by Joel Shaw
“As I recall, you were pretty excited about the project when we were designing the dome.”
“That was then. This is now.” Milton continued to mutter.
“Come on, Milt, let’s make this happen. A few years from now nobody will remember that Quarry Eight exists. I've already deleted it from the reserve records. As far as the public is concerned, it no longer exists. Only you, Leland and I will have access to it, and once it is covered we will have a reliable water supply for years to come.”
“What happens if someone discovers the quarry years from now? What if somebody gets lost in the park and stumbles on the entrance to the quarry or the police are out there searching for someone or a hunter is out there and he finds the quarry. What happens then, Harold? You gonna invite them in for a swim?”
“We stick with our original plan, Milt. We’ll make a gate, lock it and hang a sign on it stating that the quarry is contaminated. That should be a sufficient deterrent for anyone who may stumble on the gate. Also, we can disguise the entrance with some larger pieces of granite, make it difficult to find the entrance. We’re doing the right thing. If this drought continues, it’s only a matter of time before a state or federal agency takes an interest in the millions of gallons of water held in these quarries. If we can make ours disappear before that happens, we will have done the community a huge favor.”
"So, you wanna do this for the good of the community, huh?”
"I know what you're thinking, Milt. You have doubted my motives all along. To be honest I'm not sure what we will do with two million gallons of water. I'm sure of one thing though; if we don't claim some water for ourselves we will be fighting for it in the not too distant future."
"So you keep saying, Mr. Cooke. So you keep saying. All right, let's get busy. If this is my legacy, I want it to be done right."
“Good, that’s the spirit my friend. I'll call Phil and tell him that the project is a go. He can haul the steel to the staging area this week. We'll complete the site prep and hopefully get the first truss in place on Saturday."
"Whatever you say, boss."
Harold knew he could count on Milton to do a good job on the dome. Milton took great pride in his work and did not tolerate shoddy workmanship, especially on something that he had helped design. What he wasn't sure of was the aftermath, the battle of conscience which would ensue once the job was complete. Keeping the quarry secret would be the challenge.
“Let’s go Milt.” Harold grabbed his sunglasses and hat before exiting the office.
Milton grabbed a protein bar from his desk drawer, noting that he soon needed to replenish his supply of snacks.
"Hey HC, we need to take a trip to MaoMart tonight? My snack drawer is looking real empty and I got a feeling I’d better fill it up. I may not get another chance.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Haven’t you heard the news, man? There’s thousands of folks from down south coming north in search of water and food. They can have the water, they ain’t getting any snacks. We gotta’ get to the store, man.”
Harold dismissed the news of the human tsunami as nothing but rumor.
“Sure, Milt, we can go tonight, but let’s get to work now.”
Harold mounted his favorite machine and turned the key, allowing the igniters to warm before starting the engine, holding his breath while the belch of black carbon dissipated. He maneuvered the skid-steer loader through the twelve foot overhead door into the sunlight, steering it toward Quarry Eight. He sighed. At long last, his dream was about to become a reality.
Harold snickered to himself as he thought about how his motivations differed from Milton’s. He knew Milton would obsess about his dwindling supply of goodies in his snack drawer. Milton would work with a sense of urgency now that he had something to look forward to at the end of the day. The monthly trips to MaoMart always put a bounce in the fat man’s step. It had occurred to Harold to get some special food for the Milton as an incentive, like the fable of the carrot dangling just out of reach of the donkey in order to get him to trot down the road, he needed a big goddamn carrot to dangle from the cab of Milton’s bulldozer. The visualization caused him to burst into laughter, his hands slipped off the dual control sticks of the heavy loader causing it to lurch to a stop, throwing him forward into the mesh of the safety cage. He massaged his bruised forehead with both hands, relieving the pain with his laughter.
That's it, not one carrot, but dozens of carrots. He was stunned that the thought hadn't occurred to him earlier. “Food is what he wants, food is what he’ll get.”
