by G. R. Carter
“What’d you have in mind, Lamar? Anything in particular?” Rusty asked.
“Just that you don’t think the power’s comin’ back on. And what you think’s gonna happen 'cause of that. I mean, what’s gonna happen to our neighborhoods if there’s no law at all? It's bad enough around here with the hooligans and gangbangers anyway, ya know? But what’s gonna happen when there’s no law and no way to get food?”
“OK, Lamar, I can do that. If you believe that’s true now too, what do you think we can do? I mean, we can’t move your entire extended family and friends in here, there’s not enough room and there’s no way to defend the house,” Rusty said in a nervous drawl.
Charlotte Jenkins brought in sweet tea for the two men as they stood talking in the living room. She had a concerned look on her face as she listened to the two men talk.
“I already thought of that, fellas,” Charlotte said. “We’ll move into the same building with our bookstore.”
Charlotte gave a heartfelt laugh at the look on Rusty’s face.
“Lamar didn’t tell you because he didn’t want you thinking he was going to leave your restaurant. We opened a small bookstore – well, we have to call it an antique store, you know – a couple of years ago. Set up shop in the old Jefferson Junior High building. The district closed the school because it cost too much to rewire for the new Student Slates textbooks. Built a new school a few miles away instead.” Charlotte shook her head at the thought of the waste of money, history, and the extra travel involved for local students.
Lamar nodded. “That old Jefferson building is stone and real wood. A hundred years old if it’s a day. Some yuppy tech firm tried to buy it and turn it into a small business incubator. The idea didn’t take because the rich folks were scared to come down here to work. We ended up being the only ones to rent a space. Now we use it to hold church, too. Rent’s paid for a year and we do all the maintenance work ourselves. No one ever inspects the place to see that we’ve got real Bibles and books in there. Not just the approved ones,” he confirmed.
“Could we all hide out in there for a while? Maybe move everyone in? Safety in numbers, and we’d have the gym and the cafeteria to feed and look after the young ones,” Charlotte asked the men.
“That’s a great idea, honey. We’d probably draw a lot of attention to ourselves, but no matter where we’re at, troublemakers will eventually find us. I suppose if we have to make a stand I’d rather have a foot of brick in between me and the bad guys,” Lamar said.
Rusty paused, thinking through the logistics. “Are you alright leaving your home, Charlotte? Everything you’ve built here, there’s a good chance it will be torn apart by looting.”
“You’re probably right, but I don’t see the alternative. Those talks you and Lamar had over the years… I’ve got my little ones to think about, and my nieces and nephews. You’re right about desperate people, more right than you know. Because we’ve lived with it a little longer than you have…no offense, of course,” Charlotte said.
“No offense taken, Charlotte,” Rusty assured her. “I understand what you mean. With me it was always theoretical. I know you’ve seen firsthand what can happen if someone doesn’t have any hope in tomorrow.
“I’m a guest here, and I already told Lamar he was in charge now. So if you two think that’s the best course of action, I’ll help any way I can.”
*****
Lamar and Charlotte’s entire family and church friends showed up for supper that night. Nearly forty people filled the house, porch, and folding tables in the backyard. The yard didn’t hold as many people as a typical lawn - the Jenkins filled nearly every space with 4x4 garden boxes holding any vegetable, fruit and herb suitable to the DC climate.
Rusty found himself amazed by the wide array of homemade items the Jenkins could create. I’ve been talking a big game about personal responsibility. The Jenkins were actually doing something about it he thought, kicking himself for not having the foresight to follow through. Clearly Charlotte and Lamar were the de facto leaders of the whole neighborhood and extended family. Charlotte’s mother was the matriarch of the group, and was given the seat of honor at the dining room table. But Lamar was the one who kept the group settled while Charlotte supervised the group in the kitchen.
After an hour of eating and talking, Lamar called for everyone’s attention. Younger teenagers quickly gathered the smallest children and ushered them outside to play. Clearly this wasn’t the first time a family meeting was held at the Jenkins' household. Everyone seemed to know the drill and their responsibilities. Charlotte and her group came out from the kitchen, drying off their hands on aprons and towels. Lamar wouldn’t start the meeting without his wife and she would come out when she was good and ready.
“Listen up, everyone, please,” Lamar said loudly and clearly. “I hope you all enjoyed the food. A goodly part of it is the gift of my guest here tonight. This gentleman here has been my boss for the last seven years. He’s a good man, whose first thought today was to give me all the food he had in the restaurant to bring here to you, to help us in a rough time for everybody.”
Applause and nods of thanks were directed to Rusty, who blushed and held up his hands to redirect the praise.
Lamar continued, “But more important than today’s food, this here fella also introduced me to some very well-informed individuals over the years. Folk who made me see that a man’s nothing who can’t get food for his family. They were farmers who came to the Federal District to make a difference in our government. When they figured out they couldn’t do much to change things, they went on home to take care of their own families. That much we can all respect.”
More nods from the group at that statement. Family ties meant everything in the Jenkins’ neighborhood.
“So, Rusty here would like to say just a few words about what he’s learned from people in the know. Tell you about what bad things might happen any minute. I’ve asked him to tell you what he knows. And what is heading our way, sooner rather than later.”
