by Joe Nobody
Not all of the boats had arrived at Crusoe with the same amount of fuel. This had been a major challenge for the community, as some people believed everyone should share equally while others thought each family unit should stand on its own. Eventually, a system of barter was instituted, with the fuel-rich boaters trading for other necessities. One of the most valuable commodities turned out to be toilet paper.
Wyatt worked the calculations a dozen times. The gasoline-powered boats would empty their reserves first, probably in the next 20 days. The diesel boats would fare better, lasting another 30-45 days. After that, the community would be limited to what was provided by the sun and wind.
Because fuel was a finite resource, every possible method of conservation was implemented. Firewood was scavenged from the rubble of the old base, as well as from the beach. Patrols gathered what washed ashore twice weekly. Food was cooked, water heated, and fish smoked using dockside pits. While every boat in the fleet was outfitted with microwaves, or ovens of some sort, the outside kitchens required little precious fuel and thus replaced their technologically advanced cousins.
Making fresh water was another energy draw, as water makers ran off electricity. The pioneers determined that water usage should be divided into two categories, public and private. Each boat maintained water in its private storage tank, while public water facilities were established onshore.
One of the industrious residents created a series of shower stalls that utilized the sun to heat the water. Hanging overhead in clear plastic bags, the Crusoe Public Bathhouse even sported its own handmade sign. Wyatt smirked when he laid eyes on the facility, thinking how much the rustic structure reminded him of “Gilligan’s Island.”
Dishwashing, food processing, and laundry were all deemed public uses of water. The diesel boats typically were equipped with the largest capacity systems and the most fuel, so they became known as the Crusoe Water Company. Wyatt sat and watched the morning bucket brigade filling their containers at the back of a diesel boat. Each morning, several residents carried that water ashore to be used for public consumption. It was a lot of work. Wyatt snorted when he overheard one of the residents complaining, “I never thought about how heavy water was until I moved to Crusoe.”
When they had first arrived, such a remark would have gone unnoticed. Now, Wyatt paid attention to those things, always trying to gauge attitude, morale and sense of community. Governing what was essentially a small town appeared easy at first. Everyone seemed to pull together, given that ultimately their survival was always in question. After the newness of the island wore off, small quarrels began to pop up here and there. Initially, these minor disagreements typically involved policies or systems that impacted the entire community. Some residents, for example, tired of fish as the main source of protein. They began to lobby for investing more time in gathering alternative sources of nourishment.
Wyatt realized early on that some organized form of decision-making was going to be necessary to keep the peace. Every boater couldn’t vote on every issue that arose, so a town council of sorts was formed.
The boats were rafted together in three rows, with each row electing its own representative. A row could have an election anytime it wanted. Issues, disputes and grievances were aired before the council meetings, which were always open to the public. So far, everyone had abided by the decisions made at these morning assemblies. Wyatt had pondered more than once what would happen when someone decided they didn’t want to follow the determination of the council. To date, the rule of law had held.
Some disputes focused on the division of labor. The vast majority of the boaters were over 50 years old, and several nursed minor health issues. Todd, David, and Sage were the youngest members of the community and were initially treated like everyone’s grandchildren. After arriving at Army Hole, these younger, more energetic residents were inundated with requests to help with this, fetch that, or carry those. Happy to help at first, their generosity quickly wore off as each was assigned a normal workload on top of the friendly, informal requests. The situation eventually degraded to the point where Sage spoke up at one council meeting, asking the gathered crowd if slavery had been reinstituted while she had been sleeping.
A few personality conflicts arose as well. Essentially, everyone’s house was practically on top of the neighbors’ – a cramped experience for some. The close proximity of the boats resulted in occasional spats ranging from accusations of eavesdropping to neighbors playing loud music late into the night. One solution was the discovery that the parks department had constructed a bunkhouse next to the ranger station. This small cabin could accommodate up to eight people and had survived the years relatively intact. It was a couple from one of the smaller cabin cruisers who announced one afternoon that they were going on vacation. Tired of the small, cramped space their vessel provided, they packed up blankets, air mattresses and a picnic basket and headed to the bunkhouse for an overnighter. The Crusoe Holiday Six quickly became popular, as did camping on the beach.
As the weather grew hot, so did tempers. There was so much physical, sweaty labor involved to just provide the basics, people became easily irritated. It was Morgan who came up with the idea to reschedule as many chores as possible at night. Lights were rigged high on the boats with solar recharging. Dishes, laundry, cooking and other preparations were migrated to the cooler air of the evening.
The single biggest problem was morale. It had been almost five months since the world had fallen apart, and there wasn’t any sign of a recovery. It was the younger members of the community that worried Wyatt the most. Sage had asked her father if he thought she would ever have a date again. David had joked about how he should have married his high school sweetheart, teasing his mother over the fading hope of having grandchildren. Morgan smiled and laughed at the jest, but Wyatt knew the entire affair bothered her.
The older members of the community seemed to deal with the lack of television, internet and cell phones in stride. The “under 30” crowd struggled with the change. For a while, DVD movies were a popular recreational activity, the young and able-bodied congregating at night to share the event. After a month or so, attendance began to drop off, and Wyatt heard mumblings about how watching the visual images of the past were depressing.
