“Has been on my mind,” Mike confirmed. “We probably need to get on reinforcing that roof on the Bonner farmhouse if we still plan on housing anybody there. That still the plan?”
“If Wade can get to it, then yes. I wouldn’t want anybody living there until he can get that out of the way, though. In fact, I want to see if he can replace the existing roof altogether with steel and increase the pitch while doing it,” I explained.
“You’re worried about snow loading?” Mike deduced.
“You got it,” I confirmed. “You lived up North more than me, so any other tricks to living though the snow?”
“Barracks living doesn’t really compare to single family dwellings, but I’ll think on it.” Mike waited until we were almost back to the house before he spoke again.
“You’ve been tracking the weather, Bryan. Think we’ll be getting any chance to get the corn in? I know Wade is concerned.”
I’d been thinking hard on that subject for the last few days, mentally cursing myself for not doing something so basic as checking the weather on TV. I was watching our own temperature and rainfall so closely, I’d overlooked the bigger picture.
“I hope so. If we can get that corn in, we can grind our own meal and stretch our food supplies considerably. With more mouths to feed, I’m sure Wade will be doing the same. I can guarantee we can’t go by the Farmer’s Almanac anymore.”
My rueful comment at the end at least got a grim chuckle from Mike as I coasted the ATV into the automotive barn and cut the engine.
Once we shed our outside gear in the mud room, Mike and I went inside to change into our sweatpants and sweaters. Beatrice was busy in the living room with her yarn basket close at hand, the needles clicking lightly as she industriously knitted on something that looked suspiciously like a sweater.
“What’s up, boys?”
“Creeks are rising again,” Mike declared. “We stopped to grab something to eat before getting back out there.”
“Coffee’s fresh,” Beatrice said, not looking up from her work. “The kids are all out on the back porch working on those starts for the greenhouse. Oh, and Bryan, your girlfriend called.”
“Whu…who?” I looked over, dumbfounded by the last bit.
“That Nancy called,” Beatrice explained. “She wanted to know if that offer was still open. You know, for the trailer.”
“Mom, don’t tease him like that,” Mike admonished lightly. Beatrice got along well with her son-in-law, but Mike knew I wasn’t in the mood for any joking along those lines. Even after nearly five years since losing Collette, dating again was still not on my radar. I noticed pretty women, of course, and Nancy certainly qualified, but I was not in the market, or on the market, for any type of a relationship. I didn’t know Nancy very well, but what I knew told me she was definitely not someone looking for a convenient hookup. No, she was relationship material. For someone.
“I’ll give her a call. We’ve got the trailer set up, now that the furnace has been installed,” I acknowledged. Then I waved at Beatrice, letting her know it was fine, and went to grab my cellphone from its charger in my bedroom.
Looking at the slick glass face of the phone, I thought about how much things had changed in just a short period of time. At one point in my life, the damned thing had been practically surgically attached, but these days, I just left the device inside and away from the seemingly ever-present rain.
Scrolling through my contacts, I found the number, but then hesitated when I looked at the time. She’d likely called when she was on her lunch break for the Co-Op, and it was now approaching two pm. Slipping the phone in my breast pocket, I headed for the door but stopped in the middle of the bedroom and glanced around.
The room was large, about the same size as my first apartment when I went away for college. Other than the queen-sized bed and the twin end tables, the only other piece of furniture in the room was an antique, stained wood dresser that’d once belonged to Collette’s great grandmother. I’d sold or given away most all of her old home furnishings, but I’d saved the oak dresser as a reminder of good times past. Looking around again, I nodded to myself and exited the room.
After dinner that night, we sat out on the porch and once against discussed matters regarding the farm. I left it to Mike to bring up the weather, still fuming over my failure to keep an eye on the national news in this matter. Marta seemed unsurprised, but Nikki looked a bit panicked by the idea of a hurricane.
