lane highway ran through a drenched and muddy countryside, and while I didn’t like the lack of traffic on the road, at least the sightlines remained open and clear.
“Where is everybody?”
Marta’s question struck a nerve. Mike and I exchanged a concerned look, as we’d covered nearly twenty miles since making the detour in Alto, and I had yet to see another vehicle on the road. It was eerie, like we were the last people alive on the planet.
“Not a lot of locals,” Mike tried to explain, “and with the rationing and fuel shortage, most people are going to want to stay close to home. I’m going to go out on a limb and wager this road didn’t see a lot of traffic before the meteorite.”
We passed the sign for Weeping Mary, TX, population 40, but I didn’t see anything other than a few scattered homes and no sign of activity by the supposed inhabitants. I also didn’t see any telltale blue tarps over any of the roofs, so I felt confident we were at least in an area outside Hurricane Debbie’s damage zone.
After another half hour and a few more turns, I noted the number of homes along our route was picking up, and we finally started seeing other cars and trucks on the road as the population density increased.
“Coming up on the loop around Palestine,” I warned Mike. “How do you want to handle the town?”
“Oh, we’ll go around, taking the loop like you mentioned,” my brother replied. “From here, we should take…”
Mike stopped talking as he took in the sight of the massive truck stop on the right, the exit about a half mile ahead. Unlike most of the breed, this one was fully lit up, with a digital signboard displaying their fuel price of $11.99 per gallon. Mike slowed the truck but did not stop.
“Ouch, look at the cost,” Mike picked up where he left off, gesturing.
“Do we stop?” I asked, cautious of the potential dangers. Hell, truck stops hadn’t been particularly safe before. The only thing that swayed my opinion here was the presence of two parked Highway Patrol cruisers out front and what looked like some kind of military truck pulled into a slot alongside the large storefront in an area reserved for the big rigs.
“I think we can risk it,” Mike finally replied, “but it looks like we have to go through a checkpoint to get in, and we’re all tooled up.”
“No, don’t,” Marta finally chimed in. “We don’t need the fuel and I’m not going anywhere unarmed. Let’s just go.”
Neither Mike nor I could argue with the logic, so Mike accelerated back up to the posted speed and we shot past the exit. I kept my eye on the parking lot, and when I saw four men dressed in military camouflage moving around on the concrete to a sandbagged emplacement next to the entrance, I didn’t even blink as I reported the movement to my companions.
“Probably National Guard,” Mike observed. “I heard how the state was taking over security at some of the truck stops. Converted them into mini-forts where semi-trucks could stop with some degree of safety. This way the governor is hoping to keep the trucks running and supplies distributed.”
“If you knew, why did you want to stop?” Marta complained, and Mike shrugged his big shoulders.
“Wanted to see if anybody there could give us word on conditions ahead, but I figure they also have people in the area working as spotters.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, but I thought I understood.
“See targets moving to the truck stop, then radio ahead when their mark leaves the base. The fighters in Iraq did the same thing, and we used that a few times to set up our own ambushes.”
Mike’s casual comments reminded me that my lunk of a brother had way more practical experience than I did when it came to this kind of thing. He, and those he’d served with, had a front row seat to a failed state, and how we made it that way. No matter your politics, what happened in Iraq still left a bad taste in the mouths of many Americans.
How could we avoid that same fate here? I wondered about his dilemma as my eyes continued to scan the dreary scenery.
Despite every bit of tapdancing the federal government was doing, I knew the economy was a sneeze away from collapsing. The banks and insurance companies were broke, the Treasury was papering over the cracks and pretending to be confident for the cameras while behind the scenes, the Federal Reserve worked the digital presses overtime in creating dollars out of thin air that had anything but the full faith and credit of the nation to prop them up. The abrupt loss of America’s easy source of finished goods, from critical infrastructure components to frivolous plastic toys coming out of the Pacific supply chain left us in a lurch, and maybe we could retool some of the abandoned factories in this country to fill that gap, but to do that the nation needed time and effort. Time to rebuild the machines to make the machines, and effort on the part of a workforce unaccustomed to hard, knuckle-cracking labor on assembly lines completely lacking in blessings from OSHA.