Visits to the beach for swimming, picnics and throwing Frisbees were popular for a while, but that activity began to decline in popularity as the temperate spring air turned to the blistering hot, Texas summer. Morgan commented on how the newness of sand and surf quickly wore off. It was a good thing too, as the last squirt of sunblock coincided with a sweltering day, adding to the avoidance of outdoor recreation.
There were positive aspects to life in Crusoe. Most everyone lost weight given the diet of fresh foods, increase in daily exercise, and the unavailability of quarter pounder combo meals. Several of the middle-aged residents reported having more energy than before, with colds and sniffles being almost non-existent.
Alcohol consumption was no longer an option - the last few bottles of hard liquor being designated as emergency medical supplies and locked away with Morgan’s other first aid equipment. Wyatt chuckled out loud, thinking about how several of the men had threatened to build a still. The project had never materialized because no one knew how to ferment spirits without sugar.
Wyatt stretched his legs, his gaze wandering ashore where Todd and David were cleaning the salt from two fishing reels. He was proud of how David had become the younger boy’s friend and helped eased Crusoe’s youngest member through the problems associated with their new life. Wyatt could see how David had benefited from the relationship as well. He made a mental note to try and reward the two young men somehow.
Plymouth, Ohio
June 25, 2017
Grover gazed at what amounted to the most unusual parade Plymouth, Ohio had ever seen. In the lead was a plain-looking government sedan, complete with flashing blue lights mounted on the roof. Nothing out of the ordinary there, he mused. Most para
des started with a police escort of some sort.
It was what rolled by afterwards that was so out of place. Two military Humvees with machine guns mounted on the roof were next in line. Helmeted soldiers manned the ominous-looking weapons, moving the heavy barrels right and left as they rolled by. Grover noted the shiny brass belts of ammunition hanging beneath the black guns. Those aren’t just for show, he thought.
Behind those armed attendants were two huge military trucks painted in forest green camouflage, accented with black stenciled numbers all over the sides. Grover guessed those were the generator trucks, but couldn’t be sure. He’d never seen anything quite like them.
Another armed Humvee was followed by two private tractor-trailers. The common over-the-road trucks were commandeered by soldiers, each cab outfitted with a rider managing the barrel of an M16 as it protruded from the window.
A bright yellow school bus followed the semis. Reflecting sunlight blocked Grover’s line of sight inside the windows, but he knew there were no schoolchildren inside. He realized that the food, electrical generators, and other equipment on its way to Sugarhill were extremely valuable. The bus transported dozens of soldiers – designated sentries for his small machine shop.
Grover’s truck was the first vehicle of what would become Plymouth’s second parade of the day. Dan and he had dedicated days to canvassing the community; personally contacting Sugarhill’s machinists and other employees to make sure enough staff would be available to manufacture the desperately needed parts.
The campaign had yielded some tragic results. So many people were dead or too sick to work. The surviving population of Plymouth, Ohio suffered from lack of nutrition and the diseases that naturally followed, as well as lack of access to maintenance medications, ordinarily taken daily to control the symptoms of hypertension or diabetes or clinical depression. Regardless of the cause, Sugarhill would barely have enough staff reporting to restart the company. Grover was determined to roll up his sleeves and contribute.
Providing transportation for those healthy enough to report for work proved problematic. As automobile tanks had been drained to provide fuel for generators, no one had any gasoline left. It was the FEMA representative who managed to deliver three five-gallon plastic cans of gas to mobilize the workforce.
Grover drove from duplex to cottage to farmhouse, pouring a gallon or two in his employee’s cars and trucks so they could make it to Sugarhill. Those personnel were now lined up behind him, ready to follow the military convoy to the plant. Everyone switched off their motors to conserve every last drop of the precious liquid.
Due to security concerns, Grover was instructed to hold until the last escort vehicle passed, wait for a few minutes, and then follow. The small, once friendly town of Plymouth was an abstract backdrop for the military hardware slowly snaking its way down Main Street. Grover couldn’t help but consider the surreal picture the situation had created. The brick and clapboard storefronts broadcasted a message of welcoming, rural America. The locally owned businesses that lined Main were inviting, honest places to fill a prescription, shop for second-hand goods or share a sandwich for lunch. Watching an armed, ready-to-engage military force passing by windows that advertised fresh pie and a sale on paper towels was disturbing, almost bizarre.
Grover waited the prerequisite amount of time before pulling onto Main and following the government procession. He glanced in his rearview mirror to verify everyone was part of the convoy. A few miles outside of town, they encountered one of the military Humvees blocking the road. Grover was identified and waived by, as were the six civilian cars and trucks following behind him. Presumably, folks who didn’t have business at the machine shop wouldn’t be allowed to pass.
The once-abandoned business became a beehive of activity. Soldiers scampered here and there, distributing power cables, boxes of supplies, and other equipment. As soon as the employees had collected in the front office, a man wearing the uniform of a major greeted everyone and explained that the Army Corp of Engineers would have the power turned on shortly.
