by Ken Benton
Malcolm looked at the materials in the truck. “So we’re simply going to pound metal pipe into the ground with a sledgehammer?”
“Yep. Like I said, the ground is soft enough here to use this method. See this?” He held a hollow metal spike that had a screened-off open area near the pointed tip. “It’s a well point, or a sand point to be more exact. It screws on to the end of the first piece of pipe. We’re going to need some water, too. Would you rather make a trip to the creek, or take the first drilling shift?”
“I’ll fetch the water.”
“Thought you’d say that.” But instead of pounding the first pipe into the ground, Ryan retrieved a post-hole auger from the truck and began digging.
“Oh, you tricked me.”
Malcolm lugged a 20-liter plastic tank down to the creek. When he returned, Ryan had a three-foot post hole dug.
“There’s our starter hole,” he said wiping sweat from his brow. “Okay, I’ll hold the well point steady and you give the first pipe a few whacks.” He handed Malcolm the sledge hammer. “Only wait until I put the driving cap on the end. Never hit the pipe directly.”
“Great,” Malcolm said taking the sledgehammer.
Ryan put the thick metal driving cap on the top end of the first pipe, which now had the well point attached to the bottom end in the hole.
“Just tap it to start,” Ryan said. “I don’t need a broken hand.”
Malcolm tapped the pipe a few times before gaining enough confidence to start hitting it harder. When it was down a few inches, Ryan let go. Malcolm then whacked it until the end was about a foot above the starter hole. Ryan screwed another section of pipe unto the first, took the sledgehammer from Malcolm, and climbed up on the open tailgate of Spence’s truck.
“Now the real fun begins.” He started pounding. And pounding. And pounding. The pipe went into the ground, slowly. Eventually it was low enough for Ryan to get back down and hammer from the ground. When it was finally all the way down, he handed Malcolm the sledgehammer, screwed another piece of pipe on, and put the driving cap on the end of the new section of pipe.
“Your turn.”
Malcolm groaned, jumped up on the tailgate, and did likewise. According to his calculations, his 5-foot section of pipe got down to ground level a little faster than the first one.
By Malcolm’s second turn, he found himself getting excited. This was kind of cool. Who would’ve thunk? They were fifteen feet down already. If Ryan was right, they might actually hit water after the fourth pipe was in the ground.
Ryan worked up a drenching sweat getting the fourth pipe even with the starter hole. That one was more stubborn than the rest. When it was finally buried, he had Malcolm pour the creek water down the pipe. It filled surprisingly fast.
But then the water level in the pipe slowly went down.
“We’re not there yet,” Ryan said. “That’s a bit worrisome. If we don’t hit it before the next pipe is down, the whole thing will be a wasted effort. Hand pumps won’t draw water if the table is deeper than 25 feet, and this 2-inch pipe is probably too small for submersible pumps—plus we have no power source for one, anyway.”
Ryan attached the next section of pipe. Malcolm climbed back up on the tailgate and hammered away. When it had gone down two feet, he poured water into the pipe from the tailgate, until it overflowed.
Then he waited. And waited.
“The water’s not going down!” he sang. “That’s good, right?”
“Yes!” Ryan gave him a thumb’s up. “It means we hit the water table.” Ryan took over again and pounded the pipe until it was waist-high above the ground before removing the driving cap. He then took a cardboard box out of the back of the truck and opened it. Inside was an old-style pitcher pump. He attached it to the end of pipe and cranked.
Water came out, clear at first. After twenty pumps it became horribly muddy. That only encouraged Ryan. Twenty more pumps and sand spilled out on to the ground along with the water.
“Woohoo!” Ryan said. He removed the pump and grabbed a bag from the truck bed. It was full of tiny gravel. He carefully poured handful after handful down the pipe, until he seemed satisfied. Then he reattached the pitcher pump.
Back to pumping. And pumping. More sandy water hit the ground at his soaking wet feet. Finally, after more pumps than Malcolm cared to count, the water poured clear and bright.
