by Joel Shaw
“Jesus Christ, Milton will you quit whining.” Harold was irritated; Milton was dominating the conversation. He wanted Milton to shut up about food; he wanted to talk about the weather. “You look better than you have in your life. You should be happy that we have fresh vegetables...”
Milton was stunned. Harold mentioned the one thing he had made Milton swear never to never discuss.
Harold’s lowered his eyes, hoping the comment would pass unnoticed. Faye, wide eyed, immediately began her inquest.
“Are you growing vegetables, Harold?” Her ice blue eyes narrowed.
“Just a few herbs, Faye. It’s not like I have a large garden.”
“You said vegetables, not herbs, Harold.
“I meant herbs, Faye.”
“What kind of herbs, Harold?”
“Some chives, mint, parsley, lettuce..."
Faye countered. “Lettuce is not an herb and gardens require watering. Where are you getting the water? No more lies, Harold."
Faye had know for years that Harold was hiding something from her. She was almost certain his secret had something to do with the quarries and water. She was going to find out what it was he was hiding this very moment.
"Do you remember the time we tried to grow lettuce, Harold? It was the summer of 2049. We got eighteen inches of rain that summer. We set out every pan, bucket and barrel to catch water.” She faintly smiled. “Most of us took baths.”
“Sure, I remember.” Harold said.
The roosters elbowed each other in the ribs, winking. Faye advanced toward Harold, glaring at him, daring him to come clean.
“All of us...,” she said, indicating everyone present with a sweep of her left arm, “...wanted a salad. We planted lettuce. We soon discovered that growing lettuce required too much water, so we quit trying to grow lettuce. Too much water, Harold. That’s what we said. I remember that; I loved those damn salads but we couldn’t spare the water.” She was seething, waiting for an explanation.
“We might get some rain, soon.” Harold blurted. He was desperate to change the subject. He had been lying to his friends for years. He had wanted to tell them about his little paradise, but he was afraid it would be ruined when word spread. Now, he was in a serious predicament and he could see no easy way out.
Faye badgered the defendant. “Don’t even try to change the subject, Harold. Tell us where you are getting your water to grow vegetables. Tell us right now or you will never set foot in here again.” Faye pounded the wood floor with her foot.
Walt stood, he was ready to declare the verdict. “I knew it. I knew you had some water in one of those quarries of yours. I always wondered why you chose to live in that old machine shed. You have water out there somewhere that your aren’t telling anyone about, don’t you? You cock sucker." Harold had been found guilty. Walt delivered the punishment. He jabbed Harold in the stomach with his clenched fist. Harold folded over a nearby chair gasping for air.
Walt convicted Harold's co-conspirator. "People are dying of malnourishment every day and you are growing vegetables for yourself and your buddy here." He kicked Milton in the chest, knocking him out of his chair.
"Stand up you bastards. I’m gonna kick both your asses."
Faye’s shrill whistle sliced through the kangaroo court. Walt turned in her direction. She had pulled a shotgun from behind the refrigerator. It was cradled in the bend of her left arm, right hand near the trigger. “Stop it. Stop it this instant,” she demanded. "This is my place, my house, and you, Walt, are not going to bust it up."
Walt ignored her. He took another swing at Harold. Harold ducked stumbling backward into an antique, round, oak table.
"Get out." Faye screamed, prodding the reeling group of men through the heavy wooden entry doors with the barrel of her shotgun, she slammed the doors with sufficient force to shatter the safety glass, sending a shower of glittering glass pebbles rattling across the sidewalk into the street.
Harold and Milton were first out the door, jerking their bicycles out of the rack, they were a block away before Walt thought to hurl threats at the two riders.
#
Jerry Goodthunder was on the roof, reading. He dropped his book and ran to the parapet overlooking the street. He leaned over the edge to see what was happening below. He noticed Harold and Milton escaping west on their bicycles, Walt was running down the street in the opposite direction. Broken glass glinting in the sun near the front door caught his eye. He galloped down the stairs and burst into restaurant just in time to see Faye collapse in a chair, trembling. A shotgun lay on the table before her.
