“Al said you’re planning on bringing in a shitload of diesel. If that’s true then fuel shouldn’t be a problem. What will be a problem will be if you cram all those people into what’s essentially gonna be a sardine can. My guess is that within a week of stepping on each other’s toes and smelling each other’s farts, they’d all be ready to strangle each other.
“We could build a false ceiling over the first floor, sure. Seal off the second floor. But it wouldn’t be that much harder to build the false ceiling over the second floor instead. In exchange for using some additional fuel we’d give everyone some breathing room. People could hang out in the cells on the second tier to get away from the hustle and bustle. Maybe take a nap in relative peace. Or get away from somebody they didn’t like.
“And it would give you a lot more storage space. That’s more than a cell per person. Every cell that wasn’t used because somebody decided to pair up could be used for storage instead. Or turned into reading rooms or quiet rooms, or maybe a small sanctuary where people could go to pray. Maybe a designated cell where we could have a never-ending poker game to pass the time. Another one with a never-ending series of Monopoly games or something else to pass the time.
“You could use the tier itself for storage. Stack cases of bottled water four high around its outer edge. Another stack against the inner wall. I’m guessing you could store a thousand cases or better where they wouldn’t be in anybody’s way.”
Marty was impressed. That option was something he’d never have thought of. He had the feeling his job was going to be a lot easier by bringing these two on board.
“Will the walkway take on that load?”
“Oh, hell yeah. That’s heavy gage steel, well framed and well supported and welded to the building’s framework. It’ll hold anything you can throw at it.”
“Won’t it be harder to make a false ceiling above the second floor than the first?”
“A bit. But worth the extra effort. We’ll have to send one of your drivers out to my old yard and bring back a boatload of scaffolding. But it’s doable.”
“Okay. You’ve convinced me. Now, I want it well vented. If we can vent the block to the area above the false ceiling, will those outside windows above the second story shelves enough to carry out the bad air?”
“Do they open?”
“I don’t know. We can break them if we have to.”
“No, you don’t want to do that. Any drafts above the false ceiling will make it harder to moderate the temps beneath the ceiling. It’s better to run ductwork directly to the windows and cut holes for the ducts.”
“Sounds like I just need to step out of the way and let you boys do your thing. What can I do to help?”
“Put the word out to your drivers to watch out for construction materials. Sheetrock, plywood, studs, lumber in general. Insulation, doors. Foam of any type. Anything and everything. We’ll decide when we’ve had enough and will cut it off then. If there’s anything specific we need more of we’ll let you know.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
“If it’s just the two of us the project might take…oh, maybe a couple of months. If you want it faster than that a couple more bodies might be nice.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to our loose-lipped mayor.”
“Don’t take just anybody. Let me interview them if you can talk Al into that. I’ll see if I can find a couple of guys who have a little bit of experience where we need it.”
Marty walked away from the conversation feeling much better than he had when he’d walked into it.
-15-
Lenny Geibel was a good friend. And while he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, he was many other things.
He was immensely reliable and immensely loyal. If he said he was going to be someplace at a given hour, he was there early. If he said he was going to do something, he did it.
If he said he’d be your friend to the end, you knew darn well he’d be there for you.
Marty had known him for years. They’d survived the big thaw together, camping out under a huge plastic tarp they’d placed over the “donut hole” they’d created by arranging twenty four trailers into a rectangle.
That rectangle of trailers was their salvation for six and a half long years. It provided their sustenance and their entertainment.
A campfire they never let burn out provided their warmth, such as it was.
And their friendship kept them all from going insane.
Marty trusted Lenny with his life. But he knew in his heart he could only let Lenny have so much leash.
Oh, it wasn’t because he thought Lenny might betray him. He knew hell would freeze over before that happened.
No, his concern and reluctance to give Lenny too much freedom was borne of something else.
Lenny’s psyche.
In the old days, before the world took political correctness to the extreme, people like Lenny were called “slow.”
He had a heart of gold. A great personality. And he wasn’t stupid by any means. But his mind didn’t work like everyone else’s. He sometimes couldn’t see what was plainly obvious to others.
He trusted those who were blatantly untrustworthy.
He let his guard down at the worst possible times.
He let himself be taken advantage of.
He’d been cheated more times than he could count, and many times wasn’t even aware of it even after the fact.
That was Lenny’s life, his entire life.
Those who saw Lenny for the great friend he was, for the gentle soul he possessed, accepted him just as he was. They didn’t try to change him.
But the ones who were honorable did try to protect him, from those who weren’t.
Marty was afraid to give Lenny too much leash not because he expected Lenny to be an evildoer.
Rather, he kept Lenny under a close eye to make sure no others tried to take advantage of him.
The decision Marty and the mayor had made, to start gathering supplies to stock the old prison, was problematic in many ways. One of them dealt with Lenny, and Marty’s desire to protect him.
