Siege of New Hampshire (Book 2): Siege Fall

by Mic Roland

  “Hey there,” Martin said to the large man. “What are they doing?” The question felt lame, but it was an attempt at conversation.

  “Guy’s gonna try and run that one pump from his little generator. We’re all waiting to see if he can pull it off. Not much other gas in town. Lines at the Shell were too long.”

  “I could use some more,” Martin said. “Hopefully, they don’t run out too quickly. I’m not too far back in line, so maybe I’ve got a shot at it. That’s my truck, parked behind yours.”

  “Ah. We’ll see,” said the man. “So far, it doesn’t look like they know what they’re doing.”

  Helpful bystanders were stepping up to offer advice, which was either contradictory or unwelcome. The manager waved off their various suggestions and continued directing his minions.

  “Looks like show time,” said the large man. The manager started up the little generator and let it run for a minute. Then, with great ceremony, he clamped on the second spring clamp.

  Sparks flew like fireworks gone wrong. A fire broke out beside the generator and quickly spread to the pump. One of the employees deployed a fire extinguisher, dousing the pump, manager and bystanders with foam. Someone from the crowd started spraying with a second extinguisher. The fire was out fairly quickly, but the tempers were not.

  A rancorous argument flared up between the opinionated bystanders, the manager, and foam-drenched spectators. It nearly coming to blows. Others in the crowd took one side or the other.

  “Well that stinks,” said the large man. “Looks like they won’t be getting any gas after all.” He turned to walk to his truck. Martin followed.

  Martin studied the man’s truck. On the shallow flatbed, ahead of the mowers, was a red metal tank. Atop it sat a hose and nozzle. “Is that a gas tank in the back of your truck?” Martin asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s empty. That’s what I was hoping to fill.”

  “Is that a pump on top of it?”

  “Uh, yeah. Why?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking. They blew up their pump out there, and their generator, but what if you used your pump? You know, attach a hose to it, run that down into the underground tank through one of the filling ports? You could pump their gas. Probably even deal to get some for free in exchange.”

  The large man stopped and stroked his short beard. “Hmm. That pump does have a good draw. Probably could draw up fifteen feet or more, but it’s 12 volt DC. Have to pull my truck up close.”

  Martin walked back and pointed to one of the filling ports in the concrete paving. “Yeah. Pull up over here and set up. Might be slower than a regular gas pump, but it would be something.”

  “I like that,” said the large man. He and Martin walked up to the roiling squabble, but the manager was too engrossed in his arguments to hear the large man or Martin trying to speak to him.

  Angry at being ignored, the large man stomped back to grab one of the heavy steel port covers. He stomped back and spiked it onto the concrete near the epicenter of the arguments. Stunned by the loud clang, everyone stopped and stared.

  “Everyone: Just. SHUT. UP.” A large and seething man was a good follow up to a loud clang for keeping the peace. “My little friend here has a suggestion. Shut up and listen.”

  Martin related his idea to the manger, who dismissed it at first as impossible. The large man scowled at the manager who then tried to justify his objection with technicalities.

  “But there’s no way to meter the amounts. How will I know how much anyone takes or how much to charge them? And besides, I don’t have that much change in the till…”

  Not one to be put off by technicalities, Martin continued. “How’s this? Don’t pump it into cars directly. Have my large friend here pump the gas into a five gallon bucket, but marked for four gallons so it won’t spill as easily. Use a funnel to pour it into the cars. Yeah, like that long one that guy has over there. Everyone can get just four gallons. Four is better than nothing. You could charge, say, five dollars per gallon, so each customer pays twenty dollars. Easy math. Easy change. They get some gas. You get some profit.”

  “Five dollars a gallon?” asked the large man. “That’s like double the real price.”

  “True,” Martin said, “but if this was the last gas in town, would you pay five bucks per gallon to get some?”

  The large man nodded thoughtfully. He addressed the crowd in a booming voice. “If we can get a pump running, who’s willing to pay five bucks a gallon to get some gas?” Some hands were raised. Others nodded their heads. Still others murmured agreement. Only a few grumbled about the price. “Well, if you don’t like, you can leave. Price is five bucks a gallon.”

  The manager was warming to the idea too, since it meant a tidy profit. He agreed. The large man pulled his truck up to a port pointed out by the manager. A long rubber hose was attached to the end of the pump’s draw tube and lowered into the underground tank. Duct tape secured the pump to the truck’s bumper.

  “Okay. We’re all set,” said the large man. He turned on the pump. After some gurgling and spurting, gasoline began to flow into the bucket. The crowd cheered.

  “And, my little friend here gets his four gallons for free.” The manager was about to object. “Hey, it was his idea, without him, you’d still be over there arguing.” The manager acquiesced.

  “Thanks guys,” said Martin.

  One of the employees held a long-necked funnel up to Martin’s truck. Martin poured slowly, but still spilled a couple times from pouring too quickly. The needle on his gas gauge moved up a little. At least it’s something, Martin thought.