“What’s going on Faye?” Jerry pulled a chair over and sat face to face with Faye.
“I would have shot the bastard, but it would have made too much of a mess.”
“Was Walt giving you a hard time?”
“It ended with Walt, but it started with Harold.”
“Harold? That’s a surprise.” Jerry knew Harold well. He wasn’t the type to irritate someone to the point of pulling a gun.
“That son of a bitch has been lying to us for years.” Faye paused.
“Lying about what? Tell me what happened, Faye.”
Faye recounted the events that led to the showdown.
Jerry’s heart palpitated when she mentioned vegetables. He had warned Harold and Leland many times about the danger of keeping the hanging garden and the water-filled quarry a secret, especially from Faye.
Now he had a decision to make; either he was going to confess to Faye that he knew about the quarry or feign ignorance. Faye had been very good to him; he wasn't going to lie if she asked him. He hoped she wouldn’t ask.
He turned his thoughts to what was about to transpire. He knew Harold was going to need help covering the entrance to the quarry. He also knew that Walt would tell Major Hanson truth or lies, to get the Major motivated. The major, like Walt, was itching for a fight and Walt would take advantage of that. Walt would insist that Major Hanson take immediate action. The town had been quiet for years. Nothing like this had happened; conflicts were rare. Faye interrupted his internal debate.
“Do you know what Harold is hiding, Jerry?” Faye firmly grasped his hand. "Do you?"
Jerry was cornered. He couldn’t lie to this woman whom had given him a job, room and board for seventeen years. He had kept quiet out of respect for his friendship with Harold, Milton and Leland. Besides, the subject had never come up. Now, the subject was front and center.
He swallowed, looked Faye in the eyes and said, “Yes.”
Faye sighed, slumping further in the chair. “I’m disappointed, but not surprised. I know you are good friends with Leland.” She paused, contemplating her next question. Unsure whether she wanted to hear the answer or not. What difference would it make. What would change? Her relationship with Harold had dwindled to casual conversation over the years, nothing more. She had plenty of food in her cellar. Why not leave things as they are?
"What is it? What is he hiding?" She looked a Jerry, dreading the answer.
Jerry hesitated. He could tell that Faye was confused, her mind was racing, searching for reasons for such a betrayal. He was at fault as much as Harold, Leland, and Milton; he knew it.
“He covered a quarry full of water." There, he had said it. Now what?
"Where? Which quarry, Jerry? There are eighteen quarries out there." Faye held him in her gaze.
"I’ll show you Faye, but not right now. I have to find Leland and let him know what has happened. Then, we’ll find Harold and Milton and figure out how to resolve this situation.”
“The only resolution I want is the truth, Jerry.” Faye said sternly, again grabbing his arm.
Jerry pulled away. He rose, moving toward the exit. “I’ll fix these windows when I get back.”
“They’ll be fixed before you get back, and I’m changing the fucking locks.” Faye rose, exchanging the shotgun for a broom and dustpan, she busied herself cleaning up the broken glass.
Chapter -
May 9th Two Hours Later
Harold and Milton rode the three and a half miles in five minutes. Harold knew it was the wrong thing to do; running away. It was an obvious and shameful admission of guilt. Here they were fleeing to the scene of the crime; that wasn’t very wise, either. It was habit.
“I’m getting the hell out of town,” Milton said as they pedaled into the pole barn, skidding to a halt near the office door. “You should too, Harold. Walt is going to tell everyone he knows about what you said. You know he’s friends with Roland Hanson. Once he tells that prick, a shit storm will be coming our way in a hurry. I'm leaving. I'm going to Duluth. I have a friend there, maybe she will take me in. You should come with me Harold. At least get out of town for the night. Don’t stay in the shed, Harold.”
