by Joel Shaw
“So? Is he going to drink it or flush his toilet with it? Milton asked.
“He needs drinking water, Milt.” Harold paused. “I have an idea. I’ll tell him we’re getting it from the abandoned Pepsi bottling plant in town. As a matter of fact, we should check that out. Maybe there is some water left in one of the tanks over there."
"That sounds plausible, but don’t tell him anything unless he asks, HC. You are a lousy liar.”
Harold let the comment go. “OK, that’s settled. I can’t wait to get started on the drilling. Are you cutting the I-beams yet?”
“Not yet, I still have some dozer work to finish.”
"How are you fixed for acetylene and oxygen? Is there enough to do the preliminary cutting?"
"I think we have plenty. I noticed that Simm's Welding Supply abandoned their lot last week. I cut through their fence last Saturday night and found a half-dozen hundred pound cylinders of gas, both oxygen and acetylene, in the shed. We should get them before someone else does. Simms won’t be back, I talked to him about a month ago and he told me he landed a good contract in Ashland, Wisconsin building refugee shelters out of shipping containers. Can you imagine living in one of those steel boxes?”
“I don’t think that would be so bad from a security standpoint. Can’t beat a steel house,” Harold said.
“Whatever. He said he wasn’t coming back. His loss is our gain. You know what I'm sayin'?"
"I do. Should we go by there before we head to MaoMart?”
“Hell no. I need snacks. Let’s do the MaoMart thing first, come back, unload and head over to Simm's after dark. Let’s forget about the the Pepsi bottling plant for now. I need some sleep.”
“Right, feed and rest the beast so the beast can work. Got it.”
“I don’t feel much like a beast. More like a scarecrow.” Milt sighed.
He was losing weight. His pants bunched together at the waist, were tied in place with a length of rope. He had never weighed less than two-hundred-ninety pounds; he now weighed in at two-hundred-twenty pounds of uncomfortable flesh. He was suffering from frequent anxiety attacks now that their pantry was closer to empty than full. He recently had consumed the last of the canned meat. He chastised himself for being a glutton, having failed in his many attempts to ration the corned beef hash, then the tuna, and finally the Spam. He couldn't help himself. "I'm a carnivore goddamn it," was all he could say in his defense. Fortunately, Leland and Harold didn't like the canned meat so there was no need to share. Now that it was gone he was having to face the consequences of his unabated appetite, which was why he spent most evenings on his bicycle exploring abandoned properties looking for food.
"Do I look thinner?" he called to Harold.
"Yeah, now that you mention it, you do look kinda skinny. You could be a fashion model.”
"Fuck you, Harold. I'm serious. Does it look like I’ve lost weight?"
"Yeah, Milt. You do look thinner. You can stock up on Twinkies and put those lost pounds back on in a couple of months if you want to.
Harold finished his sponge bath and put on the cleanest of his dirty pair overalls.
"Let's go pick up Leland.”
“At Fayes?”
“Yup.”
"How's that working out?"
"Good, so far. I'm trading childcare for ten gallons of water a day. That reminds me, I promised to scrounge up a water storage container for her. She wants to put one in her garage so she has an emergency water supply. I think she has room for a couple five hundred gallon containers. Since you are becoming the consummate picker, do you have any idea where I can find a couple of large containers?”
"Is she going to stay put or leave town with everyone else?"
“She says she's going to stick it out. She’s still getting a few townies every day. It’s sad, you know. Her sons left with her folks in April. She want’s to bring them back when things get back to normal. She’s an optimist, Milt. Like me, she believes this drought is going to end and things will get back to normal.”
“Normal is history, HC.”
“We don’t share your dismal outlook,” Harold said with conviction. “Anyway, remember this, Milton. And this is important. Don't tell Faye about our project. You got that, Milt?”
“I hear you Harold. Now you hear me. It took two-hundred and fifty-seven years for greedy mother fuckers to screw up our country. It ain’t going to get straightened out in our lifetimes’.” Milton slammed the door of the dump truck to emphasize his point.