Ryan had his water bottle ready. He filled it from the pump, sealed it, and drew a long drink through the straw at the top.
“How is it?” Malcolm asked.
“Nice and cold. We did it!”
Malcolm ran to the trailer, fetched his own water bottle, came back, and filled it from the new well. He and Ryan sat on the tailgate of Spence’s truck and sucked down wonderfully cool H2O in the late afternoon sunlight.
Chapter Twenty Two
“Was it a …tough day?” Malcolm asked as they walked.
Hannah chuckled. “Tough half-day, thanks to you guys. Just more of the same, asking nervous citizens about people they haven’t seen—although I suspect some of them are liars. I must admit it is becoming difficult. More and more of the folks I’m questioning seem to think that because I’m from the government, I should somehow have solutions to all their problems. Or else they’re hoping I brought them food.” She stopped before a short row of mounded earth with knee-high leafy greens growing out the top. “I guess these must be the potatoes, huh?”
“Must be. So you’re looking for a counterfeiting gang that’s hiding out locally? What are you going to do if you find them, seeing as it’s only you?”
Hannah gave Malcolm an uncomfortable stare.
“Just wondering,” Malcolm stuttered.
Hannah smiled. “You’re sweet, Malcolm. I know you worry about me. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate it, because I do. It’s nice having someone care about you. Where’s my spare service pistol?”
Malcolm opened his jacket.
Hannah frowned.
Malcolm shrugged. “No good?”
“Not sure,” Hannah said. “I’m glad it’s not left in the trailer when no one’s there, even if this is a nice safe country neighborhood. But you’re not supposed to be wearing it. I could get in trouble.”
“How much trouble?”
Hannah shook her head. “Not sure about that, either. Probably nowhere near as much as I would have before the crisis started. I do want you to be safe. Ryan appears to have a sufficient supply of firearms, though.”
“He does.” Malcolm rolled his eyes.
Hannah frowned again. “Well, God forbid you should ever have to use one for protection—but if you do, it would be better if it wasn’t mine.”
“I understand.” Malcolm broke eye contact and looked away from her, a little too quickly.
“Have you fired it?” she asked in an elevated voice.
“I don’t think it matters which one of these we pull up.” Malcolm grabbed the stems of one of the potato plants. “This is like pulling a slot machine handle. Here goes nothing.”
“Malcolm…”
“Once or twice.”
“That gun isn’t for target practice, Malcolm. Only use it in an emergency.”
Malcolm looked away from her—again, too quickly—and pulled a ten-pound bunch of potatoes up from the Earth. “Hey, look at this.”
“Oh my God, you shot someone with it?”
Now Malcolm looked her straight in the eye. “If I did, do you honestly want to know?”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean …so you two had trouble getting here?”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a Sunday drive.”
“Neither of you got hurt?”
“No, thank God.” After a pause Malcolm looked down and muttered, “I had to shoot a pit bull.”
“Oh.” There was relief in Hannah’s voice. “I’m sorry, honey. I know you like dogs. So, just a pit bull, then? No people?”
Malcolm looked back at her. “Tell you what. I’ll gi
ve you the whole story of our trip, with all the details, if you do the same for me—about this case you’re working on.”
“No,” Hannah said. “No deal. Boy, Spence sure can grow potatoes. Let’s go cook them.”
Malcolm wasn’t sure if he was happy they weren’t exchanging stories. But he was ecstatic over Hannah returning in plenty of time to help with dinner. Spence had a nice place here. There was more to it than first met the eye. Hard to believe one old guy took care of it all. Malcolm wondered how much of it was inspired by Ryan. Spence had recently drilled his own shallow well, for irrigation purposes. He had fruit trees and plenty of vegetables growing, including a fair-sized greenhouse. Then there was the chicken coop. Everything here would probably eventually be duplicated on Ryan’s land. Unfortunately, that also meant Malcolm would probably be building it all.
