When It Rains

by Joel Shaw

  “Umm ... OK.” Harold was insulted and relieved at the same time. He hadn’t rehearsed his story out loud. Now that he spoken it, he knew it sounded like pure bullshit. Who would buy that story? Two guys taking three years to pump water from one hole in the ground into another hole in the ground. It did sound absurd. And now she knows where to find them. What if she does come looking for them? He couldn’t tell her not to...

  Faye hadn’t bought it either. She instantly knew that Harold was lying. His body language betrayed him as he looked down and to the left while speaking, kneading the pair of gloves in his hands like bread dough. She took some delight with his squirming, like a red-wiggler on a hook, knowing he was eager to leave, she sank another barb into him “What are you going to do if these so called water police show up in town? Don’t you think that two quarries full of water will attract their attention?”

  Harold studied the kitchen floor hoping to see the answer etched in the stained planks. He looked up, locking eyes with Faye. She was no fool. All she had to do was visit the quarry park and she would see what they were doing. Was that her plan? To verify his story? Could he trust her with the truth? Milton said yes. He wasn't so sure. If he kept her water tanks full she should be satisfied.

  “Umm... They’ll have to find them first. If they do, I think we'll be able to work out some sort of agreement. We umm... I mean those of us left in town, have to have water, too. Maybe we can continue to have access to quarry two, especially since we went to so much effort to fill it. Anyway, we have to do something. If I don't keep Milton occupied, he is likely to leave. I wouldn't get much done without him."

  “So, your’s saying this water is for everyone in town? That we all have a stake in what you are doing? If that’s the case, Harold, why don’t you ask some of the folks in town to give you a hand? Like me for instance.”

  “Well umm... Milton umm... it’s a two person job. Milton and I can handle it.”

  “I’m guessing you are having a hard time getting much work out of him.”

  Harold brightened. “Actually, he's a good worker. He needs something to do to keep his mind off food. Food is an obsession with him. He was grumbling about it from the moment he got up this morning. Funny isn't it. All we talk about is food or water anymore. We're definitely back to the fundamentals of living, aren't we? Hunters and gathers in a post-oil world." There was an awkward silence before Harold continued.

  “What is your obsession, Harold?”

  Harold shrugged and smiled weakly. “Umm... Well, I have to get going. I'll bring more water when I come back for Leland. Come here son, give me a hug. Daddy has to go to work."

  "See you later, Dad."

  Harold looked closely at his eight-year old son for the first time in months. He had grown a foot and a half in the past two years. He had his mother’s straight, long, black hair pulled back in a ponytail snared with a thick, red, rubber band. His large, dark chocolate eyes stood watch over a wide nose and flared nostrils, like a bison’s in full gallop fleeing across the prairie. His shell-shaped ears lay flat against the side of his head like mollusks clinging to a rock. The lantern light in the kitchen complimented his light-brown skin, covered by a tight, tattered blue t-shirt clung to his developing pectoral muscles. His brown, nine-pocket cargo shorts, bulging with his most cherished possessions, were suspended from his narrow waist with the aid of a 3/8 length of rope laced through the belt loops, cinched with a square knot. The string from his yo-yo dangled like a bomb fuse from his right top pocket; The Gerber multi-tool that Milton had given him for his eighth birthday claimed the top left pocket. Spread amongst the remaining pockets was an assortment of smooth, almost round rocks which had passed his inspection and found worthy of being suitable ammunition for his sling-shot which hung around his neck by it’s bands, ready for deployment in an instant should trouble come-a-knocking. His feet were protected by moccasins that Faye had helped him make. Harold suddenly realized that he didn't know this little boy who stood before him. He needed more time with his son.

  “OK, Gotta go. See you later."

  Faye watched through the screen door as Harold walked back to his truck. He was hiding something, of that she was sure. It will come out eventually she assured herself.

  Harold stopped by the garage and turned toward the back door. He wanted to say something kind and sincere to Faye but was at a loss for words.

