Apocalypse Drift

by Joe Nobody

  A lack of yeast was initially a big problem. Boats weren’t exactly equipped for baking, and no one had any of the substance on board. It was the cattails that saved the day, their pollen used as flour that was mixed with water and covered with cheesecloth. After a week of sitting in the open, wild yeast had been captured from the air.

  Soap was another ancillary product of the cattails and seaweed. Kelp was burned to a fine ash and then mixed with the milky substance from the shoots of the more mature shafts. Several of the women thought it made a better shampoo than any they had ever purchased from a drugstore.

  While the small island was devoid of larger trees, several acorn-producing varieties were identified at the far south end of the island, and the meaty seeds had been collected, blanched, and salted.

  Frogs, shrimp, crab, fish, birds, rabbit, rattlesnake, and occasionally bird eggs provided a healthy diet of protein. The men built traps and snares with scrap wire and wood.

  The seeds of fruits and vegetables, salvaged from items stocked in the fleet’s refrigerators and pantries and repurposed for propagation, were being carefully nurtured in Crusoe’s gardens. Tomatoes, potatoes, corn, and even squash were babied along in makeshift flowerpots on the back of practically every vessel. Because of the felonious habits of the local raccoon and rabbit populations, shore side planting was avoided. Black tie galas prior to the collapse were replaced with a kind of “Horticultural Expo,” a popular social event to compare the growth of these non-native plants. One of the pre-teens suggested that a Crusoe 4-H Fair might be in order by late summer.

  As Morgan began sorting the new colors of seaweed, she wondered if any of the new samples would mimic the taste of pepper. She missed the bite of the fresh ground black spice on her meals.

  Plymouth, Ohio

  June 20, 2017

  Rusty heard it first. The red lab’s head rose off the rug and spun toward the road, something unusual attracting his attention. Grover Peterson lowered the book he was reading and stared at his pet. “What’s the matter boy?”

  Grover sat the book on the end table and pushed himself out of his favorite chair. Rusty didn’t point unless there was something worth checking out. Before he reached the front door, Grover recognized the car engine. The sound of gravel against rubber tires reached his ears well before the sedan came into view. The otherwise non-descript Ford wouldn’t normally have attracted any attention were it not for the fact that it was the first car to rattle down the road in weeks.

  The 12-gauge double barrel next to the front door was reassuring, but Grover didn’t sense ill intent from the vehicle as it slowly drove past his mailbox. When the car stopped and backed up, he moved his hand to the barrel. When the driver turned into his driveway, he picked up the scattergun and Rusty barked, his fur bristling on the back of his spine. “It’s okay, boy. I see it.”

  Grover lived in a rural, country cabin that had originally been built by his grandfather. His father had expanded both the home and the acreage of the northern Ohio farm. Grover had remodeled and modernized the place after his dad passed away some years ago. The homestead was still called the Peterson Farm by everyone in the area, even though Grover had broken the tradition of living off the land after his graduation from college. He didn’t want to be a farmer like his father – he wanted to make things with his hands.

  As he watched the car approach down the long driveway, he noticed there were at least three men inside. This wasn’t good news because the shotgun only held two shells. Still, why would troublemakers be so stupid as to drive right up to the main house in broad daylight?

  As the sedan drew closer, the license plate disclosed it was a government vehicle. That didn’t mean as much now as it would have before the collapse. It would buy the interlopers a little more time to explain why they were here – but not much.

  All four doors opened when the automobile stopped. Grover reached into the hall table’s drawer and put a handful of shells in his pocket. Three of the uninvited callers wisely remained adjacent to the car while the fourth strode across the sidewalk and up the wide, wooden steps leading to the front porch. Rusty growled right before the three knocks sounded on the door frame.

  “Who is it?” Grover yelled from beside the threshold.

  “Mr. Peterson? My name is Dan Somerton. I’m with the Department of Homeland Security. I’d like to speak with you about Sugarhill Machine and Tool, sir.”

  Grover’s eyebrows arched at the response. He phrased his answer carefully. “No offense, Mr. Somerton, but times have been a little strange lately. How would a body know you are who you say you are?”

  While he couldn’t be sure, he thought the man on his front porch actually chuckled. “Mr. Peterson, I have my federal identification. The other men with me are from the Department of Commerce and the Department of Defense. We want to speak to you about getting Sugarhill back up and running again.”

  “Please show your identification, sir.”

  The man on the porch reached inside of his jacket pocket and produced an official-looking ID card. Grover couldn’t read it, but it seemed legitimate enough. He’d have to take the chance.

  Cradling the shotgun in his arms, Grover unlatched the deadbolt and opened the front door. The hooked screen door stood between them, not much of a barrier if his instinct were wrong. The young man waiting on the other side smiled and pretended not to notice the 12-gauge. He probed, “Would you like to talk out here or inside Mr. Peterson?”

  “I think we’d all be more comfortable inside. It’s a little cold out there for these old bones, if you know what I mean.”

  “Fine with me, sir. I need to invite my colleagues to join in our conversation - if that’s okay with you?”

  Grover nodded, hoping deep down inside he hadn’t made a big mistake.

