Siege of New Hampshire (Book 1): Plan B [Revised]

by Mic Roland

  Martin sat back down on the wall. “I don’t understand. Now you don’t want to find a hotel?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not? I’m all conflicted. What if I finally do find a hotel with a room left? That makes tonight more comfortable than sleeping in the woods. But what about after that? Even if the money thing wasn’t a problem, this outage sounds like it will last a lot longer than just a couple nights or even a week. Will any hotel be such a great place to be in a week? Two weeks?”

  Martin scratched the top of his head under his cap. “Hmmm. probably not.” Now that she mentioned it, he too had been so focused getting her to a hotel that he had not thought much about the longer-term fate of hotels themselves.

  “Oh sure,” Susan continued, as if trying to convince herself. “Hotels have beds and doors, but they aren’t food warehouses. What will people in hotels eat? What would I eat? Vending machine snacks? Those are probably gone already.” Susan pointed back to the Stop n’ Shop. “They won’t be getting food from places like that, either, from what you were saying. In a week, they’ll be picked over worse than that Andrew’s Market was.”

  “Probably.”

  “And that’s why I’m rethinking the whole hotel thing,” she said. “Will people be fighting over the last of the food? What if my hotel turns out like La Quinta? I’m no fighter. I won’t last long in that.”

  Martin leaned back on his hands. “Well, Geez. You don’t have anyone in the area to stay with and you don’t want to go to a shelter. Now you don’t want a hotel?”

  “Exactly. So I’m thinking that maybe I don’t have the luxury of rejecting the shelter option as quickly as I did. Remember that second guy on the radio back there? He said shelters would have food and showers and stuff, right?” She could see Martin wincing.

  “I know you don’t like shelters,” she leaned forward, chin in her hands. “I don’t either, but what choice do I have? I guess I’d rather have people staring at me than fighting me for a jar of olives. I suppose I should find a policeman or something, and ask where the nearest shelter is.”

  A thought flashed through Martin’s mind — Lindsey’s room is empty.

  He sat up, startled by the thought. He glanced at Susan, as if expecting that she heard his thoughts. Apparently she had not. She was still staring across the street. He shook his head to expel the idea.

  It was a terrible idea. Martin was shocked that it had occurred to him at all. He recalled the long stony silences last summer when Dustin and his new wife Judy stayed with them after graduation. One woman should never rearrange the cupboards of another. That ought to be a rule. Then there was the summer before that and Margaret’s barely concealed irritation with that young missionary woman who stayed with them: Kathy-something. One woman should never refold another woman’s linens. Who cares quarters or thirds? That should be a rule too.

  Two hens in a nest are nothing but trouble.

  Partially to veto his bad idea and partially to try and comfort Susan, he tried to talk up the idea of staying in a shelter. “You know, maybe I was being too hard on FEMA shelters too. The government has to have learned a few things since Katrina, right? They probably have lots of supplies and fuel stockpiled like that guy said. Maybe they’ll have armed guards to prevent fighting. Might not be so bad.” Martin did not think he sounded as sincere as he hoped.

  Susan turned to look him square in the eye. “Do you really believe that?”

  Again, it was a prime opportunity to lie. He tried to suppress a hard swallow. He did not think the shelters would be good at all. Armed guards are a two-edged sword, but who was he to criticize? If she was warming up to the idea, who was he to be Mr. Negative? After all, FEMA probably did have stockpiles of food. Maybe they had those lame MREs, but it would be better than discarded cheese and stale crackers.

  MREs. Margaret despised processed, pre-cooked food. She had always been a little fanatical about cooking. She always kept a couple months of ingredients on hand so she would never come up short on some recipe. Cooking from scratch was “real” cooking and she took pride in it. She sneered at frozen dinners, MREs or any other “factory food” as she called it. ‘Fake food is for losers,’ she sometimes said.