  “Umm... Have a good day, Faye."

  "You have a good day too, Harold."

  Harold waved and left.

  “Hey, Lee, honey. Auntie Faye has some work to do. Would you like to help me?

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to put some sheet metal over the windows so the bad guys can't get in; like a fort."

  “You mean like the guys at MaoMart?”

  “Yes, honey, like those guys at MaoMart. They aren't here yet, but they're coming. Don't worry, we'll be ready for them when they get here.”

  “Can I shoot them with my slingshot?”

  "If they try to harm us you can. I hope it doesn't come to that. Never mind that, now. Let's build our fort."

  “Cool.”

  CHAPTER 6 - Two Years later- OCTOBER 3

  Constructing a dome over Quarry Eight had taken four and a half years of grueling work from sun-up to sun-down replete with hardware and equipment complications, malfunctions and breakdowns. The software, their bodies, suffered abrasions, contusions, lacerations, concussions, sprains, blood blisters, burns from the cutting torch, the welder and the sun. But, no serious injuries. No broken bones.

  Harold’s dream (Milton called it Harold’s hallucination) had become a reality. The dome was constructed not of precisely positioned, arched trusses decked with a skin of brilliant, stainless steel panels joined by impeccable welds punctuated by an enormous spotless skylight over a suspended garden of green leafy vegetables. No. What Harold saw on the day he and Milton declared the dome finished was an undulating mound of rusting steel panels joined by less-than-perfect welds encircling a singular gaping rectangular hole at it’s apex under which would swing the garden. Once camouflaged under ton's of grout rubble and miscellaneous granite blocks the buried quarry would be impossible to distinguish from the surrounding terrain.

  When Harold first mentioned his vision for the hanging garden, Milton shook his head with disbelief. “I knew there was something you weren't telling me but I never figured on this. You're out of your mind, HC. Seriously, man. How are we going to make that happen?"

  “Look at these, Milt." Harold spread a dozen sketches across his desk. Each sketch detailed various sections of the suspended platform that would support an eight foot by thirty-two foot raised-bed garden.

  "We don't have to build all of the components. We can use six sections of the composite boardwalk that runs through the prairie as the deck. It's eight foot wide, so we won't have to cut the planks. I think we can use the remaining I-beams we have as the floor joists. We'll only need four of them; two-foot on center. We’ll suspend the garden eight feet below the dome, that places it three feet above the surface of the water which will give us easy access to the water from the garden. We can use two of the conveyer assemblies from the mill next door for walkways; one from the deck to the west wall and one connected to the north wall. The walkways will brace the platform, preventing any lateral motion while we're walking on it. So, what do you think?" Harold grinned, slamming his hands palm down on the drawings as if he were notarizing them.

  "Looks doable. What to you have in mind for letting the sun shine in?”

  "Faye says there are some two foot by twelve foot transparent polycarbonate panels remaining in Home Depot's lot. The polycarbonate will weather well and take some abuse, too. If there are enough of them, we could double up the panels. I think they’ll make a great skylight.”

  “Sounds good as long as we don’t have to walk on them, HC, but how are we going to camouflage the skylight in case somebody goes back there and starts climbing around
on that pile of grout? Or worse yet, what if somebody flies over. It's gonna’ be visible from the air."

  Harold stifled his laugh. “From the air? How is anybody going to get a view from the air? We haven't seen a plane for I don't know how long. I don’t think we have to worry about airplanes, Milt, just people on foot, and there aren't many of those around."

  “Come on, HC. You think the military doesn't have aviation fuel? You are more ignorant than I thought if you do. Not only the military, but those rich assholes holed up in gated communities probably have fuel for their private jets. Shit. I'll bet all those rich fuckers are still driving Suburbans and Escalades to the airport and flying down for a soak in the Carribbean between rounds of golf.”

  "I doubt that, Milt. And I don’t think our government would willingly allow some of it’s citizens to live in luxury while the majority suffer in poverty."

