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

by Mic Roland

  “My dad was all worried because I was moving into the city,” Susan said. “I remember reassuring him that there were only a few rough neighborhoods and I’d stay well clear of them.”

  Martin nodded in agreement. “Yeah, by and large, sleepy old Boston’s a pretty quiet place. I really didn’t picture people getting that bad, and certainly not that fast. That nagging voice inside me must have, though. That’s why I was so pig-headed about not waiting around in the city. I sure didn’t want to be stuck down there if riots did break out like we heard on Isabel’s radio.”

  “That kind of trouble always seemed to happen someplace else,” she said to herself. “Do you think things will get bad up here?”

  “I don’t think we’ll see any riots around here.” He could not picture a riot in Cheshire. The little rural towns still had some of the old self-reliant Yankee farmer ethos, despite the decades of dilution by soft ‘city people’ who had made the farm villages bedroom communities of Boston or Manchester. The worst Martin could picture things getting in Cheshire was some loud whining by the unemployed city people having to endure evenings without cable TV. Riots in Cheshire? Martin shook his head.

  “There might be riots in Manchester and Portsmouth,” he said. They have their share of ‘entitled’ residents”. I suppose no place is ever totally safe from trouble, but Cheshire is out of peoples’ way. I remember reading newspaper articles where people bemoaned the lack of tourism business because Cheshire wasn’t on any main highways. Times like this, I think that ‘curse’ will be a blessing.”

  “I sure hope you’re right. Being out-of-the-way sounds great,” she said. “I’ve had more than my fill of being in the middle of the action.”

  “Me too.” He patted the duct tape across the front of his jacket.

  “What? The road goes uphill again?” Susan said. “I thought we were over the top of the hill back there.”

  “Yeah, this little dip is deceptive,” Martin said. “Let’s take a little rest before we start up.” He pointed to a scruffy patch of yard beside a detached garage. Susan laid on her back and blew out a long breath.

  “I’ve never felt so tired in my life,” she said. “My legs ache, my feet hurt. Even my arms ache. Why would my arms ache? All we’re doing is walking. I know we haven’t been eating or sleeping properly, but still.”

  “I feel extra beat too,” said Martin. She had a point. Granted, he was not in the best of condition, but he felt more exhausted than a several mile walk should have made him. Then a cold shiver ran down his back. Carbon monoxide.

  “Listen, maybe we got a dose of carbon monoxide back there.”

  Susan sat up. “Really? I tried to hold my breath, but I know it didn’t always work. I didn’t think a couple of breaths would matter.”

  “Me either, but now I’m thinking maybe it did.”

  So, what do we do? We can’t just lay here beside this garage.”

  “No. I don’t think we’re that bad. We’re out in the fresh air. I think if we just take it easy, take more breaks the rest of the way, we’ll be okay. Probably really tired, but okay.”

  * * *

  Chapter 14: Walnut Hill and homecoming

  “I don’t feel any perkier for having rested,” Martin said as he slowly stood up. “But, we’d better get going. Only a few more miles to go.”

  “I suppose. But now we have to go up another hill?”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid the ‘best’ is yet to come. Up ahead is the steep part to the top of Walnut Hill. My old two-wheel-drive truck couldn’t get up this stretch in the snow.”

  “I don’t find that very encouraging.”

  “Sorry.” He tried to have a perky tone. “There’s no snow now, so we’ll make up it just fine. How’s that?”

  Susan glared at him and shook her head.

  His attempt at humor failed, yet again. “No. That didn’t work on me either.” He passed her the water bottle. ”We’d better save a little for when we get to the top.”

  As they neared the crest of the hill, Martin’s legs ached; his shins in particular. Susan was taking slower, smaller steps. He noticed that he was taking smaller steps too.

  “I can see why…my old truck…didn’t like this hill,” he said between deep breaths. “But we’re doing better…than my truck did. I never got it…any higher than…that driveway back there.”

  “How much farther to your house now?” she asked.

  “Three miles? Maybe four.”

  “That doesn’t sound as close as I had hoped it would,” she said wearily.

  “Know how you feel. This here’s the top — for real this time. We need to take another break and catch our breath. There’s a good spot. Bet you’re thirsty too,” he said.