“I can’t leave, Milt. I have to try to make this right.” Harold was wondering how Leland would take the news that his old man had mentioned the unmentionable. Dad had leaked a bit of information that now put their lives in jeopardy. Times were tough; they were about to get tougher.
“Make it right?” Milton exploded. “How are you going to make it right? Are you going invite everybody over for a swim and a salad? What the hell can you do? Walt is going to tell Roland. Roland is going to send a squad of his goons over here to find your garden and your water source. If they find number eight they’ll probably drown you in it. Roland is a drunken psychopath. He will kill you if you give him a reason and hoarding millions of gallons of water is a very good reason. Nobody will ever know what happened to you except the locals and they’ll probably thank Roland for doing them a favor.” Milton could see he wasn’t getting through to Harold.” He sighed.
“Listen to me Harold. Tell Leland the second he gets back. You let him know what happened in town. He’s a sensible kid, he’ll agree that you have to get out. If you wait...well just don’t wait.”
Milton ran inside and grabbed the few things that he called his own, threw them in a duffle bag and exited the pole barn. He stopped at the bench where he and Harold had sat an hour before dreaming of rain. Harold sat motionless on the bench.
“So long, buddy. I hope you get out of here before this thing blows up in your face.” Milton shoved his arms through the duffle’s straps, mounted his bike and pedaled as fast as his fifty year old legs allowed, disappearing in a gust of dust.
Harold watched as the dust dissipated. He could no longer see his friend. “So long, Milt.” Harold rose from the bench. Without thinking, he walked toward his sanctuary, Quarry Eight.
CHAPTER 21
Faye changed the locks on the front door before collapsing in her favorite Windsor chair to rest. She surveyed her surroundings. The dark mahogany paneling, the well worn yellow pine flooring, scrubbed and polished by her family since 1886. She belonged here but she was tired of going it alone. She closed her eyes.
Faye was a tough, stout woman, short in stature and long in determination. The sort one could imagine holding the reigns of a double team of horses pulling a conestoga wagon West on the Oregon Trail. She stood five-foot seven inches with the shoulders of an arm wrestler, hips of dancer and Dolly Parton breasts. Her dishwater blonde hair was pulled into a pony-tail, loose and unkempt, wayward strands hung past her shoulders and across her face Her blue eyes were planted close to her narrow nose, giving her the intenseness of a raptor. When she smiled one knew she was sincere, because she didn't smile often. She took herself seriously; if push came to shove, she would be doing the shoving. If she couldn't get your attention by yelling, a thin gap between her coffee stained incisors, enabled a shrill whistle that demanded ones attention.
She divorced her husband when her boys were two years old. After the Mississippi River was damned upstream in 2035 and her well went dry she saw the writing on the wall. She sent her two teenage sons, Aaron and Darrin on the journey with her aging parents to the FEMA camp in Ashland, Wisconsin. Faye insisted they go, there was safety in numbers and the population of St. Cloud had dwindled to a determined few who were willing to risk their lives to defend their property, come what may. It was no place for children and her’s were the last to leave.
“I'll look after things here,” she promised. “When the rains come you’ll have a home to return to."
She boarded all the windows in the three-storied brick building, backing them with sheets of galvanized sheet metal. This wasn’t a bullet proof defense, but sufficient to prevent bullets from doing severe damage to the interior of the building.
Faye gained local notoriety during the late 30s when the first wave of roving gangs from the west coast came through town on their migration to Duluth, Minnesota; now known as New Las Vegas. The gangs were unorganized, undisciplined and poorly equipped. They were city punks out of their urban elements. Reckless and careless, it didn’t take them long to deplete their ammunition, food, fuel and water. Hundreds died of exposure, malnourishment and bullet wounds. By the time they reached Minnesota, they were threadbare, hungry and thirsty. They broke down doors looking for food and water; there wasn't much to be found; the locals had done a thorough scavenging job. There were several attempts to break into the her fortress by punks brandishing .22 and .38 caliber pistols; inaccurate and non-lethal unless at close range the pathetic assualts were easily repelled by Faye from the roof of her restaurant. She had an arsenal of family owned firearms and was an excellent shot. The 30-06 with the Leopold Rifleman scope was her favorite.