He’d been fairly safe at the truck stop after Marty moved to Eden to be with Glenna. The truck stop had several other employees now. Unpaid workers who aided travelers and kept the place tidy in exchange for permission to pick through the trailers and take what they needed.
Marty had selected them personally. Vetted them individually, and only allowed those who were trustworthy to stay.
There was another stipulation the employees had to agree to. A secret stipulation that Lenny knew nothing about.
His feelings would have been hurt, his pride bruised just a bit, if he’d known what Marty told the others.
“If you’re going to live here at the truck stop, you have to help watch over Lenny in my absence. He’s a lot like Forrest Gump. He’s the greatest guy in the world, but he doesn’t think well on his own. Bad people try to take advantage of that. I can’t be here all the time now, so I’ll need you to watch over him too.”
To a man, they’d all agreed.
The very nature of the prison project was problematic as it related to Lenny and his mental state. For if they were going to gather as much material as quickly as possible, they would have to run solo. To have Lenny ride shotgun on Marty’s runs would have reduced by half what they could gather working independently. They’d have to split up.
Marty didn’t like it.
But he did allow himself one slight concession.
The morning after he briefed his men he hatched a plan that would enable him to keep an eye on Lenny without making it seem too obvious.
“Each morning you and I will start out in tandem. We’ll cruise I-10 west looking for promising loads. When we find the first one, you’ll latch on and head back with it. I’ll keep going until I find the next one and grab it. That’ll put me back at the prison not long after you and we can watch each other’s backs.”
Marty departed Eden abo
ut five a.m. the next day and bobtailed it to the Trucker’s Paradise without a trailer in tow. He was there by six, and Lenny was in his cab waiting for him.
The pair drove about three quarters of a mile west and pulled up alongside an orange Home Depot trailer.
The back of the trailer was padlocked. A tin serial numbered seal indicated the trailer was at least partially loaded.
Lenny’s bolt cutters made quick work of the lock, then the seal.
The men climbed aboard the musty trailer.
It was a mess. Four pallets of paint had frozen solid during the freeze, causing their cans to rupture. The thaw allowed the paint to glob all over everything.
It was dry now, but the paint had acted as a very effective glue, forever sealing the wooden pallets to the floor of the trailer. Everything behind the paint would have to be unloaded by hand, one person handing it a piece at a time to another.
Marty’s first inclination was to pass it up and keep moving. But there might be something on the front of the load that was worth the trouble.
He climbed over the dried paint mess and worked his way to the front with a flashlight.
Most of the rest of the load was kitchen appliances, toilets and sinks.
His first inclination was right. They’d pass this one by.
A quarter mile later they stopped again. This one was easy to see. It was an open flatbed destined for a lumber yard.
Four pallets of plywood and two pallets of two by four studs. As a bonus, a pallet of sixteen foot-long two by tens.
It was a keeper for sure.
They walked around the trailer and inspected the tires. One tire was flat on each side, but the other three would carry the load.
“Go ahead and grab it,” Marty said. “If the air won’t build, switch out the line. If you’re still here when I come back through, I’ll stop and wait for you.”
“No problem.”
Marty hopped back in his rig and hauled ass down the highway. After another half mile he spotted a Wal-Mart trailer, locked and sealed. He pulled in front of it, then got out to take a cursory look at the tires.
One low tire. The rest looked good.
He backed beneath the trailer and hooked up the air line, then cranked up the feet as he listened intently for the tell-tale hissing sound that would indicate there was an air leak.
He heard nothing.
He crawled back up into his cab and crossed his fingers as he watched the air pressure gauge build.
At thirty five PSI he slapped the trailer brake release, but it wouldn’t depress.
He waited a bit longer.
At forty five PSI it gave way.
He watched both mirrors as he put the rig into gear and eased forward.
“Damn it!”
The driver’s side wheels were dragging.
He reset the brakes, stepped down from the cab and took a small sledge hammer from his tool compartment.
Brakes had a tendency to stick together on trailers left out in the weather. It generally happened most often in the wintertime, but could occur anytime to trailers after they sat for awhile.
It was generally a quick fix.
One whack. Two whacks. Then a third.
“That should do you, ya son of a bitch.”
He threw the sledge back in its compartment and climbed back into the driver’s seat.
Released the tractor and trailer brakes.
Then eased forward again, watching in his mirrors and hoping for the best.
All eight wheels on the trailer started rolling. They groaned and squeaked and probably cursed him in a language he’d never understand.
But they were moving.
There was a line in an old country song Marty had sung along to a thousand times in his over-the-road days.
Give me forty acres and I’ll turn this rig around. It’s the easiest way that I’ve found.
Actually, that was an exaggeration. It didn’t take anywhere near forty acres to turn a sleeper cab and a fifty-three footer around.
But it damn sure couldn’t be done on a two lane highway, even when there was a shoulder on each side.