He grabbed the controls, thrusting them full speed forward, churning the dry soil beneath the spinning tracks of the loader into a cloud of dust that engulfed he and his newfound excitement.
"Let's go Bob. We have work to do." He piloted Bob through a series of joyful 360s. "You treat me right Bob and I'll treat you right." As spun, he could see Milton guiding the Caterpillar D-9 bulldozer out of the shed; the enormous steel work-horse, normally used to push dirt, was now going to do battle with rubble, rock and steel. He stuck his hand out the side of the cage, signaling Milton to hurry up. Milton responded with the middle finger salute. Harold laughed. He was sure Milton's attitude would change when he too saw the carrots.
chapter 5 - THREE YEARS LATER - JUNE 4th
Milton was first to return to the machine shed. His black skin, now covered with red and white granite dust, looked as though it had been rubbed with barbecue spices. His body ached everywhere after twelve hours spent on the saddle of the massive bulldozer pushing granite grout and sediment around the perimeter of Quarry Eight.
Milton maneuvered the bulldozer into its stall inside the machine shed and shut it down. As the reverb from the engine faded inside the metal structure, he could hear the familiar clanking of the Bobcat’s rotating tracks advancing through the parking lot causing multitudes of grasshoppers to take flight.
Harold parked the Bobcat next to the dozer. He gave the machine a fond pat, thanking it for another productive day. Now, he could hear muffled screams emanating from Milton’s rustic shower enclosure at the rear of the large shed which now severed dual purpose, both as garage and home.
Harold, along with his six year old son Leland, and Milton had decided to move into the machine shed early in the spring. They were spending more time at the park than they were at home and it made sense to eliminate the additional time and fuel expenditure going to and from their house some ten miles distant. The housing development on the outskirts of town was nearly abandoned as was Milton’s apartment complex. Milton was more than happy to vacate his apartment, taking only his clothes, bedding, mattress and his music collection loaded on an old IPod. The landlord remained, alone, hoping against reason that his tenants would return someday.
Constructing a living space at the rear of the 100 foot x 40 foot shed had become a series of competitive events driven more by testosterone than rational thinking. They both had completed their “bedrooms” that measured seven feet tall, ten feet wide and ten feet long, each had a small window overlooking of a small patch of woods behind the shed.
Currently, they were working on showering facilities. They couldn’t agree on a design so they decided to see which of them could build the best shower.
Milton’s was nothing more than a seven-foot length of a three-foot diameter, galvanized culvert pipe standing on end with a door cut out just large enough for his ample stomach to pass. What little available hot water he enjoyed was provided by a five-gallon plastic jug painted black perched on a sunny platform on the roof.
Harold, on the other hand, was taking a more cerebral approach. He filled his evenings with shower design sketches and modifications, determined to out do Milton in showering features with such amenities such as dual shower heads. His project had been stalled for weeks due to a mechanical malfunction in his automatic shading device which was meant to regulate the temperature of the water in the holding tank by periodically lowering a reflec
tive shield over the tank for a predetermined amount of time. Something was wrong with his timing device. It lowered the shield on schedule but did not lift it again, thus preventing the water from re-heating on a regular basis. Often times he was forced to take cold showers accompanied by Milton’s icy ridicule.
Milton peeked from behind his plastic shower curtain displaying his wide, white smile for the benefit of Harold. "Hey HC, this hot water sure feels good, man.”
"Wait until I finish mine," Harold bragged. "I'll be swooning in steam long after you have run out of hot water."
“You’ll be swooning in hot air more than likely, man. We haven't had enough rain in four years to fill that twenty gallon tank you have up on the roof.”
“It’s a ten gallon tank and it will rain, Milt. Believe it." Harold stood on the concrete floor of the machine shed scrubbing his dry, flaking scalp rapidly with both hands. He poured a little water out of his water jug into a towel and mopped his face with it, noting that his towel was not coming clean after the vigorous weekly hand washings he gave it. He made a mental note to look for some more towels on their trip into town.