Bullets aimed at her vantage point had chipped the thick brick parapets surrounding the roof, nothing more. She, in turn, bloodied several gang members and sent them on their way to nurse their wounds. She was a crack shot and aimed to wound not kill. She didn’t want to have to contend with festering corpses in the street. Her aim wasn’t always accurate. The half-dozen corpses buried in the Flower Shop’s basement were evidence of that.
After several failed assaults on her restaurant failed, a plywood sign appeared on the west side of town warning all who passed to stay clear of 5th Avenue North and 1st Street South; a bloody handprint punctuated the warning. Some thought Faye put it there. She wouldn't say.
Eventually the gangs quit coming and she opened the first floor doors so the surviving locals had a place to gather and talk. On holidays, she would sometimes share canned goods from her stockpile in the cellar.
The third floor was filled with dry goods and cases of coffee remaining from a “good deal” her father hadn’t been able to pass up before coffee was rationed along with all other foods.
She baked bread and muffins using a solar oven during the long summers and used the restaurants original wood burning ovens during the bitter cold winter. Her guests would bring their rations of beans and rice to the restaurant which she graciously cooked for them, using her ample supply of spices to season them.
Her visitors would sit at the long-wooden table in dining area for hours every day talking about the food and the weather; waiting for rain.
She opened her eyes.
Today...everything changed.
CHAPTER 22
Leland spent most of his time monitoring the Swans activity. Familiarizing himself with their routines and personnel. They were trespassers in his back yard and he didn’t like it. Most of the locals had, at one time or another, thought, schemed, plotted and conspired to break into the compound and commandeer the water supply. The would-be invaders usually concluded that it would require a massive, orchestrated assault to gain entry to the compound. They surrendered before the battle began. Based on his observations, Leland had drawn a different conclusionThe twenty guards that inhabited the compound ,unmolested for ten years, had become complacent and lazy in their duties. Discipline was absent, thanks to Major Roland Hanson, who was now deep in throe’s of undiagnosed alcoholism.
The two covered quarries were designated as Emergency Reserve Service Reservoirs to be used only in the time of national emergency. Normal biological processes significantly reduced the contaminants and almost eliminated any cloudiness in the quarries, r
endering them cold, and pristine. Against regulations set forth by some distant authority, the Swans would swim in number two quarry during the hot summer months contaminating the water as they laughed and splashed.
Their cajoling could be heard by the locals whom gathered daily to collect their three gallon ration of water from the Federal Water Dispenser located adjacent to the main gate triggering a cacophony of expletives hurled by the locals.
Lately, the Swans at the gate had been consistently neglecting their duties in favor more satisfying pursuits. At times, Jerry noticed no guard in the shack near the main gate. The rumor in town was that their commanding officer had brought some prostitutes from New Las Vegas into camp along with a truck load of booze. It was party time. Leland thought it was time for the party to end. After a swim.
#
Chapter - AMBER AND SHEILA ARRIVE IN ST. CLOUD 0100 Hours
We’re coming to a town." Amber said. She and Sheila were packed and waiting for whatever the day may bring. They had a good night's rest and were ready to be done with riding the rails. Redwing was feeling a little more spry, also. He eyes were clear, and he was able to stand without assistance. A few more days of tender loving care and he would be in good shape.
Sheila studied the landscape ahead. "It has to be St. Cloud. Let's jump off by that red brick building on the other side of the bridge. I'll go first. You get Redwing to the edge of the car and push him off. I’ll try to catch him. I hope he doesn't freak out."
The blue train slowed considerably before crossing the one-hundred and forty year old bridge. The rusting steel trusses quivered and howled as the thirty car freight train eased across the dry river bed.
"Listen to that." Amber could feel the bridges sway under the unexpected load. "This thing is going to collapse."