“I have the oven warming up,” Spence said when he saw the potatoes. “Clean up six or eight of those in the sink, roll a little oil on them, and pop them in.” He spoke with a contagious enthusiasm. It had apparently been some time since Spence hosted a dinner party.
“Maybe we should grill the potatoes,” Ryan said coming in from the yard, “so we don’t use too much of your propane. I’ve got plenty of wood kindling. The way things are, it might be difficult to get your tank refilled.”
“I have more propane than aluminum foil,” Spence said. “And this is a special occasion.”
“All right, but we’re going to have to watch that. I mean, with four of us now using your shower and washing machine.”
“We’ll start watching that tomorrow. Tonight we dine Pittsburgh Steakhouse style.” He lifted one of the four New York strip steaks he thawed out. “Everyone okay with my special Cajun rub?”
“Sounds wonderful,” Hannah said.
“Did you grow this asparagus in your greenhouse?” Malcolm asked as he began washing potatoes.
Spence laughed. “No, that’s wild asparagus. Why I only have twenty stalks. I had to go out foraging for that.”
“What about the spinach?” Hannah asked. “I’m really looking forward to a nice spinach salad with dinner.”
“Ryan and I brought that,” Malcolm answered.
Hannah tilted her head.
They cooked up one of the finest meals Malcolm could ever remember eating, with the blackened steaks seared medium-rare over a hot fire. Spence opened a special bottle of red wine. Even Hannah was delighted by everything.
After cleaning up, they relaxed in the living room. Spence broke out the scotch bottle and turned the television on to a news broadcast. Malcolm sat right up next to Hannah at one end of the big couch. He refused any scotch, but Ryan eagerly joined Spence in a glass.
“Twelve days after the bond bombing touched off the financial crisis,” the deep-voiced anchorman said, “America has slipped further into bedlam. While the U.S. Dollar seems to have finally stabilized some in the foreign exchange markets, it has done nothing to help us domestically—especially with the price of gold hovering around $13,000 an ounce. Moreover, price tags on goods and commodities no longer appear to constitute a legitimate offer to sell. All over the country, we’ve gotten reports of merchants, the few who have kept their doors open, refusing to sell items for their advertised price even when well-to-do customers come in and agree to the hyper-inflated offer. Apparently, many retailers are displaying outrageous prices purely as a form of protest. When it comes right down to making a transaction, and their bluff is called, so to speak, they aren’t willing to accept U.S. currency in any amount.
“Gold is another story. The images you’re seeing now are of makeshift signs in front of retail stores declaring ‘gold, silver, and trades goods only.’ Signs such as these are suddenly commonplace. Our news team captured this video of a bicycle shop in Buffalo with a sign out front claiming ‘food trades only.’ Over the course of the day, people walked in with eggs, chickens, sacks of flour, boxes of produce, and even this one man who arrived with a pig on a leash. We don’t know if the pig was actually accepted in a transaction or not.”
“Two-wheeled vehicles are in demand,” Ryan muttered as he clinked the ice cubes in his glass. “But cyclers aren’t the best prospects for offloading fresh ham and bacon.”
Hannah shot him a quick glare.
“In reaction to all this,” the anchorman continued, “the Senate Banking Committee meets tomorrow in an emergency session. Federal Reserve Chair Jill Younger will be in attendance. Our sources tell us the committee will be presenting the Federal Reserve with a radical proposal for revaluing American currency. The last time such an action took place was in 1933, also in response to runaway hyperinflation, then caused by the great depression. The result was the infamous Executive Order 6102, shortly followed by the official Gold Reserve Act of 1934, in which the private ownership of gold reserves was outlawed in America, forcing all citizens to sell their excess gold to the U.S. Treasury at a fixed price of $35 per ounce. Foreign governments could then buy gold certificates from the United States at this price, which stabilized the foreign exchange markets. These actions, in combination with an increase in the M1 money supply forcing interest rates lower, resulted in a fixed value of the U.S. currency tied to the price of gold. Some economists consider the entire affair nothing more than a juggling act of smoke and mirrors, however, and doubt such measures would work in the modern world economy—but, according to our sources, that’s exactly the kind of thing the Senate Banking Committee will be proposing tomorrow. It will be interesting to learn the details, and see what Ms. Younger’s initial reaction will be.”