Of course, all of that assumed the workers could be fed, housed, and protected while they tried to revive the industrial heart of the country, and nothing could be further from the truth. In short, I feared that in five years, we would be envious of the industrial output of a war-time Iraq.
“What’s the map look like now?” Marta asked, breaking the long minutes as each of us retreated into our own thoughts. I, for one, was pleased with the distraction as my dark musings raced down a depressing rabbit hole.
“Still wrinkled and a little coffee-stained,” I retorted with forced good humor. “Outside of that, Mike seems to know the way.”
“All good,” Mike confirmed as he navigated around a stalled shoebox-shaped economy car perched on the side of the road, water coming up to the wheel well. I noticed Mike flinched a little bit as we pulled even with the dark red car.
“You all right to keep driving? Not getting tired?”
“No, just hate doin’ that,” Mike said softly, his faint Texas accent coming through strong. He kept the volume down, so Marta would need to be straining to hear. “Just brings back some bad memories.”
Roadside bombs, I realized.
“Well, keep your eyes peeled,” Marta announced, steel in her voice, “because I need a potty break soon, and I’m not going on the side of the road.”
We reached the outskirts of Ft. Worth after six hours of road time, and two bathroom breaks along the way. No shots fired, and Mike even managed to score ten gallons of gas in Waxahachie when we halted for the second of those restroom stops.
It was barely after noon when we pulled into the makeshift guard station at the entrance to Mike and Marta’s subdivision, and Mike chatted with his gun-toting fellow homeowner for a few minutes before driving past the roadblock and motoring on to their driveway. The overgrown grass seemed more like a jungle than a suburban front yard, and Marta quipped that Mike needed to get on that or risk the homeowner’s association assessing a fine.
I was asleep on the couch five minutes after entering the front door. I asked Mike to give me an hour, and then we could tackle the demands of the day. Marta told me later that Mike lasted a whole three minutes longer before hitting his recliner to pass out. She let us sleep two hours before rousing us both with a glass of water and two aspirin each.
“Stress,” she simply explained, and I nodded my understanding. Then Marta went off for her own nap and Mike and I got busy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Packing up the remnants of the house took less time than I figured. Most everything Mike and Marta wanted to keep had gone to our place outside New Albany already, but there were odds and ends, linens and towels, cookware and the like, that went into boxes. The back of Mike’s truck had been stacked with broken-down cardboard packing boxes, and cartons of packing tape. Efficient, and I sensed Marta’s organizational skills at play.
Around four o’clock, Mike’s neighbor Scott dropped by, and Mike escorted him and Marta into Mike’s office while I continued hauling cargo out into the garage for loading. When Mike backed the truck into the attached garage, I had silently approved. The plan called for us carry out the last of the packing without drawing any attention from any curious neighbors. They might have been mostly united in their efforts to secure the subdivision from outsiders, but we all knew that didn’t mean there weren’t a few who preyed on their own. Thanks to Scott Brister, the house had remained unbreached up until now.
“How have things been here?” I asked Mike after Scott excused himself.
“They’ve been suffering with the rain, but not as bad as we’ve seen. Some landslides, or mudslides, up in the hills. The rivers are all still well past flood levels, and the like.”
Mike sighed, then waved his hand in dismissal as he started again. “I’m convinced it was the hurricane and the gulf disturbances that’ve kept the weather stirred up in our area. All that water vapor released into the air, accompanied by the continued ash from the volcanoes, gives us the precipitation, but it was the massive heat bloom from the impact that we’re still experiencing.”
“Still think the farm is the best option?”
“Definitely,” Mike replied instantly. “Things only look better here on the surface. City services are stretched far beyond capacity with all the refugees, and the system is already starting to fracture. This subdivision has been lucky so far, which explains why our real estate agent has an interest in this place. He’s been nosing around, and made offers on two other houses down the street.”
“I imagine Scott tried to talk you guys into staying,” I guessed, thinking about their time closeted in Mike’s office.