“We could lose the house and everything!” she exclaimed, then looked around the yard, glancing at the barns. “Can we use the shelter? Will it be okay?”
“Relax, and take a breath,” I admonished Nikki, and then I had to fight a grin. My sister still vaguely recalled the terrible tornado that nearly wiped us out back when we were kids, and it was no reason to make light of her fears. Outside of concern for her family though, the only thing that ever got Nikki worked up was bad weather. Specifically, severe thunderstorms and tornados.
“The steel roof on this house is rated for over one-hundred-and-fifty miles-per-hour winds, Nikki,” I went on to explain. “The walls look like wood because of the wood siding, but under that, there’s a concrete block core. That’s the reason the windows all have that ledge, and the reason the doors, except the door off the kitchen, seem a bit recessed with the wide lintels. The mudroom isn’t protected that way, since it was added after the fact as an enclosed side porch. Factor in the window shutters and this house is well-protected from the elements.”
“The barns and other outbuildings aren’t the same,” Mike continued, picking up the ball and running with it. “But they’re all new construction and Bryan didn’t scrimp on the quality of the materials. And yes, the shelter would be fine through anything short of a nearby nuclear blast.”
“Speaking of which,” I said suddenly, then stopped, embarrassed by my verbal tick. I reddened, then looked at my family. “Ah, part of the reason I missed the news about the tropical storm brewing in the Gulf was because I was focused on what’s going on between Russia and China.”
“Uh, what?” Mike all but hissed. “What are you talking about?”
He was just the first to react, with a quick, “What the fuck?” thrown in by Nikki just half a second later. Finally, Marta spoke up. “I thought the Chinese weren’t a factor anymore, given how badly they were damaged by the meteorite?”
“That’s what I thought, and I’m sure Putin’s generals were telling him the same thing. I’ve been trying to keep up with the Russian movements into the former Soviet Republics, and let me tell you, that’s some scary shit. Anyway, just last night I heard on the BBC about how the Chinese People’s Liberation Army just repulsed an attempted Russian invasion of Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region,” I explained, knowing I was butchering the pronunciations.
That explanation got me crickets in response from around the others on the porch. I admit, I wasn’t sure exactly what the heck the announcers on the radio were talking about until I went and looked up a few things.
“This is Western China, folks. Mountains and deserts, mostly. Home to a mixed bag of different ethnic groups, including the predominantly Muslim Uyghurs.”
Mike snapped his fingers. “Oh, those guys. I heard there were some jihadis coming out of the region, but what the hell do the Russians want with that land, anyway? Like you said, it’s mountains and deserts.”
“And natural gas,” I supplied helpfully.
“But why…?” Marta started, but Nikki interrupted the question with her answer.
“To keep the Chinese weak, Marta,” my sister stated plainly. “There’s been a rivalry between Russia and China that goes way back before the Communist takeovers of both their countries. They’ve been uneasy neighbors for hundreds of years. Somebody in the Russian hierarchy saw an opportunity and went to bite off a chunk of China while the country is supposedly helpless.”
“You have any more details to share?” Mike asked in an aggravated tone. I’d had all day to s
hare the news with him while we were working, but I’d honestly just forgotten until we started talking this evening.
“Mike, I just forgot this morning, swear to God,” I explained. “The reporters at the Beeb were doing little better than getting the general facts out there, and even admitted some of what they were reporting was based on educated speculations. I listened until the report repeated itself twice, but I never got any more details.”
“I’m just impressed they have anything to report, or have a way to get the news out at all,” Marta said. “Compared to what we’re getting from our government here, the Brits seem to be willing to deal out the truth.”
“Don’t let the facts fool you,” Mike warned his wife. “The British actually have more constraints on what they can report than we have here, or at least, before the Patriot Act,” he tacked on with a grumble. “They have the Official Secrets Act, which allows the Queen’s government the right to censor the news, so I’ve read anyway.”