All attention now turned to Rusty as he stood in front of the crowd. He was no public speaker, but had confidence about what was happening to the District and the country.
For thirty minutes, he told story after story relayed to him over the years by experts who'd come through his bar and books he'd read here and there. He talked about the “nine meals from chaos” theory and about how emergency and health professionals would quit showing up to work so they could help their own families instead. Rusty didn’t know if what he was saying was sinking in, but there was total attention to him while he spoke.
After he concluded, Lamar stood back up and asked for any questions from the group. Not a single word was uttered from the group until Charlotte’s mother broke the silence. “Sir,” she said to Rusty, “what do you propose we do about all this?”
Rusty, Charlotte and Lamar made eye contact in turn. They nodded to Rusty and he outlined Charlotte’s plan for the moving the group to the Junior High as soon as possible.
To their surprise, the next question was simply, “What do you think we should bring along?”
Western Illinois Correctional Center
The Third Day
“Freakin’ power’s been out for nearly three days here, not just last night. You and your union buddies ever come into town to spend your money, you might know that,” Burton Tucker said in a tone just below a yell. He was leaning up against the service station counter with one elbow firmly planted on its surface, leaving the other hand free to point a finger. A couple of other regulars sat in peeling vinyl chairs arranged around a table with old farm magazines, nodding as Tucker spoke. The only light came from the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass door.
“Come on, Tuck. You know how much my guys spend around here. Our jobs are the only reason half the places in town are still open.” Red Morton was tired of making the same argument over and over. Still, he sincerely believed what he said and wouldn’t back down from the fight.
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Tucker waved away Morton’s words. “Blood money,” he growled. “The way you all do things out there. Like a cult. Doing business with drug dealers.” He wasn’t talking to Morton or anyone else in particular. Everyone already knew how Old Man Tucker felt, especially about the prison's arrangement with the Kaplan family and their products. “That prison brought all sorts of scum into this town. A big chunk of the population’s got a relative living inside.”
Morton heard that every time he came to town. He couldn’t argue that point, so he stayed away.
“Jeremiah, what do you think?” Morton asked the service station manager. “Can you get us some fuel out to the prison? I’d like to take a tankful now, and then have you deliver a full load each morning.
Jeremiah shrugged. “Reckon so. Got any money? Cash, I mean, the fuel cards won’t work with the internet down.”
Morton frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.” All he'd brought was a company purchase card. Usually he'd use his Jordan Inc. SmartWatch to pay, but it wasn't working this morning either.
Tucker began to launch into the stupidity of electronic money when Jeremiah interrupted. “Prison still has an account on terms here. We can put it on that. Red, you figure you’re authorized to sign for it?”
Morton nodded. He wasn’t sure if that was true, but he was sure Lewis would back him.
Jeremiah smiled. “I don’t have the generator working yet. Wasn’t sure how long the power would be out, and getting that old rattletrap started is a pain. So we’ll have to use the hand pump.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s get to work.”
Loading the fuel took nearly an hour. The men took turns working the pump to fill the big tank. Morton frowned when he looked at the flowmeter’s readout of total gallons.
“What is it?” Jeremiah asked. “Figured you’d be happy to have a load.”
Morton nodded. “I am. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. It’s just that…” Morton thought twice about telling anyone outside the guards what concerned him. “Well, that’s only about one day’s worth right there. Maybe not even that long. I’m no expert on it, I just know that generator sucks fuel. We were supposed to have a tanker onsite to feed it.”
“I’m sure it’ll get here soon,” Jeremiah assured him.
Morton grimaced at his conflicted interests. He was a lifelong resident of Mt. Sterling. Even though he’d felt walled off, literally and figuratively, since his wife died, these were still his people. Ultimately, roots won out over his job. “Look, Jeremiah, if I tell you something, you got to promise me you won’t repeat it. I mean it, on your daddy’s honor, you got to keep this a secret.”
Jeremiah slowly nodded, not sure if he really wanted to take such an oath. Curiosity won out, so he said “Sure Red. I promise.”
Morton continued. “You need to start thinking about the electricity being out long-term. We’re getting reports from the cities that the power’s out everywhere. I’m not sure when we’ll be getting deliveries of any kind.”
Jeremiah looked confused. “How’s that even possible?”
Red twisted the fuel cap shut and wiped his hands off on his trousers. “I dunno. The warden got some kind of priority message last night. She’s had us scrambling around ever since.”
“Got any ideas? Suggestions?”
Red pointed towards the back of the service station where Jeremiah had been working. “Save any fuel you can. And get that generator working. You’re probably going to need it.”
Shelbyville
The Third Day
“It’s different this time, guys. I really think we got a big problem,” Phil Hamilton told the hastily assembled group, huddled in the meeting room of the Dixie Cream Donuts. Around a horseshoe of ancient tables – still set neatly for yesterday’s canceled Rotary meeting – sat most of the Shelby County Cooperative, along with two mayors, a bank president, Shelby County’s Sheriff and a handful of concerned locals. The room was the gloomy shade of morning that comes with an early fall. A few dusty windows let the weak daylight in, aided by a half dozen glass globe candles, their tiny flames steady in the stagnant air.