  The young man motioned to his friends, and soon everyone was shaking hands in the living room. Rusty transformed from guard dog to tail wagging, attention seeker, rubbing the legs of the strangers like he’d never had company before. Grover propped the shotgun against the arm of his chair and rested.

  Grover had sipped the last of his South American roasted coffee beans four days ago. Warm tea would have to do, as there hadn’t been any ice for weeks. The older gentleman’s offer was politely declined; everyone taking a seat after the social amenities were exchanged. Rusty returned to his reserved spot at Grover’s feet, head on front paws but eyes keen for any indication of someone interested in petting his head.

  Somerton got right to business. “Mr. Peterson, we have identified Sugarhill as a key component supplier for several different critical path manufacturing facilities. We are trying to jumpstart these plants…get them going again. We drove by your facility a short time ago, and the building seemed intact. Do you know of any reason why you couldn’t start machining product again?”

  Grover didn’t answer immediately. The young man had said a mouthful, and he was working through it bit by bit. Finally he glanced around at his visitors and responded. “Sugarhill…critical? Our business has been down…way down…for the last five years, young man. I find it hard to believe we’re ‘critical’ for anything.”

  Peterson’s statement met with understanding nods all around. One of the suits replied, “We understand, sir. Still, your firm is listed as a supplier of several key components in the Government Services Administration’s database. Is that information incorrect?”

  “Yes, we still can make everything, or at least we could. Most of my business went to China, young man. The only reason I kept the place open was to provide jobs for a dozen locals who’ve been with me for a long time. Sugarhill has lost money the last few years.”

  Somerton expanded, “We can’t import from China any longer, Mr. Peterson. The parts Sugarhill can make are very important if we are going to get the country moving again. Can you provide us with a list of whom and what you would need to start making these items?”

  One of the other visitors handed Grover a single sheet of pape
r listing several different SKU numbers and descriptions. The items were all familiar, having been manufactured at his company over the years. Grover surveyed the list, making mental notes. “Nothing special or difficult here. You’ll have to round up my machinists and provide the raw materials. We’ll need electricity and water. A couple tons of quality bar stock and probably a few machine tool parts. Provide those items and a few things I’ve probably forgotten about, and we can produce these products.” Grover’s confidence seemed to make his visitors happy.

  The business owner still didn’t understand how resurrecting his flailing enterprise would fit into the grand scheme these bureaucrats were hatching. Even before the collapse, having three federal agencies send representatives to invite him to contract with the US government would have been odd; these days it was truly bizarre. “Gentlemen, I’m still a little puzzled. Sugarhill is a small, dilapidated, old country machine shop. Nothing more - nothing less. If we didn’t make parts for the local farmers, I would’ve closed the business years ago. I know there are dozens of bigger, more modern shops in Toledo and Cleveland. Why us? Why now?”

  Somerton smiled as the mixed lab curled up at Grover’s feet shifted his weight to find his sweet spot. “Mr. Peterson, according to our information, Sugarhill never upgraded to modern, computer-driven lathes and presses. Our understanding is that all of your equipment setup is manually configured. The surge through the power gird destroyed millions of circuit boards in those modern machines, and we can’t replace them. Those hi-tech shops can’t even make paperclips right now.”

  Grover nodded his understanding, signaling the man to continue. “Another factor is Sugarhill’s location. Some of the urban areas are…um…shall we say ‘unsettled’ at the moment. Plymouth, Ohio seems to have weathered the storm pretty well.”

  The last remark caused Grover to snort. “The county sheriff suffered a heart attack, and we’ve barely kept up with burying the dead. We’ve had more suicides in the last four weeks than the last 50 years. The elderly can’t get their prescriptions, most folks are hungry, and even a bout of the flu can turn deadly. We’ve had two women die during childbirth since this whole mess started. I wouldn’t exactly call that ‘weathering the storm pretty well.’”

  Much to Grover’s surprise, the young government man didn’t back down from his observation. “Mr. Peterson, I’m sorry the people around Plymouth have suffered, but what you’ve described can’t compare to the pain and suffering the larger cities are experiencing.”

  Everyone decided to change the subject. Much to Rusty’s dismay, the four men soon left after agreeing to meet Grover at Sugarhill first thing in the morning.

  Just after dawn, Dan Somerton was sitting outside Sugarhill’s facility when Grover and Rusty arrived. A high chain-link fence surrounded the 20,000-square foot metal building. After unlocking and opening the gate, both men parked on the gravel lot at the front of the building.

  Grover hadn’t been inside for a few weeks, having seen no need to waste what gas he had left in his truck. The last visit had been to empty out the vending machines of every candy bar, bag of chips and roll of breath mints. He donated the two sacks of goodies to a local church to shore up the empty food bank coffers.

  Grover retrieved the coffee, sugar, and creamer from the break room for his own use.

  As the two men approached the entrance, Somerton snorted. Someone, probably Grover, had nailed a hand-painted sign on the entrance: “No food inside – already picked clean.”

  Grover noticed the young man’s reaction and shrugged, “I think it was worth a try. Seems like it worked.”