His brow furrowed with unusual intensity as he continued. “This here, what’s happening today, is the new normal, Harold. This drought is killing the weak and the strong are fighting for the few remaining drops. You and me are weak, Harold. We’re just a little luckier than most because we have a scare resource at our disposal, but we have no way of defending it if someone stronger than us wants it. You’re a walking contradiction, man. You claim to be an optimist but you spend your days building a lid over a quarry full of water, then spend your nights scavenging for food and fuel so we have the energy to survive and hopefully finish covering that quarry full of water not because you think it’s a cool idea but because you are afraid that you and your son will not have enough water to survive. It’s fear and the will to survive that drives us to do what we are doing, man. Not some altruistic bullshit that the quarry will be an oasis and water supply for the community. That’s why you keep telling me to keep it a secret from a woman who would literally do anything for you. Quit lying to yourself, man. And, while you’re at it, quit lying to your friends.”
Harold was surprised by Milton’s passionate outburst. He had never imagined that Milton would think such thoughts much less declare them with such clarity. He had underestimated his friend.
“Let’s go, we have a lot to do,” was Harold’s reply.
Milton mashed the accelerator to the floorboards, steering the jolting, battered truck through a six-wheel drift, across the gravel parking lot, into the center of County Road 137.
“To answer your question,” Milton yelled over the roar of the broken dual exhaust pipes, “I spotted a couple of stainless steel tanks behind the old cheese factory. Let's go check them out.”
Harold hung on tightly as they raced down the highway. “Sounds good,” he yelled. I hope we make it there alive.”
He winced as Milton deliberately hit one large pot hole after another, laughing wildly.
#
Faye Searles heard the familiar thrum of the diesel dump truck as it rolled up the alley behind her restaurant. She flashed back to her childhood, riding in the cab of her father’s diesel pickup, returning from the farmer’s market with a load of fresh produce for the restaurant, same alley ... better times. She bowed her head as if the memory were sacred, then forced a smile for the sake of the six-year old boy standing next to her.
“Here comes your dad, Leland. Put your shoes on and grab your hat and water bottle. You can leave everything else here. You’ll likely be back tomorrow morning. I'm going to talk to your dad about having you spend more time with me. Come out to the garage when you're ready. OK?”
“OK.” Leland found his sandals by the back door. He slipped them on his dirty feet and stood, grabbing the string attached to the neck of his half-full one liter water bottle and dragged it out the back door, down the steps and along the cement sidewalk leading to the brick garage. He liked the sound it made, as it scrapped along the broken concrete. The abrasion soon sanded a small hole in the thin PET plastic allowing a rivulet of water to mark his route to the garage. He gave the bottle a tug as it hung on the garage door threshold rupturing the bottle, causing the remaining water to splash across the garage floor.
Harold looked at his son with disgust.
"What have I told you about wasting water, Leland," Harold said gruffly, approaching his son and grabbing him by the shoulders, “Water is precious, son, I wish you could understand that?”
"I do understand that, dad. Sorry.” Leland’
s long, thick, black hair spilled over his face, hiding his boyish smirk.
Harold released him and tousled his hair with his hands. “I can barley see your eyes behind this mop of hair. Are you in there?
“Yes,” Leland giggled.
“How was your day?"
“I don’t know. OK, I guess.”
"Do you want to go for a ride with Uncle Milt and I?"
Leland's chubby brown eyes lit up like a puppies’. "OK," he chirped. "Where we going?”
"We are going to MaoMart to get some junk food,” Milton sang out from the cab of the truck. “You know your old man can't live without Little Debbie Snack Cakes, Lee.”
Leland grabbed a handful of his father's trousers. "Can I get something at moomart?”
"What do you have in mind?"
"A toy, dad.”
"I guess so. If there are any toys left, you can get one. And I mean one.”
Faye broke in. "If you feed this boy any more of that Little Debbie crap, he is going to be as plump as a stuffed turkey, just like you, Milton Webber.” She cast a stern glance at Harold.” You need to get Leland some healthy food, Harold. Look at your boy. He’s gaining weight.”