  They sat on a low stone wall that bordered the yard of an old house with several ad hoc additions. While they finished off their water, they heard a woman singing softly. Around the corner of the garage came the singer with a plastic bucket. She was strewing food scraps onto the yard. Greedy chickens were racing to get the best bits first, then running away, lest another chicken steal their prize.

  “Oh, hello,” the woman said. “I didn’t notice you there before.”

  “Sorry. We’re just taking a bit of a break from walking up the hill.” Martin wanted to reassure the woman that they were not trespassers. “Don’t worry. We’ll be moving on real soon.”

  Looking past the woman, Martin noticed a tall radio antenna in the back yard.

  “Excuse me, but I just noticed that you have an antenna back there. Do you have a radio set, a transmitter?”

  “My husband does. Why?”

  Martin explained about the old couple down the road and the carbon monoxide poisoning. She motioned for Martin and Susan to follow her behind the house. They came in the back door of an old kitchen.

  “Walter! Walter! Wake up!” the woman called into the next room.

  “Huh? Is it time?” came a groggy reply.

  “No, but get up anyhow. You need to radio for help.”

  A man with tousled gray hair and rumpled clothes staggered into the door frame. “What is it? What’s the problem?”

  The woman summarized quickly then let Martin take over telling about the old couple in the little gray house. “Do you think there’s anyone in their area that might have oxygen? If not medical tanks, then maybe some for welding? Anything?”

  “Hmm. Might be a couple people. ‘Scuse me.” Walter pushed between Martin and Susan and out the back door.

  Through the walls came the muffled sound of a generator sputtering to life. Walter strode back into the house with a gait of a young man. He plopped down in a swiveling chair in front of several pieces of radio equipment that lined a bench and shelf at the far end of the kitchen. After watching some gauge needles flicker for a moment, he fiddled with several of the knobs and muttered to himself about frequencies and bands.

  “There’s a guy down Haverhill Road that monitors 20. ‘Nother guy near Ordway I’ve heard watching 6. I’ll see if any of them are on.”

  He cleared his throat and put the mic to his mouth. “CQ CQ, K1NTZ on Walnut Hill. Got a medical emergency. CQ. Anyone in North Harstead? Medical emergency.” They heard nothing but static.

  Walter tuned a different frequency. “CQ CQ. K1NTZ Walnut Hill. Anyone in North Harstead on this frequency? CQ. Medical emergency. Anyone monitoring in North Harstead?” He listened to the static. As he reached for the tuner, a voice broke in.

  “This is Thompkins, North Harstead. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  Walter recounted what he heard from Martin.

  “Oh Cripes,” said Thompkins. “Young Jim’s folks? I know them. I don’t have any kind of oxygen, but the guy across the road from me still does gas welding. I’ll see if he’s got any O2. Over.” The channel returned to soft static. Everyone in the kitchen stared at the radio. Martin caught a small movement out of the corner of his eye. A dark-haired woman sat at a little round table in the corner of the kit
chen. He had missed her and the table when they came in.

  “Walnut Hill, this is Thompkins. Sent my grandson over across the road. Neighbor does have a tank of oxy. They’re loading up in his truck now. Gonna drive up to Jim’s place. I’m going with them. Will report back later. Same channel. Thompkins Out.”

  “Well, sounds like help is on the way.” Walter flicked off the power switch to his equipment and leaned back in this chair. “They’ll have to rig up something for breathing masks once they get there, but anybody still doing oxy-welding tends to be a make-things-work kinda guy.”

  “Yeah. Might not be hospital-official, but it’s something, anyhow,” added Martin. “Thanks for calling for help.”

  “No problem,” said Walter. “See, Sally? All this stuff? Might’ve saved them people’s lives.”

  “Yes dear,” Sally said patronizingly.

  “Darn right, yes dear,” Walter said. He pushed himself up out of his chair. “I see it’s not long before 3:00. Gonna switch the gen to charge some batteries for a few minutes rather than restart it. Be right back.” With that, Walter toddled out the back door, steadying himself on chair backs and countertops.

  With the rush of the moment passed, Martin glanced around the kitchen. It had been state-of-the-art new in the 1950s; a proud twentieth century modernization of the nineteenth century farmhouse. The kitchen was small and tidy, but had clearly seen heavy use.