  Of course, Martin thought, a third person in the house would use up their supply of food faster. He could help stretch supplies if he scaled back on his portions. It would do him some good to cut back on his portions anyhow. Three people would not require any more firewood than two did. An oil lamp can light a room for three as well as two. Water would be different, though. Three people would require more frequent trips to the well, but with three people, the water-hauling chores could be spread out, so that was actually a net gain.

  What am I doing? I’m figuring out ways to fit her in. Am I nuts? Margaret would be furious!

  Martin shuddered at the prospect of long, stony silences when everything was ‘fine,’ but most assuredly not fine.

  He suddenly realized Susan still stared at him with a piercing gaze, waiting for an answer. What did she ask? Something about the FEMA camps?

  She could tell she had to repeat her question. “Do you honestly believe the shelters will be okay?”

  Why did her eyes have to be so big? He had to look away from her. “No, I don’t really believe that.”

  She sat back with a heavy sigh. “I didn’t think so. I had my mind half made up to go if you thought it was a good move. But now I’m right back where I was — no place worth going to. Maybe I’ll just have to take my chances at a hotel after all. Maybe it will be okay. I just don’t know.”

  As a Good Samaritan, Martin felt duty bound to complete the mission he had volunteered for. He could not simply abandon her to the streets or some gulag of a FEMA camp. The hotels probably would devolve into La Quintas eventually. An angry Margaret would be bad, but leaving Susan, or anyone, to face the food brawls would be far worse. To abandon her to such a fate felt cowardly. He could feel John Wayne glaring at him already. Better to endure the silence of ‘fine’ than take the coward’s way out.

  He resolved that he would invite her to stay at his house. He pulled in a breath to speak, but stopped.

  He was about to invite a woman who hardly knew him to come stay with him. How does one ask such a thing? No matter how he chose his words, it sounded incredibly creepy.

  Was he any different than that sweaty opportunist at Holiday Inn? This thought pushed him into a deep hole of introspection. What if he actually was a closet creep who had, up until this point, simply lacked opportunity? Do creeps realize that they are creeps?

  No, he decided. His intent was only to offer shelter — nothing more. He cleared his throat.

  “Look, I feel really awkward saying this, so please don’t misunderstand, but we have room at our house, since the kids are gone, and well…”

  “What?”

  Martin rushed in the fine print disclaimers. “Don’t feel like you have to…I mean, it’s totally up to you. And only until things settle down here and you can come back. It’s not like I…or that I think you…”

  “You’re blushing.”

  Martin rubbed his face with both hands. “Aw man. No matter how I try to say it, I sound like that guy at Holiday Inn…”

  “What guy at Holiday Inn?” Susan interrupted. “The one you pushed?”

  “Yes. Him.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What about him?”

  Martin did not want to talk about the seedy side of events she had avoided. She had enough on her plate without adding worry about sleazy creeps trying to jump her bones. Yet, no matter how he tried to phrase things in his mind, it always came down to some guy trying to jump her bones. He had already talked himself into a corner, so he continued, hoping gentler words would come to mind.

  “There was this sweaty guy in the lobby. He heard me telling the clerk that you had no place else to stay. You were sort of in shock or something over your house burning down and all. So this sweaty guy figured to…he was offering for you to stay in his
room…um…with him.”

  “What?” Susan sat up tall and peered as if she could see the Holiday Inn from where she sat. “He did? I don’t remember any of that.”

  “I didn’t think so. You were pretty shook up, thoughts all jumbled.” Martin’s jaw muscles tightened and his eyes narrowed. “He could see that, and was hoping to smooth talk his way into… Ooo, that really burned me up.”

  “Why? What did he say?”

  “It doesn’t matter. A guy can tell when… He walked fast and got up to you first and…”

  “Then you pushed him? And rushed me out the door? That much, I remember.”

  Martin’s hands formed fists. “Oh, I wanted to do a whole lot more than push him, I can tell you.”

  “It all happened so fast. I had no idea all that went on.”