"I hope it rains before we complete the dome. It would be nice if we could get a few thousand gallons into her before we close her up."
Milton stepped from the shower cylinder. He was thinking that it would be nice if it rained so much that they could abandon the entire cover-up project. He looked at Harold who was busy wiping the dust from his body with a damp towel.
"Did you finish the footings for number one truss?"
Harold spit dust before he spoke.
“I did, and I got a good start on the north end of the second truss. I think we'll be ready to drill for the anchor bolts by the end of the week.
“Hey man, that reminds me, we have to get some more gas for the generator. I heard on the news this morning that gas went up a buck overnight; it’s ninety-one dollars a gallon today. That’s four hundred and fifty-five dollars for five gallons of gas. Right? Do you believe that? We’ll have to rob the damn bank." Milton said as he slipped an aired out pair of coveralls over his naked body.
“I think it’s too late for that. There was a run on my bank last week,” Harold said. “I was there trying to close my savings account. There was a line out the door and all the way down to the corner of 1st Street. There must have been a hundred people in line. The manager was walking up and down the line telling people not to worry because the FDIC guarantees their deposits. He was definitely worried. He had no idea how the FDIC would distribute funds since the Federal Reserve is no longer in business and the internet is literally broken. I was fortunate to have gotten down there early.
Milton nodded. “I closed my bank accounts over a year ago and stashed my cash. I emptied my safety deposit box, too. I knew the whole freaking’ banking system was gonna’ collapse. I’ll throw some of my cash in the fuel kitty. May as well spend it. I don't think the dollar will be worth shit in a couple of years. Cash ain’t worth much. Spend it now... I don’t care. I wish I had bought more gold a few years ago. I knew I should have, I just procrastinated. Price of gold went through the roof last year. Five thousand dollars an ounce.” “My wedding ring would been worth a couple thousand.” He let out a low whistle.
Harold rinsed his washcloth and continued wiping the grit from his face. “We have a commodity worth trading."
"Yeah? Like what?" Milton asked.
“Like water.”
“Yeah. Yeah! I didn’t think of that, HC. You think we could trade water for fuel?"
“That’s a damn good idea, Milt. Let’s find out. I'll call Lester. I think his gas station is still open.”
"You crazy? How you gonna call him, HC? You gonna’ walk outside and yell? Or did you forget that cellphones don’t work anymore?”
“No, I didn’t forget; I was thinking about the landline, Milt. The phone company supplies power for the phone through the phone wires. Even if the grid is dead, they have still have power because they have battery backup.” He thought for a moment. “ I guess I shouldn't take that for granted." Harold walked into the small office and picked up the dust-covered handset, holding it to his ear.
"Yup. I've got a dial tone."
He pulled the old Rolodex from high up on a shelf, blew the dust off and flipped through the cards until coming to the one for Lester’s Fuel Depot. He punched in the number and waited.
"Yeah, hello. Is Lester there?"
"Hey Lester, this is Harold Cooke. Yeah, I'm still in town. I'm glad you are too. I know, it is becoming a ghost town. Uh huh... You bet... Listen, How are you fixed for gas? A hundred bucks a gallon? You're pumping it out by hand? You're kidding, right? Damn. Sounds like you have your hands full over there. Yeah, me too. Listen, I have a proposition for you. Would you be willing to trade some gas for some water. How much? A hundred gallons of water for a gallon of fuel? Delivered? How about fifty? Sixty five. Seventy. OK, it’s a deal. Seventy-five gallons of water for a gallon of gas. Do you have something to store water in? In your water heater? I guess that will work. Friday? OK. Thanks Lester. Yup. Glad to help. See you Friday. Milton is coming with. Yeah, you too. See ya, Les.
Harold hung up the phone. "Did you catch that?
“I got the gist of it,” Milton said.
“He wants seventy-five gallons of water for one gallon of gas.”
“I got that...what’s going on out at his place?”
