Looking Back Through Ash

by Wade Ebeling

  LOOKING BACK THROUGH ASH

  Wade Ebeling

  Copyright © 2015 Wade Ebeling

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, companies, events, or locales is purely and entirely coincidental.

  First Kindle Edition, June 2015

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  INTRODUCTION

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  PART II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  PART III

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Dedicated to Paige and Allison,

  who have made my life complete.

  Special Thanks:

  Mike Spavale, for your unwavering support. It will not soon be forgotten, my friend.

  And Mike Pompo, for all the motivation you have supplied, in all its various forms.

  Finally, to my loving wife, Kim, words could never express how much I love and appreciate you.

  INTRODUCTION

  In 2026 the Pacific Ring of Fire shook the world causing untold damage regionally. While the volcanic activity was localized near the Palliser Island chain in French Polynesia, the effects are soon felt globally. Millions of metric tons of ash and debris spewed forth daily, reaching up to the highest levels of the atmosphere, where it then spread across the face of the planet like a funeral shroud.

  As three new volcanoes formed, the world was held powerless as the sun slowly became blocked from view. Satellites and air travel were soon rendered all but useless and the world seemed a big place once again. Scientists across the globe scrambled to find new ways of producing enough food, having estimated that it would take more than a decade for the ash to settle enough to allow open-air agriculture again. The starvations began far sooner than expected.

  In 2029, over the span of forty-one hours, an already weakened America saw three of its nuclear generating stations destroyed. The terrorists only attacked plants situated on or near major bodies of water, multiplying the amount of damage done and land lost to radiation. Showing a range of coordination thought impossible to them, over forty well-armed combatants from a host of different Middle-Eastern nations participated directly in the assaults; hundreds more indirectly.

  Using nothing more than conventional weaponry and some improvised explosives, assault groups of jihadists managed to achieve total melt-down at all but one of the plants. In the case of the Enrico Fermi Nuclear Generating Station which operated just south of Detroit, Michigan, it took nearly two days before the main reactor building exploded, dumping radioactive graphite and fuel rods out into the open air and water.

  Huge areas of the country were evacuated simultaneously. “In an orderly fashion” went out the window within two hours of the roads becoming impassible. Chaos and panic reigned those first weeks, and even cities unaffected by the disaster saw heavy levels of unrest. Hundreds of thousands found themselves trapped, the path forward blocked, the path behind no longer an option. The government briefly faltered, as the scope of the problem seemed almost too big to comprehend. For all those people left behind to starve, cowering in the oppressive darkness, survival meant having to lose their faith and dignity, causing the horror of the situation to escalate.

  All that could be mustered during these riotous times were a few overwhelmed, self-serving communities that resorted to regional currencies to keep a stranglehold over what resources still remained. In most cases, these towns and cities were just lucky enough to be both outside a disaster area and nearby a Military or National Guard base. This is where the lines started to be drawn. On one side people standing up and pushing back against the violence that threatened to consume everything, on the other throngs of refugees fighting over scraps.

  Note from the author

  Please be aware that this is my first novel and it has not been professionally edited. I intend to continue revising periodically to improve the experience. You, as the reader, can be of great help to me in reaching this goal. Please feel free to post any comments or concerns on the book’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/lookingbackthroughash. Thanks in advance, Wade Ebeling.

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Sunday, August 21 - 2039

  “Moron,” he thought.

  His name was Daniel Moore, and after telling several lies he had finally reached a deal with the vendor. To anyone in the bazaar happening to pass them by, the two men would have appeared like they were engaged in a heated argument. This was considered completely normal behavior, however, and those people would have continued to walk on by. Some nearly-forgotten piece of Daniel reminded him that he loathed the use of intimidation as a bartering tactic, but in all of his twenty three years showing kindness had proven to be a surefire way of getting exactly nowhere. Despite this pained feeling, a wry smile adorned his thin, angular face. Above all else, Daniel had still gotten the better of the novice merchant.

  In stark contrast to Daniel, the short, bearded man standing on the other side of the stall sported a very grim look. His eyes were squinted and his lips were puckered, as if he had just sipped some rancid lemon juice. The scowl seemed out of place on the weird man and, most certainly, did not agree with the comical aesthetics of his strange ensemble. Lengthy vivid-pink cloth wrappings were twisted around his lower legs, turning the wraps into a kind of calf-high sandal, and draped over his back was what looked to be a child’s raincoat. The way the cord held it tied around his neck made the slicker resemble a transparent cape that was dotted with cheery, top-hat wearing ducklings. Cut-off tweed dress pants strained to hold back his bulbous, bare belly. This man was obviously not well-fed; the rest of his body looked quite thin and fragile. The swollen joints and stomach were classic signs of starvation.