  Milton sighed. “You are in denial, Harold. The reason we, you and I and Leland, live in a machine shed without electricity and running water is because of the government, not in spite of the government.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said. The government has been controlled for two hundred years by corporations interested only in maximizing profits and dodging taxes. Now that the global oil drums are almost empty, the rich fucks want to keep the last few drop for themselves so they can continue to drive to the store and fly to another country that doesn’t suck for vacation. They can’t let go, man. They’ve destroyed this country but they won’t admit it. They’re hiding behind walls pretending that everything is just fine, waiting for the rain like the rest of us, except they still have food and electricity and running water and gasoline and air conditioning and the goddamn internet. Still trying to maintain their high standards of living at the expense of everyone else.”

  “Do you really believe that, Milt?”

  “Damn right I do, HC. But conditions have changed. Now, instead of showing off, they’re hiding behind fences, walls and gates. Not because they’re ashamed, but because they are afraid that some starving motherfucker is gonna’ come and take some of what they got. And that’s exactly what’s gonna’ happen. The have-nots are gonna get some.”

  “I don’t mind having less. We’re doing OK, Milt.” Harold studied his surroundings momentarily. They were seated at Harold’s desk in the twelve foot square machine shed office. The desk was sandwiched between two filing cabinets loaded with reports, user manuals, parts supply catalogues, invoices and mouse turds. Above them hung a solitary eight-foot fluorescent light fixture draped with dirty towels that hadn’t emitted a lumen in over two years. Natural light forced it’s way through the solitary soiled window illuminating what looked like the litter of a passing parade scattered on the dirty tiled floor that separated their workspaces. Milton’s desk was almost unidentifiable in shape having become the repository for all manner of broken and malfunctioning pieces and parts of perceived value or impending obsolescence. Spiders ruled the universe of the ceiling spinning a cosmos of webs daily to replace those disabled by dust meteors, mega-flys and missiles launched from Leland’s rubber-band gun.

  “You’re kidding, HC.”

  Harold couldn’t help but grin. “Alright, maybe things aren’t all that great, but we’ll figure it out.”

  “And that’s just the way it’s been. What’s it called ... when things stay the same?”

  “The status quo.”

  “Yeah, that’s it, the status fuckin’ quo. Oh sure, they might not be able to jet around the world like they used to, but you can bet that they can afford the fuel to transport whatever it is they need or want from point A to point B. They have food, too. Christ Harold. Remember what happened in 2026? The Defense Department hired contractors to fence and fortify cities where oil refineries were located. They claimed it was to protect the oil from terrorists. Millions swallowed that BS until someone noticed that it was only the poor folks who were being evicted from the cities and pushed out the gates into the country as part of the relocation program. Thats when we the people should have taken up arms and stormed the halls of Congress and killed all the mother fuckers in there, demanding an end to corporate governance one bullet at a time. But, no, we moved right along like a flock of sheep being herded to the worst pasture on the estate. We didn’t even fight back. Not us. BAAAA....bunch of fucking sheep. Where were you when that started to happen, Harold? On another planet?

  "I was working on my masters degree at USC. I didn't own a TV. I didn't even know it when broadcast networks went off the air. I was focused on my career. I guess I was kinda out of the loop while I was in college."

  “You’re still out of the loop, HC. I’ll bet the rich fucks still have cable TV...and the internet. I miss the goddamn internet, goddamnit. I miss fantasy football. I miss my refrigerator and the cold beer.” Milton stood abruptly, propelling his wheeled chair into the detritus heaped around his desk. “That’s what I have to look forward to, now,” he said, pointing at his desk. Fixing all that junk piled on my desk. That’s it, man. What kind of future is that?”

  “Calm down, Milt, things will turn around. You’ll see, we’ll get some rain and everything will be fine”

  “Forget you and your rosy world, Harold. You don’t get it, do you? The condition of our nation isn’t due to the weather, it is due to the race for power by greedy fucks who didn’t care about anyone else and don’t understand the meaning of enough. ”

  “Umm ... moving on ... You think we can build a cradle to support the floor trusses while we weld them into position? Use some of the four inch angle-iron for that?We can use the excavator to slide the I-beams into the cradle, fasten the planks and have a good platform to work off while we add the purlins. How's that sound to you?"