  He waved to the large man as he drove away. The large man had both hands operating the pump, so could only nod in return. The next car in line pulled up to the makeshift filling station.

  On the drive home Martin tried to calculate how much gas they had between their two vehicles and what he had stored in the shed. A few gallons should be kept in the Focus to use if we really needed to drive somewhere, he reasoned. The Focus got much better mileage than his truck, so could go farther. But, the Focus would not haul very much if they needed to haul anything or go somewhere that needed four wheel drive. A few gallons should be left in the truck too. The majority of their gas, however, could go toward the generator or the chainsaws. He still had a couple bottles of Sta-bil in the shed.

  In the coming cold of winter, they could use ice for the freezer or set things outside at night to freeze. They would not need to run the generator every day. If they rationed their gas carefully, there might be enough left to run the chainsaws and splitter in the Spring for next winter’s wood. Chainsaws were a lot less work than his two-man saw, although he and Margaret had gotten pretty good with it. Martin felt a little better about their prospects. Life without gasoline would be very different, but hardly the end of the world.

  Martin smiled, remembering how Hollywood writers of post-apocalyptic movies could not really imagine a world without plentiful fuel. Like infinite ammunition, fuel was presumed to always be there. Even in classics like Mad Max, in which fuel was supposedly so rare that it was worth killing for, the bad guys constantly drove around the desert in huge trucks and hotrod dune buggies as if fuel were no concern at all. Or, in some post-apocalyptic novels, evil biker gangs would continually maraud through the countryside with apparently limitless fuel for their Harleys.

  Martin did not have Hollywood’s infinite supply of fuel, but it felt like a workable amount if they were very careful.

  —

  Martin found Margaret at the dining room table with several open books, a stack of papers and a calculator. He wondered where Susan was, but knew better than to have the first thing to ask his wife was where Susan was. Life in a minefield requires constant vigilance. “What are you doing?” He asked as he hung up his coat.

  “Calculating.”

  Martin waited for more, but it did not come. “Obviously, but what?”

  “How long our food will last, assuming this is all we can g
et.”

  “Oh?” Martin pulled up a chair.

  “Yeah. Based on what we saw at Market Basket, there probably won’t be any more grocery runs for a long time. From what you were saying about how the power is out this time, it doesn’t sound like they’ll be fixing it soon. You said, maybe a few months?”

  Martin shrugged. “At best, but that’s just a guess.”

  “Well, let’s say you’re right and the power stays out for three months. Even if it comes back on around mid-January, how soon before fuel starts being produced, factories resume production, trucks start to roll and stores get re-stocked?”

  Martin stared at the tablecloth as he calculated. A cold restart of such a complex economy would be spotty, at best. Some places might return to normal a couple months after the fuel flowed. Some areas might not see normal again for almost a year. “Could be a couple months or more after that,” he said.

  “That’s what I was thinking too,” said Margaret. “Say they get the power back on in mid-January. A couple months after that would mean stores might have more food to buy around mid-March…optimistically?”

  “Okay…” Martin gestured for her to continue.

  Margaret leaned back and blew a breath through pursed lips. “I went through everything we have in the house now, including our new stuff from today, trying to figure out how long it would last if we couldn’t get more. This is just a quick estimate, mind you. I haven’t had time to figure out things like vitamins and nutrients yet: just the basics of carbs and proteins.”

  Martin leaned forward. This was a crucial bit of information for future planning.

  “On the plus side, we have far more than we need in the way of sugars: jams, jellies, things like that. Those aren’t carbs we could subsist on, however. Looking at just our basics, and a 2,000 calories-a-day diet, with normal intake, etc., we would have had enough to get us well beyond March, if it were just the two of us.” Martin gave her a stern look. “I know, I know,” she said. “Just saying ‘if’.”

  Susan burst through the back door, making considerable noise. “Whew! It’s a lot of work pumping that water. It’s really heavy too!” She set down the two buckets and closed the door.

  “Put one on the counter,” Margaret said. “And the other near the wood stove.” Susan took a deep breath and resumed hauling her buckets.

  “But with three of us,” Margaret continued softly. “We’ve only got enough carbs from the wheat, pasta and rice to last into mid-January. Proteins might only make it to Christmas — if we stretch things. Plain and simple: if we can’t get more from someplace, we don’t have enough food for three people to last until March.”

  Chapter 2: The Lineman

  “Aagh!” Susan let out a small yell as she ran around the corner of the garden. Close at her heels ran the flock of chickens.

  “Throw some feed to one side,” Martin yelled from the woodpiles. Susan expelled the handful of scratch grains as if casting out a demon. The chickens ran for the scattered seed.

  “They were attacking me! You saw it!” Susan exclaimed.

  Martin tried not to laugh. “That’s not ‘attacking’. That’s enthusiasm. Get ready to throw another handful. They’re almost done.”