“So why are they allowing the news radio reports to carry such details?” I asked, more to prompt Mike to continue his train of thought than anything else.
“Because they believe that trying to hide certain truths will serve them poorly. The British are in a different position than we are here in the States. They haven’t lost like we have, so far. Being straight with the listening audience in the UK will help keep the citizenry in line, or so I’m guessing. Also, I’ve noticed they’ve reported just about zero regarding conditions here in the Unites States, so I presume our special relationship continues.”
“What about their heavy immigrant population?” Nikki asked, opening the question for both of us to ponder. I answered first, simply because I had something to say that didn’t require much thought.
“The British are remaining very tight-lipped about any disruptions at home, as well as omitting anything about the US,” I said, and again Mike dove into the conversation.
“That means they’re having their own troubles with protestors,” Mike chimed in with a grim smile. “Of course, even if they did report on the violence, they couldn’t say who was instigating it. Might be labeled as racists or something of the sort.”
“All right, for the time being, we’re going to stick close to the house,” Nikki declared, jumping to the point she was leading up to with her questions. “Between the weather concerns and worries about idiot people far away, I want to stay near the shelter. Will we get any warning if the conflict in Western China goes nuclear?”
I shrugged my shoulders, since I really had no idea. Looking over at Mike, I got the same response. No clue either.
“All right, let’s wrap this up, so Bryan can call Nancy,” Marta urged. Again she gave me an apologetic look when she added something else after a beat. “Sorry Mom said anything. I know you barely know the woman.”
“No problem, and I’ll let you guys know what I find out. Any more thoughts about inviting Sally Dwyer and her son Billy out to stay with us if we get the Bonner house completed?”
“Let’s not say anything until the work is done on the house,” Nikki suggested. “No reason to do anything until that happens. And given what you’ve just said about the chances of a nuclear war breaking out, I’m not comfortable inviting guests out that we can’t accommodate in the shelter. Not my place to say, though.”
“How massively passive-aggressive, my dear sister,” I shot back, then I relaxed back in my chair. “But you have a point. The Bonners didn’t even have a root cellar, much less a basement. However, the shelter is rated for twenty-five people for up to a year. As you all know, we’d be sleeping in shifts with that many. I’m open to suggestions here, people. At the same time we’re worried about overfilling the ark here, and then Mike tells me we still don’t have enough people to man even the most basic security arrangements.”
“Affirmative,” Mike chimed in with his best growl. He’d been in favor of going to recruit Billy Dwyer and his mother Sally immediately. Billy might not be up for standing watch, but Mike felt like the mentally-challenged young man could take over almost all the farm chores and free up people to man the security positions. As for Billy’s mom Sally, I only knew her a little bit, but my impression was of a solid, hard-working person who could easily stand watch in what we were calling the monitor room. I knew from casual conversation when preparing the trust documents for Billy’s care that she had also served in the Air Force as a young woman. She wasn’t G.I. Jane, but Sally knew at least the basics of firearms and personal defense.
“We need the people, Nikki, and I know you and my wife and Miss Bea have been working yourselves into the ground getting this greenhouse planted. We haven’t even started building the second one, or finished the harvest, and you ladies already look a bit frayed around the edges.”
“Who are you calling frayed, you big pile of…”
“Nikki, stop!” I said forcefully, and I think my raised voice shocked my sister. My recent histrionics with Mike aside, I wasn’t one given to shouting or carrying on, so Nikki paused to reassess. She might have been teasing, or she might have been serious, but I wasn’t in the mood, and neither was Mike.
“Listen, I’ve been working outside quite a bit these last four years, and still my arms and back hurt so much I can barely go to sleep at night. Look at Mike,” I ordered, not taking my eyes off my sister as I spoke. “Yes, Mike’s losing weight, good for him, but he’s pushing too hard doing it. I try to get him to slow down, to take a break, but he won’t. He’s worried about us, about our survival, and he’s burning himself out doing it. Getting more help isn’t optional. If we’re going to make it, we need more hands. Hands we can trust, and ones that will stick with us when times get hard.”