“He’s a growing boy, Faye. What do you expect? Besides, we all should enjoy Little Debbie snacks while we can get them.” He grinned widely.
“You got that right, HC. I’m worried, though. We may never see Little Debbie Snack Cakes on the shelves again if the price of fuel continues to rise. They’ll have to charge five bucks a package. As much as I like ‘em, I won’t be paying no five dollars for snack cakes.” Milton said, rubbing his shrinking belly.
Faye smiled. “I hope you’re right for this boy’s sake. He needs a diet of healthy food.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Milton had suddenly become morose while imagining a life void of sugar-coated snack foods.
Harold could barely contain himself as the conversation about healthy food ensued. It was the perfect segue for a him to announce his vision of a suspended garden filled with flourishing vegetables. He resisted the urge to proclaim his status as a visionary. He could see the garden in his mind’s eye. Leafy green vegetables were spilling over the side of the raised bed garden, lettuce, broccoli, herbs, peppers, onions, carrots, and maybe some squash. It was beautiful. Enough food for a half dozen people or more; three for sure, he, Leland and Milton. First things first, he didn’t know a thing about gardening other than the basic requirements; soil and sunlight. He needed a book about gardening and he needed some seeds. Maybe he could find both at MaoMart.
"Let's go son. We have a lot to do tonight.”
Harold turned to Milton. "Let's get these tanks unloaded, Milt. We should make it back from MaoMart before sunset so we have time to do that other thing.” They exchanged knowing glances. Milton pulled up his shirt just far enough to reveal the butt of the .45 caliber pistol. Harold nodded.
Milt slid in the driver's seat and activated the dump mechanism, tilting the truck's bed slightly allowing gravity to aid in unloading of the two stainless steel tanks. They pushed the tanks inside the garage and closed the overhead door.
“You should clean those out as best you can, Faye. Go ahead and use the ten-gallons I brought today for that. I'll bring twenty-gallons tomorrow to replace what you use for cleaning.”
"I know what to do, Harold. Thank you very much. I'll see you fellas tomorrow.” Faye gave Leland a peck on the cheek and backed away from the truck. “Get Leland to bed at a reasonable hour, Harold.”
“Yup. Thanks, Faye.” Harold waved from the cab.
Faye entered the back door and locked it. Retreating to the basement, she donned steel-toed work boots, leather gloves, dust mask, hard hat and googles. She checked the exhaust connections on the generator before starting it. She picked up the heavy demolition hammer and continued to enlarge the whole she had made in the foundation wall at the front of her building.
#
JUNE 5th - 2035
Harold woke early, he hadn't slept well due to his frequent need to urinate at night, after which he would lay awake in bed for what seemed like hours thinking about things he would rather not think about. His father had complained about a having to get up at night to urinate due to his swollen prostate, maybe that was his problem. He needed a professional opinion, but a proper diagnosis was out of the question. The entire hospital staff had left en-masse shortly after the water was shut off. Now that power had been cut off in town, it was virtually abandoned; no services remained. If he wanted professional medical help he would have to go to Duluth, Minnesota, or Ashland, Wisconsin. Later, he thought. He wasn't about to abandon his pet project. In fact, he and Milton needed to pick up the pace. There were rumors on the short-wave radio about hostile takeovers of potable water reserves on the Eastern seaboard by Homeland Security. The warning was clear; secure your personal water supply before the water police arrive. Maybe the midnight pee would be beneficial. He could stand watch for a few minutes every night and make sure nothing unusual was happening.
Harold banged on the plywood door of Milton's bedroom. Their living quarters had not received much attention in the past two years. They had constructed one insulated wall which separated their living quarters from the machinery, then used salvaged materials to fabricate partitions within the living area.
“Rise and shine, Milt. We have work to do.”
Milton cranked the handle on his LED flashlight a few times, directing the beam toward the wind-up clock atop his dresser. "It's four fucking a.m. Harold, what the hell are you doing up at this time?"