  They sat in silence for what seemed a long time. Martin wondered why he had such a knack for painting himself into corners. Why was he so tongue-tied? He had spoken before scowling boards of directors and kept his cool. He had given conference lectures before dozens of people and never broken a sweat. Why was he all of a sudden so flustered? Susan looked off into the distance.

  “That’s like something from a movie,” she said, mostly to herself. “Where the hero rushes in and rescues the girl from…”

  “Rescued?” Martin was shocked out of his dark thoughts. “Geez, I don’t know about ‘rescued’. I was just…I mean, he had no right to think that he…I’m sure you would have seen through his scheme before he… I couldn’t just leave you there.”

  “You’re blushing again.”

  Martin turned away and waved his arms in the air, attempting to erase the topic. “Never mind about all that. What I’m trying to say is. You’re welcome to stay at our house until this mess gets sorted out. A couple weeks. Whatever. That’s all. You can leave whenever you want to. I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of creep like him. I’m not trying to…I’m not…” Martin slumped, head in hands. He gave up talking. If there were gentler words for a ravaging, he could not think of them.

  “If it helps,” she said softly, “I don’t think that.”

  Martin blew out a long sigh. “Thanks. It helps…a little. But I still feel all kinds of awkward. I couldn’t think of any other good options for you either. I think shelters will be bad. Hotels might be bad too. Then I thought, hey, I have an empty room. But that’s as far as it goes, I swear. Nothing more.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I believe you only mean well. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have accepted.”

  “You what?” Martin thought she was in the preamble of politely declining. Part of him had hoped she would decline so he would not have to deal with an upset Margaret. Another part of him could not imagine why any woman in her right mind would agree to such an outlandish offer.

  “You’ll come to my house?” It still did not compute.

  “Yes.”

  “But, why?”

  “Why? We just got done agreeing that hotels and shelters were bad options. Are you changing your mind?” she asked.

  “No. You’re still welcome if you want to, but I expected you to say no. Why didn’t you say no? I mean, how can you be so sure I’m not actually a sleazy weirdo?”

  “You’re not a weirdo. A girl can tell. These past two days have been totally bizarre. People are getting rude and downright violent, but you’ve been…well, you haven’t been like everyone else. You’ve been the one stable thing I’ve seen in all this. I feel that I’m better off going with you than staying here.”

  “Yeah, but still…”

  “I’m sure you’ll be a proper gentleman.” She leveled a stern gaze at him that must come from maternal instinct. He felt like a kid picking up his date for the freshman dance.

  “Of course, but, gentlemanly behavior aside, walking to New Hampshire won’t be easy. It’s a long way to go and probably means sleeping in the woods again. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

  “YOU were planning to do it.” Her tone was both statement and challenge.

  “Yes I am, but you said it was crazy.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. Sorry. I think I understand better now. And, not to sound all ‘liberated’, (She made air quotes.) but if you figured you could walk it, I think I can too — even with a blister.”

  Martin chuckled. He had to admire her attitude. It took spunk to agree to venture off into the vast unknown with her few worldly possessions trailing behind her. There must have been a bit of pioneer blood in her.

  “Keep in mind that it’ll be kind of simple up there without power. At least you’ll have a room with a door. You’re welcome to stay until they get things back to normal down here.”

  Susan smiled a little smile and touched his arm. “Thanks Martin.”

  He could feel his face getting hot again, so stood up and put on his backpack. “Yeah, um. You’re welcome. We’d better get going. Need to get as far north as we can before dark.”

  * * *

  Chapter 7: Thugs and Doom People

  As they walked up Route 28, Martin tried not to be obvious about sneaking glimpses at Susan’s foot for signs of discomfort. During one of those glances, he noticed that she was looking at his face as much as he was looking at her foot.

  “I was just seeing if your foot was doing okay. Is it okay?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “You look like you want to say something,” he said.

  “I guess so.” Her eyes glanced around while she seemed to be gathering resolve. “I’ve just been wondering…”

  “Wonder out loud. We’ve got a long stretch of road ahead of us. We might as well make conversation. What have you been wondering?”