Nikki looked down, and I could see tears in her eyes. For others, they might misinterpret, but I know my sister. Those were tears of frustration, nothing else.
“Nikki, I know this is hard, trying to get by without Patrick here. I also know you’re tough enough to survive without a man, but we want Patrick here for your sake, and for ours.”
What Nikki said next caught me off-guard. She brought up something that I hadn’t even been considering, or frankly, worrying about up until now.
“What if things don’t change, like you’re worried about? What if this is as bad as it gets? What about Mike and Marta’s place, and mine? We still owe money, Bryan, and I’m pretty sure my old job is never coming back. Sometimes I worry about that, and other times, well, now you’ve got me worrying about a possible nuclear war. I just don’t know what to think.”
I leaned forward, cradling my head in my hands for a second before looking up to address Nikki’s latest concerns.
“Forget your house. Forget the mortgage, or the insurance, or the car note. Go in the other room and look at your two children. Alive, Nikki. They’re alive, and you and Patrick are alive. Fuck, girl, everything else is just gravy. And if you’re curious, I pray every night that I’m wrong about what’s coming. Because as bad as I’ve painted it, well, you might reach a point you wish they’d have just launched the nukes.”
With that happy thought in the air, I excused myself and went inside. I had a phone call to make. Or as it turned out, a series of calls to make.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Nancy was right to be worried. Her apartment was not in bad shape, and was in fact, plenty spacious for just her and her daughter. The neighborhood wasn’t the best, but there really wasn’t a bad part of town within the city limits. The small-town slums were found in the lower-end trailer parks these days where unskilled, working-class men and women tried stretching their paycheck to the next payday while having to live cheek to jowl with petty criminals lurking to prey on them.
No, Nancy’s problem in her apartment became readily apparent as soon as I met her apartment manager, Susan Slocumb. Nancy’s problem was Marky Slocumb, and he was hanging out in the office. More accurately, he was sprawled out on a tacky, Naugahyde sofa in the office. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
After borrowing Mike’s truck for the hauling capacity, I had to insist that Mike, himself, stay behind. I appreciated the backup as well as the willing hands, but Nancy explained they were traveling relatively light and the apartment had come furnished. In truth, I just hated leaving the homeplace without one of us there in case of a varmint problem. Ever since my brush with the law, all of the adults except for Beatrice made it a habit to open-carry our sidearms. I’d opted for concealed today, but I felt the comforting weight of the Ruger LCP in the small of my back.
I drove around to the second of the boxy-shaped apartment buildings and located the appropriate number affixed to an exterior wall about head high. The two-story stucco structures looked well-maintained from the outside, and I knew the owner had only recently paid to have the exteriors refurbished. After getting off the phone with Nancy yesterday, I’d done my due diligence before coming over this morning.
Nancy opted for a second-floor apartment, choosing security over ease-of-access, she claimed, and when I knocked lightly on the door there she was, popping open the door like a jack-in-the-box. She was dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, looking fresh and a bit rosy-cheeked. I guess the prospect of moving out, and away from her harassers, had her excited.
“You came! And you’re on time!”
I had to chuckle at her enthusiasm. Lisa, standing behind her mother and dressed in similar attire, huffed a little sigh.
“Mom! You are sooooo embarrassing,” Lisa complained, but I could tell she didn’t really mean it. The little time I’d spent around the mother and daughter had revealed a deep bond of affection between the two. Lisa reminded me of Nikki’s oldest, Rachel, in her interactions with her mother.
“One Man and a Truck Moving,” I replied, earning another smile from Nancy. “You ladies ready to go?”
“Mr. Hardin, thank you for doing this. For giving us a safe place to stay, and for helping us move,” Nancy said more softly, and she looked away to break eye contact.
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 1 | Rockfall Page 26