  Susan quickly grabbed and threw another handful, overhand, going for distance. The chickens ran further away to peck at the new prizes. “You didn’t tell me they would be so…aggressive.”

  “They just love their breakfast. You’re carrying the magic orange bucket. That makes you the Official Bringer of Breakfast — and instantly their favorite person.”

  “Bah. Favorite. I don’t know if I want to be that close to them. Their feet are so…” she shuddered. “…dirty.”

  “Then maybe you should take the bucket inside before they start looking for more. They’ve had enough anyhow. I’ll be in shortly when I’m done with these tarps. I could go for another cup of coffee.”

  As Martin sipped his coffee at the table, Margaret came upstairs with a tattered box in her arms. “I found it!” she said. “I knew I’d seen our old fireplace set somewhere out in the shed. It was behind Christmas decorations, but I found it.”

  “Why were you looking for that?” Martin asked. “Is one of ours broken?”

  “No. It’s for the Walkers. They haven’t used their wood stove for years and they think they gave away their tools. Lance is getting the stove back in shape, but they’ll need a poker and tongs and such. We weren’t using our old set, so I told Miri I’d bring it over. They need more kindling too.”

  “That’s cool. Glad someone gets some use out of it,” said Martin. “I’ll help you carry over some kindling when we get home from the meeting. It’s up at town hall and starts at 9:00, remember? I’ve got some coffee in the thermos. Get your coat.”

  “I can’t go to any meetings, Martin. I promised to bring Miri and Lance these tools and some kindling. They want to make a test fire this morning. Check for leaks. Then I have to go help Jess with her kids. She’s been feeling poorly lately and I figured I’d take her over a box of cereal and a couple jars of jam.”

  “What? Yesterday, you were saying that we…” Martin was about to remind her that she said they would run out of food, but Susan was listening and he did not want her to feel like any more of a burden than she already did. “Do we have enough jam to be giving it away?” He tried to use emphasis to imply the problem they had both discussed without saying more.

  Margaret understood. She glanced at Susan. “We can only eat so much jam, Martin. We have enough jam to last three years.”

  “Okay, but still. Giving food away? You said…”

  “Oh all right. How about I trade her for a can of tuna or something?”

  “Yeah, that’s better, but jam can wait until after the meeting,” Martin insisted. “Come on. It’ll be like old times. We might learn more about what’s going on.”

  “I still can’t go, Martin. I promised these other people I’d help them. I simply can not let them down. I told them I’d be over this morning.”

  “Maybe I could go?” Susan asked reluctantly.

  “What?” Margaret was startled.

  “I mean, if it’s okay with you.” Susan faced Margaret. “I’ve filled up all the water buckets, put more on the stove to heat and hauled in some more wood.” Susan pointed at the full wood rack beside the stove. “I really don’t know what else to do around here.”

  Margaret’s dilemma left her short for words.

  “It’s just that,” continued Susan. “you’ll be gone helping the neighbors, so I’d be here all by myself and…well…I’ve never been to a real town meeting before,” Susan continued to plead her case before the judge. “Heck, I’ve never even voted for anything before. I mean, what’s the point in Massachusetts, right? I’d kinda like to see if, you know, a small-town meeting actually is ‘real democracy’ or what? I’ll sit way in the back and won’t make a sound. Honest.”

  Inner struggled continued to play across Margaret’s face. She had painted herself into a corner. Martin knew she had little fondness for civic matters and felt much more fond of helping others. On the other hand, such meetings were typically husband-and-wife events on the social level.

  “You sure you can’t come?” Martin coaxed Margaret. “I’d like it if you came.”

  “But I promised to help Miri and Jess,” Margaret said with a bit of a whine in her voice.

  “I understand,” Martin sighed. He had hoped she would adjust her schedule, but he knew how seriously she took her personal commitments.

  “I could come and help you at the neighbors,” Susan said to Margaret. Her tone was less than enthused.

  Margaret’s dilemma got more complicated. Martin recognized the little sideways glance of her eyes: a subtle gesture of impatience he had seen many times when their kids were young and wanted to ‘help’ with the baking or the sewing. Martin had also noticed that neither woman ever used each others’ names when they spoke to each other.

  “No,” said M
argaret. “That won’t be necessary. I can manage. I suppose you might as well go to the meeting.” The lesser of two evils.

  Susan quickly stifled a smile. “Oh. Okay. I’ll sit way in the back,” she tried to reassure Margaret. “And I’ll take notes so you’ll know what they talked about.”

  Margaret gave Martin a weary glance he knew to mean ‘oh brother.’ “That would be fine. You’d better get going if the meeting starts at 9:00. Martin? If you could get out the wagon first, I’d appreciate it.”

  –

  While Martin and Susan walked up the dirt road towards town, Susan tried not to walk too closely beside Martin. “I kind of did it again, didn’t I? I could tell she wasn’t happy about my coming to the meeting. But, I would just have been sitting around the house doing nothing,” she pled her case before a different judge.