“Winter’s coming,” he continued. “Without heat, folks are gonna freeze. And without power, we can’t keep refrigerators running so food’s going to spoil. Nothing in the hospital will work after the generator quits. We need to treat, or at least boil, freshwater for drinking and cooking. Just as important, unless we get the water treatment plant running, we’re going to be swamped with sewage.”
“Don’t be ridiculous Phil,” Dalton Cornin cut in. “This is just another brief outage. We’ve had them before. Quit getting everyone riled up with your little doomsday fantasies.”
“Just a little outage?” Bob Ford broke in. “When has everything quit working all at once?”
Cornin spoke with a softer tone towards Bob. Phil didn’t have any money in Cornin’s bank; Bob’s investments entitled him to a seat on the board of directors. “I’ll admit it’s a little strange, Bob. But we’ve seen plenty of strange things in our lives, right?” he said with a smile.
Bob didn’t return the warmth, in fact he ignored Cornin altogether. “What Phil is trying to tell you people is that life isn’t going back to normal. Not anytime soon.”
“How can you possibly know that?” Sheriff Clark Olsen asked. He looked tired. His men were spread thin on a good day to cover the 770 square miles and 20,000 residents of Shelby County. The days since the power went out had not been good days.
“The same way you do, Sheriff,” Bob Ford replied. “We’ve got emergency radios. Remember, we have generators, just like you. Only difference is our generators will be running tomorrow, because we’ll still have fuel to run them.” Bob paused for a moment to let that sink in. “The cities were already coming apart at the seams last night. That was the final report we’ve been able to get. Have you been able to hear anything else? Is help coming?”
Olsen said nothing so Bob continued. “Even if the power is restored today, it’s hard telling how long it will take to repair the damage. I doubt we’re high on the government assistance list.”
Olsen’s normally passive demeanor hardened. “If you want to do something useful, how about you bring those generators in where we can use them.”
“That’s what we’re trying to do Sheriff,” Phil replied. He wasn’t Olsen’s biggest fan; Phil Hamilton wasn’t the biggest fan of any politician. Olsen wasn’t exactly a political animal, but the same couldn’t be said for Marianne Olsen.
“I know what you’re going to say. I’ve heard it all before,” Olsen replied impatiently. “We don’t have the time or equipment to install a biodiesel still on every farm, okay?”
“We can’t do it on an individual scale, I agree. But we can do it on a big enough scale for everyone, all at one location,” Phil assured the room. “Greenstem Ethanol’s refinery has sat empty for a while now.” He pointed over to Paul Kelley, seated quietly and taking in the conversation.
Paul seemed uneasy, unsure if he was supposed to say anything. The tension in the room hung thick, he shifted his gaze back and forth between the two factions, unsure he wanted to be a part of the struggle going on. He’d been on his way out of town when Phil convinced him to stay and help. Ever since his dream job at Greenstem evaporated he’d been lost. He’d learned his trade when ethanol production facilities sprouted like the very plants that fed them throughout the end of the 20th century and the beginning of the 21st. Due to market forces and political games, most didn’t survive the initial boom. But the equipment used to create the biofuel, and the people trained to utilize it, still littered the landscape of the Midwest.
He finally thought of something to say, without taking sides. “My faith in the value of biofuels hadn’t diminished one bit even as administrators in DC decided ethanol equated was a net negative in their Environmental Protection Agency formulas. Greenstem was a victim of political connections; no political advocate willing to fight for it. The spec
ter of millions in modifications prevented any privately-owned companies from getting the federal permits needed to restart the project. Soon, an EPA insider would secure the multi–million-dollar contract for another environmental impact study, the last step before the entire refinery became scrap metal.”
He finally convinced himself which side he was on, even if his public debating skills weren’t up to task.
“We can do it. It’s possible I mean,” Paul stammered as he rolled a salt shaker on its edge. He picked it up and tapped it against the tiny glass box that once held sugar packets. He was trying to make eye contact, to no avail. “To restart the refinery like Phil says. Turn it from ethanol to bio-diesel.”
“You’re talking about a massive project, lasting a year under the best conditions. How are you going to get materials for that?” Cornin asked.
“Everything we need is right up the road in Decatur. I know right where to go,” Paul said.
“It’s not ours to use,” Olsen said. “That facility belongs to someone else.”
“Who?” Delbert asked gruffly. “Anyone here know who it belongs to? More important, anyone care?”
“Come on Delbert,” Olsen replied. “We can’t just go steal the place. There’s laws, you know?”
Delbert nodded his head in mock agreement. “Sure, government never took anything from anyone. Even if it was really needed. Say, what was that term Bob? You know, for when they decided to build the power lines through our fields, even though we refused.”
“Eminent Domain,” Bob said slow and drawn out, savoring every syllable.
“Right, right. Eminent Domain. Greater good and all that. Well, Sheriff Olsen, we are proposing that we appropriate the Greenstem Refinery via Eminent Domain. See Sheriff? There’s laws.” Delbert sat back, crossed his arms across his chest, and smiled.