  “Whatever HC,” Milton laughed. “I was just getting warmed up. I’m going to spend more time in the library when we’re done with this ... job. I’m going to take notes and shit. Write it all down for you so you can read it.”

  Harold interrupted, “Like a history book?”

  “Yeah, like a history book, Harold,” Milton said, the pitch of his voice rose again signaling Harold to abandon the topic before Milton got wound up again.

  “Sounds like a plan, Milt. Let's get busy."

  Milton hesitated and took a deep breath. He was dead serious about spending more time in the library. He was determined to educate his partner about what had brought the people of a once great nation to their knees. And it wasn’t god. He decided to drop the subject, for now.

  “So, I know finding dirt for your garden won't be a problem, but what about seeds? Do you have any?"

  "Only what I found scattered around Hirshfield's Nursery. Not many, mostly herbs, a few vegetables but they are all hybrid varieties."

  "What's that mean?"

  "That means the seeds are only good for one season. Whatever seeds they produce at harvest are not worth saving because they won't produce good fruit again the next season."

  "Who's idea was that?"

  “Agrochemical corporations like Monsanto, Dow Chemical Co. and Syngenta. It was a guarantee that farmers would have to buy seeds from them every year. Believe it or not, a law was passed making it illegal to clean and store seeds."

  "No shit?”

  "No shit. Anybody caught cleaning or storing seeds was sued. None of the farmers could fight the corporate giant's legal teams for long. Yeah, they forgot to put seeds in the Bill of Rights."

  "Water, too. Man, what a bunch of lemmings we were, being forced over the cliffs by corporate scum bags. Fuck it. I'm going to work. Let's get this thing finished, I have some reading to do."

  "What? More Hustler magazines?"

  "No. I just told you, man. I'm going to spend some time at the library. Hell, I might just move in there. It seems I've got some catching up to do. I never went to college. Maybe now is the time to educate myself. I'll have plenty of time once we finish the dome. Unless you have another project in mind.You don't have an
y more projects in mind do you?"

  "Nothing I can't handle by myself. Sounds like a good idea, Milt. Maybe Leland and I will join you."

  “Good idea. Hey, you didn’t answer my question. Where you gonna’ get seeds?”

  “I don’t know.”

  #

  Milton thumped the diesel fuel storage tank that stood on stilts outside the machine shed; it rang hollow indicating it was close to empty.

  "Hey HC, we're out of diesel fuel."

  " Completely?"

  "I suppose if we tip the tank a bit we could get another gallon or two out of it."

  "Tip it, Milt. We have about a day's worth of work to do erasing our tracks and positioning the granite blocks across our road. Then we'll be golden. Let's put every available drop in the dozer. No, wait a sec. Let's first get the bobcat and the excavator back in the shed. Leave a couple of gallons in their tanks just in case we need them, then siphon what we can for the dozer."

  "What are we going to do with the pumper truck? I say we leave the fuel in it just in case."

  "Just in case what?"

  Milton groaned. He wondered if Harold ever thought about anything other than his garden.

  “Just in case there is a fire, Harold. What the hell do you think I mean? If there is a fire nearby, who’s going to put it out?” He pointed at himself and then Harold. “You and me. Right? I’m surprised you haven't thought about that, HC."

  "I've been too focused on number eight I guess ... and Leland, but you’re absolutely right. We should try to maintain some fire protection equipment. However, I do think the dome will survive a fire.”

  “I’m not thinking about the dome, dude.” He spread his arms wide, indicating their surroundings. “I’m thinking about our house or whatever you want to call it.”

  “Is their any fire-fighting equipment left at the fire station?”

  “That’s not an option, some folks are living there, now.”

  “Why?”