“You’re right about that,” Marta interjected. “He’s really worried about losing this house. I mean, getting someone in here who won’t help with the common defense and all.”
“Shoot, Mike, you haven’t been around for over a month,” I objected, but then caught my brother’s little grin.
“Well, I did help out a little,” Mike admitted, his grin growing. “Seems I had a half dozen of those Del-Ton builds just gathering dust in the garage, along with a hundred thousand rounds of Romanian 5.56x45mm taking up space. Seemed like a good idea to donate them to the cause. I have a bill of sale from Scott and everything.”
“You sold weapons to Scott to help protect the neighborhood? That’s…”
“Genius, I know,” Mike interrupted, still grinning. “I didn’t sell them, exactly. I mean, the sales receipt says, ‘ten dollars and other goods and valuable consideration’, and I got that ten dollars and Scott’s extra box trailer. Got it stashed over at the storage place. Loaded down with more boxes.”
“You know they hate it when you store guns and ammo in those units,” I pointed out, and Marta chuckled this time.
“That’s why they’re all in boxes labeled bathroom tissue and kitchenware,” Marta explained, “but the bathroom tissue is exactly as advertised.”
“Hey, we can’t run out!” Mike exclaimed. “That would be a real apocalypse if I don’t have the trusty, soft Charmin.”
“It was Costco brand, you nut,” Marta replied drily.
“Well, it works just the same and the price was right, kind of like that Romanian ammunition,” Mike explained, adding the last part in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Do we want to go see the real estate agent first, or pick up this trailer you’ve got stashed?” I asked, looking between the two.
“Agent,” Marta said.
“Trailer,” Mike said.
“Glad we’re on the same page,” I quipped, then waited as the two worked it out. I was Switzerland, and I proclaimed my neutrality loudly as I went about using the only small appliance, the coffee maker, left in the kitchen.
“Let’s call and then if he’s available, go see this Brad Armstrong first,” Mike finally announced. “See what he’s willing to pay for the house, and…”
“No, you were right,” Marta interrupted, checking her cell phone before continuing. “This is too late
in the day to make a run to Dallas, so let’s go with your plan and get that trailer. If you’re careful, you can back it in the garage and leave it there overnight.”
“We can call Armstrong and make an appointment for tomorrow,” Mike added, and then looked at me. I held up my hands as a reminder.
“Switzerland, remember? I’ll do whatever. If you want some help, I’ll go with you to get the trailer. Marta, you want to come or stay?”
Marta seemed to consider the question for a moment before answering.
“I’ll go next door and check in with Allison,” she said, indicating Scott’s wife with a wave next door. “Looks like they tried to do something with the dog park, but the rain ruined it.”
The lot on the other side of their house on the cul-de-sac remained empty, one of the few vacant spots on this end of the subdivision. The other four houses on the semi-circle had dogs, and the owners using the vacant lot as a pet park came about as a bit of natural progression. Mike never had cause to complain, as the neighbors politely used the cement sidewalk to access the grassy area adjacent to his house and besides, the natural fertilizer made the grass in the park look nice in the summertime. He just kept his children from playing in the lot, which was easy enough in his oversized, fenced backyard.
“Probably tried to plant a garden there,” Mike commented drily. “Just be sure and bring your pistol, honey.”
“No problem, dear. Just try to be home by dark.”
We took off not long after Marta left, setting the alarm and checking in with the neighborhood watch as we left the subdivision. While Mike drove, I found myself once again scanning the area, watchful as we exited the residential neighborhoods and proceeded on to a commercial area about a mile away. Everywhere I looked, I saw signs of flooding in the low-lying areas and boarded-up businesses scattered through the various strip malls along the way. No obvious looters out and about, and thankfully, no riots under way. What I did see were lots of people going about their business on foot. I guess the break in the weather had all the disgruntled citizens out trying to enjoy the promise of sunshine that never seemed to appear. More vehicles than usual, and I had to wonder if their fuel distribution network was still up and running. From the gas stations we passed, open but with armed guards present, I had to conclude the area was receiving regular gas trucks even at the higher rates.
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 2 | Storm Warning Page 19