“Wow,” Ryan said between sips. “If they pull something like that off, you won’t be in such a bad position, Malcolm. Hell, you can afford an expensive haircut and still come away smelling like a multi-millionaire. Maybe we’ll get to be neighbors after all.”
This time it was Malcolm who glared at Ryan. But Ryan didn’t notice.
“One thing’s for certain,” the anchorman said, “whatever action the federal government takes to fix the financial crisis can’t be effected soon enough. The food shortage in our major cities has become critical. As a result, civil unrest is rapidly growing to frightening levels. Rioting and looting has become so widespread we can’t keep up with the reports. In virtually every major city, most grocery and convenience stores have been cleaned out and left in tattered ruins. Battling rioters has become the daily routine of big-city policeman and National Guardsmen. The death toll from these confrontations is climbing to wartime-like levels. At last count, more than three hundred police and military personnel have been killed in the line of duty since the crisis began. The civilian casualty count, by contrast, is well into the thousands, as law enforcement officers are now understandably shooting first and asking questions later when faced with violent opposition.
“A significant number of additional deaths being discovered are the result of civilian clashes. Determining which are homicides, and which are the outcome of lawful self-defense, is nearly impossible under the circumstances, as most of those involved are not bothering to even report the incidents.”
Malcolm glanced at Hannah from the corner of his eye. Good, she wasn’t looking at him.
“The highways are clogged with abandoned cars and most gas stations have temporarily closed, so those attempting to flee the cities must do so using alternate transportation. Two-wheeled vehicles are popular, with or without a motor. In some places, pedestrians have banded together for protection and are walking out in droves. Here you see footage of a group of at least a hundred civilians backpacking their way out of Atlanta, where some of the deadliest police confrontations have occurred.”
Malcolm turned to Hannah. “You’re not driving into Pittsburgh anytime soon, are you?” He tried not to sound bossy, and almost pulled it off. Almost. But instead of rebuking him, Hannah grabbed his arm, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She was becoming difficult to predict.
The scene on the television turned to one of a great crowd of
people camping in a field. The anchorman continued talking.
“Refugee camps like this one near Columbus are popping up on the outskirts of America’s largest cities. These makeshift communities of displaced residents uniting for mutual protection are attractive to those seeking sanctuary from civil unrest. But they are not without their own problems. Fights and even deadly duals have been reported as the new communities struggle to form their own internal leadership. The Governor of Ohio has assigned National Guard units to oversee the protection of this and other refugee camps within the state, and to distribute food from the occasional deliveries that can be procured. According to the governor, anyone who is hungry should make their way to one of these camps, as this is where the most of the government-supplied food shipments will be directed in the coming days.”
The scene switched to one of the Ohio Governor speaking.
“We can’t reliably get food deliveries into the major cities,” he said, “due to roadblocks and safety concerns. We therefore encourage those in need to locate the nearest camp, make your way there, and wait. Medical assistance and fresh water are being made available here, and food shipments are being organized as we speak. The camps are your best bet for the time being.”
“Wow,” Malcolm commented. “The whole world is suddenly living in homeless camps.”
“But food deliveries can’t be guaranteed,” the anchorman said as a picture of a crashed refrigerated truck came on the television. “Food trucks such as this one found ransacked near Lexington, Kentucky, have become popular targets for hijackers. Highway bandits are a new problem, according to authorities, as are home invasion robbers. Living outside a big city doesn’t mean you are automatically safe. Most food truck drivers now carry at least one armed guard with them—but, as you can see, it sometimes isn’t enough.”
“I sure hope Morris is okay,” Malcolm said.
Ryan shook his head. “That’s not his truck. His was a different shape. I’m sure he’ll be all right. Learned his lesson the hard way, but came out of it unscathed. Remember, he promised to stick to main highways and keep with the crowds from now on.”