"It's morning, Milt. What do you say we get an early start today? We could get the footings for the next three trusses finished. That's my motivation, it should be yours as well."
Milton kicked open the plywood door, left hand on his crotch, right hand clutching the sloshing stainless steel pitcher he used for a pee jug. “What the fuck HC? You have a bad dream? Sounds as though you know exactly where these so call Water Police are, but I don’t know how ‘cause we ain’t had a TV or newspaper in almost three years.” He disappeared, returning shortly with an empty pitcher and a slightly better attitude.
“What’s for breakfast?”
Harold remained stoic, seated at the wooden cable spool that served as their table, eating a bowl of oatmeal by the light of a candle stuck to the top of the spool. He was prepared for another outburst. That was Milton’s way of addressing each and every day; like he resented the rising sun.
“Oatmeal again!” Milton howled and groaned.“Goddamn fucking horse food...”
Milton hated oatmeal anytime; by candlelight or by daylight, it reminded him of the thousand of bowls of oatmeal he had to eat as a kid because there was nothing else to eat and he swore he would never eat another bowl of oatmeal after he moved out of his grandmother’s house and he hadn’t ... until now. Oatmeal was one of the last items remaining items on the shelves at MaoMart and Milton knew why; because everybody hated fucking oatmeal.
“Man, I wish we had gotten to MaoMart a few days earlier. We would have had a better selection of food. Oatmeal, beans, rice, and fruit cocktail just isn't going to cut it for me, man. I need some protein. I need some man food. I need some meat.”
Harold scowled. He was tired of Milton’s whining about food. Harold hoped he would eventually accept the circumstances as they were and shut up about food, but it wasn't happening. “Maybe Faye has some jerky or canned meat in her locker. You'll have to ask her, though. I'm not going to ask her for anything else. She is doing enough for me as it is.”
“Where is that boy?” Milton asked as he took a handful of oatmeal from the container and three it into his bowl, then poured some hot water from the kettle over it. "How come Leland ain't out here eating this mush?" He stirred his oatmeal, his face distorted as if he were stirring a bowl full of vomit.
“He’s sleeping I guess. I’ll wake him as soon as I fuel up the equipment. Besides, he likes oatmeal. Don't ask me why, but he does.”
Harol
d watched Milton shovel the half-cooked oatmeal into his mouth. “I have a suggestion for you, Milt.”
“Yeah? What’s that.” Milton asked. Bits of oatmeal spilling from the corners of his mouth.
“Prepare the oatmeal according to the directions. It will taste better and will be easier to digest...just a suggestion.”
“It’s fucking horse food, man. Horses don’t cook it. They just eat the shit. That’s what I’m doing. Eating the shit it. Getting it over with.”
Harold changed the subject. “How are we fixed for diesel?”
“We have about seventy gallons in the elevated tank and a few five gallon containers over by Number Eight. I guess we have close to a hundred gallons total, give or take.”
Harold was alarmed, but tried not to show it. “I don’t think a hundred gallons will be enough.”
He paused for a moment. “Let’s leave the dozer and loader out by the quarry from now on. If we don't drive the mile to and from the machine shed we will conserve some fuel. In the meantime we should be looking for another fuel supply. How about the school buses? You think any fuel is left in them?”
"Thinking about it don't cut it. Let’s find out for sure. We'll have to go over to the bus barn and thump the fuel tanks on all the busses. Maybe we'll get lucky."
"You're right. You willing to do that after work?"
Milton scoffed. “What do you mean, after work? That is work ain't it? It seems like work is all we have to live for. Shit, man it’s all work. Everything we do; I miss my cable TV and the internet. Oh lordy, how I miss the internet.”
“Whatever, Milt. I'm going to fuel up Bob and the dozer.”
“You do that HC. I'll finish this here horse food.”
“Before you head out, Milt, will you start the excavator and make sure it is ready to go. We'll need it to get our trusses in position. I'm super excited about getting started on the trusses.”
Milton groaned. “We sure could use some more help on this part of the project, HC.”