  “Thanks for helping. I guess we should be going. But, could we ask you for some water first?” Martin asked.

  “Of course. Give me your bottle. How far do you have to go?” Sally said.

  “Not far,” Martin said. “I live on Old Stockman Road.”

  “That’s still a bit of a hike from here.” Sally pointed to the round kitchen table. “This here is Holly. Family friend. She lives up your way. I’m Sally, by the way.” She ladled water from a large galvanized bucket into Martin’s bottle.

  “I’m Martin Simmons. This is Susan.”

  “Simmons?” Holly tipped her head. “On Old Stockman Road?”

  “Um, yeah?” Martin wondered if he knew this Holly, but could not think of where.

  “I’m Holly Baldwin. We met a couple years ago. I live in that old gray colonial on the other side of the hill from you. You and my husband, Micky, were talking about that beaver dam problem in the swamp behind your place?”

  “Oh yes.” Martin’s memory finally located her file. “I think the beavers are still back there.”

  “I don’t think I ever met your wife,” Holly said, glancing at Susan.

  “Hi,” said Susan. “I’m Susan Price. I used to live in Boston, but my apartment burned down so Martin offered to let me live with him.”

  Her last few words struck Martin as sounding all wrong. He could feel his face getting warm. Is that how this is going to sound to everyone? I’ve invited an attractive young woman come live with me? Oh man. Margaret is gonna kill me!

  He rushed in some disclaimers. “Yes, um, I figured she could stay with my wife, Margaret, uh, and me until the power comes back on.” He turned to get his water bottle and conceal any obvious blushing.

  “I see. Well, if you would like a ride part-way home, I have a friend meeting me outside in a few minutes.”

  “That would be great,” Martin said. He felt relieved at the change of topic. “We’re both pretty wiped out by the walk from Boston and maybe some monoxide from helping those people.”

  “Boston?” asked Sally.

  “Yes,” said Susan. “We met while Martin was walking home from work downtown. It’s been quite the long trip, but we’re almost done.”

  Sally peered over Susan’s shoulder, out the storm door. “Uh oh. Here comes Walter. Better step aside. He’s going on the air again,” explained Sally. “He’s been doing this since the power went out. Top of the hour for three minutes. Fancies himself a news man.”

  “Ham radio?” Martin asked. Sally nodded with the weariness of a golf widow. “Would it be okay if we stayed and listened in, just for a couple minutes?”

  “Pfft. Mind? He loves showing off. He takes the ‘ham’ part far too seriously.”

  “Just for a minute or so?” Martin asked Holly. She acquiesced with a shrug.

  “I’d like to hear what’s been going on out there,” Martin said.

  Walter rushed through the storm door. “Excuse me. Comin’ through.”

  “This young couple walked all the way from Boston,” Sally told Walter as he brushed past her.

  “Really? Boston?” Curiosity replaced annoyance on Walter’s face. “What did you see? I heard some stories about riots and fights and roadblocks or checkpoints or something. Did you see any of that?”

  “We did.” Martin nodded. “We didn’t see any riots, but we heard of a few. We saw some fights. We encountered our first roadblock at 128. They were only letting through residents of Reading, Andover and such. We found a way around it, but they were trying to block that off too. There was something weird going on in Reading; police in riot gear pulling people over. We didn’t stay to find out what that was all about. We saw another roadblock at 495. They let people through if they lived in Lawrence. We had to take a long way around that one too.”

  “Police?” asked Walter.

  “Most were by state troopers, some local police, but we did see some National Guard on 495. They said their job was to keep 495 clear.”

  “Why in blazes were they blocking the roads?” Walter asked.

  Martin could only shrug and shake his head.

  Walter glanced at the wall clock. “Shoot! It’s nearly 3:00. Gotta get on the air. Excuse me.” Walter slid into his desk chair and flicked his equipment back on. He fussed with a few knobs, listening with one ear to the static. He cleared his throat and brought the mic to his lips.

  “CQ, CQ, K1NTZ on air at the top of the hour. CQ, CQ.” Walter leaned back and listened to the light static. He fiddled with the knobs a bit more.

  The speaker crackled. “KA1YRK. Evn’n old man.”

  “Evenin’ yerself, Ray. You’re comin’ in five by nine tonight. You fix that antenna?”