  Not wanting to give the dull-witted trader a moment to have a change of heart, Daniel hurriedly transferred items from the table into one of the two burlap bags that he had brought along. After he had finished, the stall was left looking quite sparse. He had swapped three useless textbooks for a cotton mop head, four mousetraps, a bight of hemp twine and six deformed tallow candles. It was a trade that only someone with an innate guile had a chance of pulling off.

  In an act of pure malice Daniel had revealed to the vendor that he did not like dealing with the city of New Warren directly; even going on a rant about the Municipal Gas Stipends as proof of his convictions. To finish baiting the hook, he mentioned the books in his bag. Books that this vendor, if he bought them, would then have the prospect of selling to the only school in the area for a huge profit. This of course was nothing but a well-sold lie, told as if he should be obliged to
Daniel in the end.

  What the odd man did not know was most of the curriculum the city-funded school now taught with had been supplied to them years ago from a collection of books found in the front room of Daniel’s salvage-stuffed home. This was just the first of many profitable trades that he had brokered with the city over the past seven years. Ever so slowly the essentials that Daniel and his father before him had managed to collect together were being converted, helping to fill the void left behind by the more perishable of items.

  Not for one second did Daniel feel sorry for this man. Those kinds of feelings, if they ever had existed in him, no longer came to the surface. In fact he was wondering if he should have kept pressing the nearly-toothless fool, certain that if he had even more could have been gained in the trade. It was mainly the thick, earwax-yellow candle made from some indeterminate type of corpse fat which Daniel still wanted. Unfortunately, that would have to wait; itt was always best to get away quickly after a deal had been made, well before a dispute could get started.

  Snappishly turning away from the latest victim of his haggling skills, Daniel continued threading down one of the long rows inside the sizeable bazaar. Dressed in his usual attire, khaki cargo pants, dark t-shirt, and hiking boots, held together by thread, glue, and good intentions, Daniel Moore stood out from the crowd at large. His clean clothes and blue-tinted sunglasses perched atop a faded ball cap gave off the aura of wealth, but it was the fact that he stood over six feet tall and was in obvious good health that really set him apart. Hard years of malnutrition stunted growth and hindered muscular development. Daniel showed no sign of these maladies which were all too common within the quarantine zone.

  Having quickly traded away the books, Daniel shuffled his tall frame through the bustling market section of the Warehouse. Deftly ducking in and around other people as he headed for the far southeastern corner of the massive building. The conflicting sounds and smells found within the bazaar surrounded him in the most confusing of ways, both comforting and restrictive at the same time. What appeared on the surface to be utter chaos was in fact a carefully-choreographed play; filled fresh daily with equal parts of drama, comedy, and the ever-present tragedy.

  Scavengers, who had finally managed to scrape together the initial balloon payment for renting a stall within the structured bazaar, were placed in the swap sections of the market along the eastern corners of the mammoth, powder-white structure. These areas contained a true potluck of goods and they also spilled over the natural confines of the Warehouse through numerous shutters. These openings were noting but dozens of 8-foot square cuts made into the heavy steel cladding of the building, all evenly spaced around the bottom of the thirty-five foot tall, I-beam framed structure. The impromptu portals had hinges attached across their tops and were kept propped open by large posts. Only closed during the foulest of weather, the shutters had only been allowed in the eastern half of the Warehouse, adding to the open-air atmosphere of the bazaar.

  The main public entrance, centered on the eastern wall, led into the middle row that held all of the long-established traders, including the first of the tailors, cobblers, barbers, and beekeepers, giving them an advantage on sales. All the food products were compartmentalized on the southern side, as to be closer to the tavern, smoke house, and wood-fired ovens, all of which were housed inside lean-tos just outside. Further out, to help keep down the noise and stench, were the dog kennels, chicken coops, and rabbit hutches.

  The tavern was a long, narrow addition that used the Warehouse as its main support. Its roof was a series of intermixed tin and green plastic corrugated sheets that shed away most of the rainwater. It also had colorful spray paint on the front that scrolled out ‘The Alibi’ in a hard to read graffiti text. The bar top itself was nothing more than a few hollow-core doors turned on their sides and butted together. The inside of The Alibi smelled a combination of smoke, stale body odor, and vomit. This unpleasant smell did not stop it from being the city of New Warren’s most well-liked attraction, and it was nearly always full; no matter the hour. Selling packaged liquors and crazy weed out of a walk-up window on the side, all from the city-owned still and greenhouse, only added to its popularity and profitability.