The big green and white sign on the side of the highway proclaimed
DAWSON ROAD
1 MILE
Marty got up to speed and hauled ass toward the exit.
Once there he turned around and headed east.
It took him another eight miles to catch up with Lenny, and he followed his friend all the way to the prison.
It wasn’t a perfect system by any means. And he wouldn’t be able to watch over Lenny one hundred percent of the time.
But he’d be in the neighborhood should trouble ever arise. And if Lenny were to break down along the way, Marty would be along soon.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing.
-17-
David already had a buck and a doe. That might be enough in a pinch.
But sometimes does had a habit of miscarrying. Or never conceived at all. Sometimes bucks were sterile, or had no interest in mating.
Odds were greatly in favor of Mother Nature taking her due course and providing at least a couple of new fawns while they were in the mine.
But he’d rather not take any chances.
He’d been out all morning, trekking alongside a creek where he’d seen tracks on his previous hunts. He’d walked down a couple of runs, but they didn’t appear to be fresh and he doubled back to the creek each time.
The dart gun was way underpowered. It was fired by compressed air, and the dart was heavier than he’d have liked. But it did the trick.
It had brought down his first doe with no problem. She’d run for a hundred yards, then walked for another, before falling asleep peacefully on the forest floor.
He hadn’t been sure how long she’d be out and hog tied her quickly before hefting her into the small bed of the Gator.
His biggest fear was that she’d come to before he made it back to the compound, a twenty minute drive overland. Had she done so and thrashed about, she might easily have harmed herself and had to be put down.
He didn’t want to hit her with another dart for fear of overdosing her.
But he would if he’d had to.
Luckily he didn’t. She was still out of it when he drove through the door of the mine and deposited her into the specially constructed pen he’d designed and built just for her.
Karen watched over her until she came to, then fed and watered her as she bounded clumsily around her new quarters.
The buck had been a little harder.
He’d been bigger.
And he’d been more skittish.
David had eyes on him when he was about a hundred yards away. An easy shot with his Remington rifle.
But the tranquilizer gun left a lot to be desired.
A hundred yards was just too far away. The dart would start to drop after fifty. Would lose its momentum. Would start to wobble. If the deer heard the shot he’d bolt, and the dart might fall harmlessly to the ground or lodge itself into a tree where it couldn’t be reused.
David already had the breeze in his face. He knew it would carry his scent and much of the noise he made away from the deer.
That was a plus.
But the deer was extremely cautious. He stopped eating every few seconds to look around. He stopped chewing so he could hear better.
He seemed to sense he wasn’t alone.
Each time the buck put his head down to graze, David inched forward. A foot at a time, constantly watching for a wind change.
A couple of times the animal trotted away from David, into the brush, as though he knew there was danger nearby.
Or maybe just to find a better place to eat.
The conditions weren’t ideal. The breeze, when it blew, was generally in David’s direction. But it was spotty and uneven, and even threatened to change direction occasionally.
Once, at seventy yards, the breeze stopped completely.
David hun
kered down. If it changed direction, if the buck caught the scent of a human, he was royally screwed.
Lying close to the ground, he prepared for his shot. A shot at seventy yards was iffy. But if the buck bolted and ran he might never see him again. This might be the only shot he had.
It was a variation of what the old timers called “Kentucky windage.”
He knew the dart would begin to drop before it reached its target. So he aimed for a point a few inches above the beast.
And he’d aim for the flank.
He didn’t know why, exactly. Perhaps it was something he’d seen on a cable show in the past. Animal Planet, perhaps. He seemed to remember seeing a large animal being darted, and something about it being important that the injection be made into a muscle.
Rather than a soft fleshy part, where the injection might hit a vital organ and do damage to the animal.
Or maybe he was just imagining that. Remembering something his mind had just made up.
In any event, as he held his breath and started to ease the trigger back, he suddenly felt the breeze in his face again.
He wasn’t committed. He could forego the shot. It wasn’t too late.
He was conflicted. He could take the shot and hope for the best.
Or, he could move forward for a better shot, one with better odds of success.
And risk being discovered. Risk the buck scampering off into to the woods before he could get his shot lined up.
And risk being alone in the woods, empty handed and feeling foolish.
Sometimes a maybe is better than… well, another maybe.
He pulled the trigger. A soft pop and a whoosh, as the air forced the dart from the end of the barrel.
The deer was off like a shot, but it was too late. David could plainly see the dart stuck into his haunch.
He stood up. Looked at the place the deer had been standing merely a breath before.
He had to hurry. He didn’t have much time.
-18-
The doe had dropped after a couple of hundred yards. This time his prey was larger and given the same dosage. He was more skittish, sure. His heart would be pumping faster, perhaps. Perhaps the drug would get into his bloodstream faster. Then to his brain. Perhaps his fear would do him in. Cause him to fall faster.
A New Start: Final Dawn: Book 9 (Volume 9) Page 6