  “You didn’t look…grossed out. I mean, when you were holding my foot.”

  Martin laughed. “Well, It’s hard to put a bandage on your blister without touching your foot.”

  “Yeah, but still, weren’t you…”

  “You have plain ordinary feet, Susan. It was no big deal. How about we talk about something other than feet?”

  Susan nodded, though she did not look satisfied.

  Up the block, they passed a Walgreen’s pharmacy on the opposite side of the street. People milled around between the cars in the parking lot. A police car was parked very close to the front of the building, blue lights flashing. A somewhat portly older policeman stood in front of the door. A few dozen people stood in an orderly line, waiting their turn to be let in, one at a time.

  Susan gestured towards the policeman. “People picking up their heart pills requires a cop?”

  Martin shrugged. “Probably not. Could be they’re worried there will be rush of people ‘off their meds’ or desperate addicts. Some of them ran out of their stash yesterday and can’t get more by their usual sources.”

  In his mind, he was connecting dots. Pharmaceuticals come by truck. Even illegal drugs are driven in from somewhere. Local stashes would dry up quickly. Home-brewed meth would fare little better. Meth also required ingredients made elsewhere and trucked in. Would addicts attack pharmacies when their dealers’ stockpile ran out? Perhaps that explained the policeman.

  Would meth-makers start raiding people’s homes looking for drain cleaner and cold medicine? The average thief, looking to steal TVs or laptops, might flee at the sound of a warning shot, but would a desperate addict? Martin wondered what the local policeman-to-addict ratio might be. It was probably not good.

  A pair of thin and nervous-looking young men, and a heavy-set woman with purple hair caught Martin’s eye. They semi-crouched behind a car across the street from the pharmacy. Maybe it was nothing, or maybe it was trouble looking for opportunity.

  Martin gestured with a tip of his head, towards the trio. “That doesn’t look good. I don’t want to get caught in another O.K. Corral. Think you feel up to a bit faster pace?”

  Susan nodded. She walked a little faster, leaning more heavily on Martin’s walking stick as she limped. They heard shouting behind them, but no gunshots. Som
ething was going on in front of that Walgreens. Maybe it was simply people getting impatient and not an attack of some kind. Martin was glad to have put a little distance between them. After getting trapped in the shootout on 93, he was taking no chances.

  Once well past the pharmacy, Susan spoke up. “Can we slow down now? My foot feels a little hot again. Maybe we could take another break?”

  “Sure. Going faster probably didn’t help. Sorry. Maybe that was nothing back there, but I didn’t want to take the chance. Over there’s a good little wall.”

  It felt great to get off his feet. Martin’s shins were getting sore and his feet felt hot too. He took off his shoes to help cool them.

  “It might help if you took off your shoes too,” he said, cautiously.

  “No, no, I’m fine…”

  “Susan. You just said your foot felt hot. It’s okay. You don’t have weird feet.”

  She frowned.

  “Your foot will feel better if you let it cool off and dry out some. You don’t have to take your sock off or anything, if that helps.”

  She looked from her shoe to his face and back several times, as if trying to make up her mind.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “How about if I turn and face this other way? That way, I won’t see a thing.” He turned, somewhat theatrically, facing up the road. He thought her squeamishness about her feet was silly, but decided that she deserved some slack.

  Susan quietly took off her sneaker. “Ooo. That does feel better.”

  “So, do I get a turn at wondering?” Martin asked over his shoulder.

  “I suppose.”

  “I know I said I didn’t want to talk about feet anymore, but now I’ve gotten curious. If it’s not too personal or anything, could I ask why you don’t like your feet? I just don’t get that.”

  Susan let out a long slow sigh. “I’ve never liked my feet, even as a kid.”

  Martin shrugged. “Hmm. I’ll be the first to admit I was an air-head as a kid, but I don’t think I ever once thought about my feet, let alone liking them or not. I was too busy getting them dirty to care. Why did you care?”