  A quick tour of the shop revealed everything was as he had left it. Grover wouldn’t have been shocked if vandals broke into the property despite his brief, but succinct note on the door. After the past few months, nothing would surprise him again.

  Grover cleared a desktop for Dan in the front office, before pulling out various bills of material, drawings and machine instructions from the myriad of file cabinets lining the walls.

  The two men worked for almost five hours straight before determining how many of the government’s wish list Sugarhill could create - if raw materials were provided. Grover watched, fascinated as the young government employee removed a large, cell phone-looking device from his bag and dialed a number.

  Almost immediately, a voicemail system answered the satellite phone. Grover thought it was funny as he listened to Dan leave a message asking for a call back.

  After disconnecting the call, Dan shrugged his shoulders. “They are so busy. They have over 500 threads going all at the same time.”

  “Threads?”

  The government’s man nodded. “Yes, that’s what they call them. When all of the agencies finally got their act together, they established a set of priorities. Here, let me show you.”

  Dan rummaged around in his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of paper, handing it to Grover.

  The document carried the seal of the president of the United States, and outlined the official priorities for all government agencies for the recovery. Grover scanned the list:

  1. Energy – Electrical power, refined fuels, nuclear, oil, natural gas, solar and wind

  2. Communications – Cell, internet, land-line, radio and television broadcasting

  3. Transportation – As per #1 above, delivery of non-electrical power for heating, manufacturing and industrial usage

  4. Medical – Hospitals, pharmaceutical, equipment

  5. Manufacturing – Critical items required by #1 are deemed top priority

  6. Agriculture – Spring planting, delivery of feed and other necessities for livestock, fertilizer and fuel for operations

  Dan paused while Grover read, then added, “Without electrical energy, nothing gets done. It has amazed a lot of people how critical that link in the supply chain is.”

  Grover’s expression reflected his understanding, “That’s why you want us to make these specific parts. They’re used in electric turbines. You need them to repair the power plants.”

  Dan nodded. “You’re correct, sir. We can provide mobile electrical power, but it’s very limited. We started at the beginning and are working our way through each step. In your case, Sugarhill needs steel. We knew that before we came here, so a small mill outside of Flint has been operating for three days now. We drove two of the US Army’s big generator trucks to the mill, parked them outside, and hooked up the cables. We’ll do the same for Sugarhill in a few days. The steel from Flint will come here. After you make the parts, we’ll take them to the next step. That’s what we are calling a thread. There are over 500 of these threads in progress right now.”

  Grover was impressed, but also awed by the complexity and scale of the undertaking. “Where did the mill get the raw materials it needed? Did you start at the mine?”

  Dan shook his head, “No, we got lucky there. The mill had enough stock onsite to make what we needed. It’s rare for any manufacturing plant to keep much inventory. It’s expensive to store on the shelves, and with modern computer systems, they could order and receive delivery right before they need it. That’s a great system during normal times, but it has made it very difficult to get the country jumpstarted again.”

  Grover started to comment, but Dan’s phone rang. The conversation conducted over the high-tech gadget sounded like any other materials planning meeting. Sugarhill needed A, B and C – when can those items be expected?

  “We’ll have all of this stuff here in four days,” Dan continued. “I think we need to start gathering your machinists together and preparing to restart the shop.”

  Grover agreed. “I don’t think that will be a problem. I do have one question though – how are we going to pay my people? Money isn’t much good right now, and while some of them would see the big picture, others are struggling with day-to-day living. To ask them to leave their families right now? Well, there would need to be some sort of an incentive.”

  Dan smiled knowingly. “Do yo
u think food would be proper compensation?”

  “No doubt about it. You have access to that much food?”

  Dan grinned and answered, “If food will do the trick, I’ll deliver the groceries. Let’s start going door to door tomorrow and make sure we can get everyone in here.”

  “We’d better take my truck. People are a little edgy these days, and your government car might not be welcome.”

  “I understand…. Believe me, I understand.”

  Matagorda Island, Texas

  June 21, 2017

  Wyatt lounged on Boxer’s bridge and inspected the community of Crusoe. Like a favorite lounge chair in the living room, he had taken to the captain’s chair as his favorite perch to enjoy the day’s first cup of coffee. The coffee was almost gone, and he dreaded when he could no longer relish one of the few luxuries this life afforded.

  Just like Wyatt and his favorite chair, the residents of Crusoe settled into a routine not unlike any small town. Each morning, Wyatt and the others busied themselves with the small maintenance items required to keep their boats functional as a home. After those tasks were completed, the boaters tended to gather around the dock to discuss community needs as a whole.

  Energy was always the single biggest concern. Gasoline or diesel was required to generate 95% of Crusoe’s electrical power, and there weren’t any gas stations open for refilling the fuel tanks. As the weather progressed from warm to hot, it grew more difficult to sleep or find comfort during the day without running the air conditioners. Everyone suffered, unwilling to waste the fuel consumed by running the gensets.

  There were three boats in the fleet that had substantial wind or solar power. Even with the fairly constant onshore breeze, the wind turbines wouldn’t produce enough juice to run air conditioners. Batteries could be recharged, but climate control required more power than any of the renewable systems could provide.