  The blacksmiths, leatherworkers, and gunsmiths were placed on the north side of the bazaar, offering them quick access to the shipping containers and forges found a dozen paces from the exterior wall. The public garage could also be found on this side of the Warehouse, housed inside a large steel canopy that was tightly wrapped in colored tarpaulins of blue and green. Every available car, truck, repair garage, and retail store within the City Council’s reach had been pilfered to build up its inventory, thus ensuring that nearly any conceivable replacement part could be found and installed here. This was usually done for a nominal fee; it was in the city’s best interest to keep as many vehicles in working order as possible, as they could sell more gasoline that way. Of course, this courtesy was only extended to the tax-paying residents of New Warren.

  Daniel played his parts of avid trader and self-imposed outsider quite well. Whenever something broke at home or was close to running out, it always meant a visit to the very heart of the city, and this was the Warehouse. Anything that you could ever imagine needing could be found here. While food, bullets, fuel, women, and dried young tobacco leaves might be at the top of the list for most, by no means were these things exclusive.

  Two unarmed initiates of the New Warren Police Department began pushing their way forward. The people crowding around in the space near Daniel were quick to get out of the way of a developing shoving match up ahead. Both of the combatants wore the different colors of the gangs. One of the men wore burgundy and the other a washed-out shade of purple. Daniel had no idea what these colors denoted other than it obviously made the men sworn enemies. Every new migrant camp that popped up in the area gave the gangs ever more reason to continue the fight. The remaining scraps of the past society were now paid for by tooth and nail.

  Daniel gave a nervous laugh as he passed by the brief struggle, mistakenly catching the eye of one of the purple gang member’s supporters. Streaks of blood were left on the floor as the men were dragged away. Both having received a swift beating from the swarming police. What they had managed to impart on one another was nothing compared to how they looked now.

  Daniel watched the rough treatment without giving it much thought. Violent fights, sneaky stabbings, and even the odd, indiscriminate shooting were all still fairly commonplace around the public side of the Warehouse, despite the ever-tightening security. With the guards intervening in this case, Daniel had enough good sense to stop watching. Although it did make him casually settle his hand on the butt of the pistol on his right hip, which was secured inside a nylon holster by a safety strap with a quick-release snap. The ruckus also caused him to eye the crowd a bit more carefully; these fights could always be set up well before hand, a distraction for something much bigger.

  Perusing the wares and prices along a row of baker baskets gave Daniel the time needed to calculate which items on the grocery list he could actually manage to buy. While everything was for sale, if you could pay the asking price, he only possessed seventeen stipends. Beyond the salvage left inside his home, this was everything that he had left to his name.

  The creased paper of Daniel’s municipal stipends were tucked safely away from the pickpockets, hidden inside a rabbit pelt pouch that hung on the end of a string, half-way down the inside of his pant leg. Avoiding human contact was all but impossible after entering into certain sections of the bazaar. Losing money to a crafty pickpocket, who used this fact to his or her advantage, was a lesson that Daniel only needed to experience once before it became ingrained.

  Seventeen stipends, it seemed, did not buy what it used to. Daniel tried his best to stretch them out as far as they would go. Only managing to buy two heavy loaves of bread, a dozen eggs, a small paper bag of potato chips, the haunch of a medium-sized dog, and three hot-house tomatoes.
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  With both of his bags now as full as they were ever going to get, Daniel donned a posture meant for intimidation. He strode across the dirt-defined aisles with a lunging gait. Keeping his shoulders arched back he tried to look as tall as possible, while his muscled arms crept away from his body and his chest puffed out slightly. It was now time for the most dangerous part of any trip made to the Warehouse, and it involved keeping everything that he had stuffed inside the two burlap sacks.

  Weaving his way closer to the exit, Daniel noticed that the guards had not resumed their posts after dealing with the earlier tussle. This made his shoulders reflexively droop slightly back down again, coiling his body for action by lowering his center of gravity. He stopped briefly at the large rolling door that served as the entrance into the Warehouse. Even the seldom felt warmth of the sun with its reaching-for-sunglasses brightness splashing on the stained concrete before him could not manage to raise his spirits. After the blue framed mirrors were in place over his eyes, Daniel still had to tilt his head downward to bring the brim of his hat into use. Once this shielding was in place, he could clearly see what was outside. Some fifty yards away, stretching out before him like a bad dream that refused to end, stood the swarm of ‘drifters’, at least this is what everyone with residency called them.

  Driven by the prospect of landing a steady job, anyone hearing the rumors about the work camp further to the south came running in droves. The city was well known as the main staging area for all of the trucks, workers, and equipment that made its way down to contain the ecological disaster caused by the attack on the Fermi II nuclear power plant some ten years before. Despite their individual plights, the Council refused to take the drifters in, starving masses were nothing new after all, and a “pay to play” policy had been adopted long ago to deal with this problem. If you brought trade goods or a skill that was in demand you could pay your way in, maybe even get transported down to the work camp. If you showed up empty handed and unprepared, you just joined the rest of the group standing outside the Warehouse fence until you scrounged up something, or until you starved to death.