  “Kinda sorta. Actually, it wasn’t the antenna proper, but some bad connectors.”

  Walter took in a breath and put the mic to his mouth, but the speaker crackled again. “N1WGF.”

  “K1NTZ. Evenin’ Joyce. Looks like you’re buying the donuts again. Got Ray on air already. Over.”

  “KA1YRK to donut lady. Evenin’ Joyce. Punkin’ spice, please.”

  “Aw shoot,” said Joyce. “I gotta set my clocks ahead or something. I owe you guys too many donuts already.”

  “Well, we may not get eyes on for awhile, YL” said Walter, “So don’t you fret. Score might even out before this is all done. Anything new Joyce?”

  “Okay, I’ll go first,” replied Joyce. “Second-hand: Area 3 Contact in Maryland reports DC still under lockdown. Tense protests, but no riots. Government issued statements, but nothing new in them. More comments against the Russians than the Chinese today. Only two on terrorists. Heard there’s supposed to be some big meeting with the FEMA director, Homeland Security and somebody else. Didn’t say who. No word on when. Unclear if Prez is still in DC or bunkered. Over.”

  “This is Ray. Any updates on those riots, Joyce?”

  “A little. Lockdown of New York extended to Staten Island and all of Nassau County. Fires worse in Chicago. Sounds like protest in Philly went bad. Twenty or so dead. The Governor sent in the Guard. Things are worse in Baltimore. Police pulled back, abandoned whole riot area. Lots of fires. Over.”

  “What about your local, Joyce?” asked Ray. “I’ve been hearing about roadblocks? Can you confirm?”

  “Roger that, Ray. First hand: this morning, Mass state troopers closed the border on 93, just south of Exit 1. Seen it myself. They’re letting some people through, but most not. No idea why.

  “Joyce, this is Walter. I’ve got a couple at my QTH that confirm. They report roadblocks at some major intersection
s in Mass. Troopers and National Guard. Some are allowing residents only into blocked areas. Over.”

  “Residents only, huh. That matches a report I heard from Salem. Lots of people stuck at border on 93. Contact in Tyngsboro says same for Route 3, too. Lots of people were trying to head south. Hundreds sleeping in cars, waiting to get through. Some set up tents in the median. No word on when the border will open. Over.”

  “K1NTZ. Thanks Joyce. Any news from up your way Ray? Over?”

  “Not much. Marine traffic pretty much stopped now. Two new ships arrived, anchored offshore. Nothing moving in port. Not offloading or loading either. Folks pretty much waiting it out here.”

  “Thanks Ray. We’ve only got a minute or so left for this session. Let’s do our BBS. You first Ray, anything new?”

  “Yeah. Two new ones to pass along: Area 1, ARL 23 W, K4VGM: To M. Scully, Hartford CT from Little Teapot. We have Gram at summer house. All good. Come when you can. To Ali Jaffarian, Halifax VA from Marcus. TT did not make it. Will bury here. Can’t come. That’s it, Walter. Over.”

  “Copy Ray. Got any new BBS posts, Joyce?” asked Walter while he finished writing down the message on a note pad.

  “Roger, Walter. Got one for each of you, both in Area. For Ray to pass on up. Area 5, ARL 312 W, N1TFN, To A. Lishness, Portland, ME from Duck Buddy. Heather had baby boy. Steven. All okay. Cannot travel now. And a new one for you, Walter. ARL 15 W, K4QEC,To B. Hillard, Hooksett from Missy and kids. All okay, but car broke. Cannot come as planned. Will go to uncle Eli’s. All from me, Walter. Over.”

  “Well…I don’t have any…” began Walter.

  “Um.” Susan touched his shoulder. “Could I send a message?”

  “Sure,” said Walter softly. “Hold on a sec Joyce.”

  “Roger. Holding.”

  Walter turned in his chair. “Okay, Who do you want to send it to?”

  “To my dad, Mr. David Price, 1212 Cramer Street in Lakeview, Ohio. Tell him his daughter Susan is okay and staying in Cheshire, New Hampshire.”

  “Well,” Walter said. “For security reasons, we try not to use whole names and don’t include locations others could recognize since these’ll get posted on public bulletin boards. Safer to keep things kinda cryptic. Is there something personal that only your D. Price in Lakeview would recognize as coming only from you?”