He said he has about three hundred gallons of fuel left and he doesn’t expect to get another delivery. His supplier told him most of the US refineries are off line due to the shortage of crude. Just a couple in Texas and New Jersey still operating.”
“Yeah, we saw that one coming fifty years ago. I even said it... you remember that?
“Let me finish. He doesn’t have any power. A truck slammed into a distribution facility and knocked the power out on the entire north side of town. AXIS Energy is not going to fix it. Customer Service told him the north side customer base does not make it economically feasible to maintain the grid. Said they’d have to move to the other side of town if they want power.”
Milton stopped chewing for a second. “That means we will be losing power soon, too. Soon as some asshole runs into a power pole in our neighborhood.”
“You’re probably right. Anyway, he really needs water. He’s flushing the toilet manually using water drained from the store’s water heater which is almost empty. He locked the bathrooms yesterday because his customers where still using the toilet even though it wouldn’t flush.”
“Man, that’s disgusting,” Milford said, gagging at the thought of their own outhouse which was beginning to stink terribly.
“Not only that, but there are several car loads of refugees parked outside waiting for him to sell them some gas. He told them he’s out. They didn’t buy it. He's scared. He and his brother are patrolling the property carrying loaded shotguns. He wants us to wait until Friday to make the trade. He hopes those folks will leave of their own accord. If they don’t...well there is going to be trouble.
“So how much gas can we get? Or, should I ask, how much water does he want?” Milton unwrapped his last granola bar and stuffed it in his mouth. “Mmmmm.”
“He said he’d like to fill his one-hundred-fifty gallon tank in the store and the five hundred gallon tank in the car wash , so what’s that ... thats six hundred fifty gallons of water divided by 75...” Harold closed his eyes as he tried to do the math in his head.
“8.66 ... call it 8.5 gallons of gas,” Milton interjected. “That ain’t much gas, HC.”
“It will have to do...for now.”
“ Ain’t enuff.” Milton said as he forced a peanut butter cup into his already full mouth.
“I know, smart ass. If that’s not enough, we’ll have to find some more.”
“Yeah, like everyone in the country isn’t looking for gasoline.”
“For the time being, all we have to do is deliver the water. We can use the pump truck for that if
their's enough diesel in it. Is there?"
Milton studied his empty snack drawer, wetting his finger before using it like a tiny mop, picking up the crumbs in the corners. This was serious. Real serious.
“Milton, are you listening to me?”
“What? Yeah. Yeah. I hear you, man. We’re in good shape as far as diesel goes. Shouldn't be a problem. We might have another problem, man. If there are strangers coming into town and we are one of the few rigs rolling down the road and we are hauling water, we may attract unwanted attention. You know what I'm sayin' ?"
"I know exactly what you are saying, Milt. I was thinking the same thing. I guess we can take the .22 rifle. That's all I have.”
"I have an old Army issue .45 that my grandpa owned. I'll bring that. You bring the 22. I'll ride shotgun. It'll be like the wild west." He tried to laugh but the reality of a collapsing economy, failing infrastructures, a thirsty, pissed off populace and no snacks was too dark a picture to illuminate with laughter.
"Did he ask where you are getting the water?"
"No. I assume he knows that it's coming from the quarries."
"You better be careful about mentioning the quarries, Harold. You and I think about them all the time because we work around them every day. I don't think many other folks give them much thought. You know what I'm saying. Everyone still living in town is going to the river for water because it's the obvious water source. Nobody has been out here for water since quarries 18 and 19 dried up. I think the assumption is that all the quarries are dry or contaminated. Let's keep it that way. You feel me? Tell him we get our water from the river, too."
"That won't fly, Milt. Have you been down to the river lately? Folks from town are camped side by side along both shores of the river as far as you can see in either direction. They’re actually staking claims and defending their water rights. It’s frightening to say the least. All those folks doing their laundry, bathing and drinking out of one stream. I wouldn’t drink from the river without boiling the water, and in this case we’d have to boil six hundred and fifty gallons of water. That isn’t going to happen.”