Before long, duties and tasks were assigned to all of Grover’s staff, and everyone began to work, trying to reboot Sugarhill.
Within two hours, electrical power was flowing through the shop, provided by the rumbling generators parked outside. That milestone caused the men working inside to pause, many of them staring up at the florescent bulbs like they had never seen electric lights before. Grover let it go, intrigued by the reaction. A few moments passed before the boss cleared his throat rather loudly, a signal it was time to get back at it.
By late that evening, the first lathe was turning. Sugarhill was in business again.
Plano, Texas
June 28, 2017
The small U. S. Air Force shuttle landed quite smoothly, the pilot braking hard to slow the rolling plane before it reached the end of the short runway. Even in normal times, the Plano, Texas Regional Airport didn’t see that many jet aircraft. In reality, the plane could have skidded sideways and spun in circles and Reed probably wouldn’t have cared. He was going to see his family.
The congressman also failed to observe several damaged aircraft parked outside the hangars. The charred rubble of a nearby maintenance facility went completely unnoticed as well. Reed just wanted to hold his wife and children.
Six Texas National Guardsmen were waiting for the aircraft. Two would remain behind to protect his plane while the pilots were escorted to a nearby facility for food and rest. A pair of the reservists would accompany Reed to his father-in-law’s remote ranch. Texas was still a dangerous place for travelers – or anyone else for that matter. Five other government vehicles from various agencies and authorities waited on Reed’s traveling companions. The representative’s head came out of the clouds long enough to realize all of the drivers were armed.
In a way, Reed felt guilty. He was using resources that no doubt could have been utilized doing other things. The remorse wasn’t overwhelming, just a small tugging that slightly tainted what would have otherwise been the perfect homecoming.
A small, unfolding staircase allowed everyone to depart the aircraft. Reed had talked little with the other passengers during the flight. A combination of FEMA, DOD and Homeland Security personnel were aboard. Their conversations had held little interest for Reed. His mind filled with visions of his family, curiosity over how much the children had grown and a longing to hold his wife. Right now, nothing else was going to hold his attention.
“Congressman,” approached an older man wearing captain’s bars, “If you’ll please accompany me, we’ll be on our way.”
Reed nodded, glad there wasn’t going to be another delay. In minutes, his overnight bag was loaded into the back of the Humvee, and they were moving.
The military version of the Hummer wasn’t very comfortable – lacking the amenities normally associated with the high-end civilian model. The dash wasn’t padded, the seats were quite hard, and there wasn’t a stereo in the console. Reed barely noticed and didn’t care. He was going to see his family.
The two guardsmen were very quiet, and that suited Reed just fine. No doubt they had their own problems, missed their own families or were worried about their own homes. Reed couldn’t fix that, and had learned several weeks ago not to dwell on things he couldn’t fix. There were simply too many objects-beyond-repair in his current life.
The drive through suburban Dallas didn’t shock him. Piles of ashes where there had been thriving businesses, gas stations boarded up, people standing in line for handouts or medical care…the scene reminded him of Washington – probably the same as any major American city.
As they passed, Reed couldn’t help but notice the faces of the people. Words kept popping into his mind, words like hollow, sunken, forlorn - zombies. Children didn’t move with the energy of youth as they should have. Reed watched a mother with two pre-teen kids walking down the sidewalk, all of them stirred with the lethargic gait of the elderly, the infirm or the weak.
&n
bsp; Dirty faces and stringy hair were the norm. Many of the people appeared to just be standing or sitting – no place to go or nothing to do. The passing Hummer was a curiosity, but a minor one. The military vehicle wasn’t even worthy of the energy required to move one’s neck so as to follow its progress.
Reed had played sports in high school. While his athletic ability wasn’t worthy of note, he had developed a keen eye toward judging momentum. He could always tell how the game was going to end by watching the body language and expressions of the players. Momentum was so important. The winners knew how to turn it around. The better teams seemed to sense how to manage it.
“We’re losing,” he muttered quietly. “We’ve lost momentum, and the world is kicking out butts. We’re beaten, and the game’s not even over yet.”
Reed forced himself to direct his vision ahead, determined not to allow anything or anybody dampen his mood. He only had one day, a short 24 hours to visit. He wanted to make the most of it.
Before long, they were out of the urban area and into the countryside. It was a relief. The open spaces of northern Texas rewarmed Reed’s soul, recharging his mood. It was if they had driven out from under a giant dome of gloom and despair. The air was different out here - the fog of suffering was diluted. These people are doing better, he thought. They’re better off, if for no other reason than not having to witness so much pain in their fellow man.
The two-hour drive seemed to pass quickly, despite the rock-hard seat and jarring ride. Reed pointed to the lane leading to the ranch where his father-in-law was waiting by the gate. Climbing out of the older, faded pickup, the tall man moved to unlock the heavy chain. Dressed in worn jeans and button-collar plaid shirt, the old cowboy looked distinguished in a western sort-of-way. His rugged demeanor, worn boots and dirty Stetson gave Reed a sense of peace. Who better to have looking after his family in a world that resembled the Old West than a son born of those times?