23
“How’s your head?” Young asked me.
“I had too much shine last night,” I admitted.
“Our men are taking advantage of the Crater of Diamonds to camp and wait for the weather to break,” Young said, joining me on the porch for the third straight day of heavy snow; something unusual, but not unheard of.
“Some of our boys are bitching about the weather, but it could be worse. They could be stuck overseas in 120 degree heat,” Young said.
“You know, last night you said you had some news. We never quite got to that,” I reminded him.
Both of us were sipping coffee, fortified with some 80 proof, but not too much, our feet on the railing.
“Yeah, about that… The governor asked for recommendations.”
“For what?” I asked him.
“See, now that things have settled and we’ve fixed the communications blackouts in this area, we got info. The CME that knocked out the power?”
“Yeah?” I asked, feeling scared suddenly, for some reason.
“Well, not all areas of the country completely got fried. Many substations were shut down as the blackouts happened. Not everything is fried. Now, large parts of the country are still going to be dark for a while, but—”
“Wait, you’re telling me the power is coming back on?” I asked him, my feet coming down hard on the porch, rattling our coffee cups.
“Well, see… Texas has its own grid and refineries. With some replacement parts from parts of the country that are mostly barren we strip out of local power stations and lines, we should be able to get everything west of the Mississippi up and running by this time next year. Once critical infrastructure is restored, our electronics and manufacturing in Mexico, Texas, and all the way up to California’s Silicon Valley will be doing nothing but making more transformers and EMP/CME hardened hardware for many years to come. The rest of the country should be back to being fully powered in eighteen months, give or take.”
“This isn’t a joke. You’re not … messing with me?” I asked him.
“No joke, no lie.”
I felt a glimmer of hope blossom into something bigger. A warmth spread through my body, and it wasn’t from the shine.
“Thing is, until full order is restored, units like the one I’m tagged to are going to have to move around. We’ve been ordered to move out in a few days once the weather slows, and head south and west to another community to stabilize things.”
“But … what are we going to do once you’re gone? Reboot the sheriff’s department and state police?” I asked, feeling a note of panic.
“See, that’s the thing. Apparently every county is going to have a recovery commissioner, and the commissioner answers to the governor. In the meantime, the commissioner is going to be working with local law enforcement, and I don’t know how constitutional all this is, but it looks like it’s an appointed position with a lot of power.”
“They better pick somebody who’s not going to let it go to their head then,” I said, chafing at the thought of one unelected person having so much control, so much say.
“That’s why I recommended somebody, and the governor went ahead and appointed them.”
Sheriff Jackson would be perfect for this. I smiled. They wouldn’t give it to an asshole. It had to be somebody Young liked and trusted. William Jefferson Jackson would be perfect.
“That’s why Sheriff Jackson and I were instructed to inform you that you’re now the recovery commissioner of Pike County.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
In the yard below, the snowfall wasn’t a lost opportunity. Kids ranging in age from six to early twenties were using shovels, making snowballs, and throwing them. Snow forts and snowmen were being constructed. There was a buzz about the homestead. Recovery commissioner?
“What if I don’t want the job? When can I quit?”
“You got the job because you wouldn’t want the job. You can quit when your conscience tells you that you’ve done enough, or the country has power again and order is restored.”
“I really hate you,” I said truthfully.
“Had to get revenge for that sucker punch,” Young shot back.
I ducked as a snowball smacked the house behind where my head had been moments before. I looked at Young, who pointed. Jessica was standing there making another snowball in her mitten-covered hands. I tipped an imaginary cowboy hat his way, and shot off the porch at full speed. Jessica let out a surprised squeak and started running. At the last moment she stopped and turned. I tried to stop myself, but somehow she used some sort of judo on me. I went flying into a wall of snow the kids had been making into a snow fort wall.
“Get him!” Jess yelled.
“Jam pile!” Mary yelled, jumping onto my side.
I was buried under half a dozen bodies before Jessica’s mitten rubbed a snowball in my face. I came up sputtering, laughing, grabbing my own snowball.
“You want a snowball fight?” I thundered as kids either laughed or screamed. “I’ll give you a snowball fight!”
-=The End=-
Dedication –
This book is dedicated to my Grandpa, the man my father and I share names with. In a former life he was a tank commander in Korea. After being wounded, he returned to the country and had a very long life. He worked at several of the GM Plants in Michigan. He retired as a tool and die maker.
For much of my life, Grandpa Boyd, my father (Also Boyd), my Uncle Tim, all taught me and nurtured my interest in the great outdoors. From hunting, fishing, sports shooting, conservation, scouts, hiking … you name it… I got it from them. As a kid, I would often bug Grandpa about war stories. I guess any little kid would, but it wasn’t just the guns and gore I was interested in. It was more how they did things. How did they keep warm in a tent, when in North Korea it was snowing horribly? How they could detect the traps the Chinese left, how they could make their own?
I asked about how supply shortages made them really think about what they had, and what they could use out of everyday items. I think in just about every Post-Apoc story I’ve ever written, I have something of my Grandpa in them.
At 11:57 am, 11/17/2019 my grandpa passed away from complications from Leukemia, something he’d been battling for a long, long time.
I was in Las Vegas attending a conference when I got the call that he wasn’t expected to make it through the night. I made it halfway through the first day of the conference before I’d already booked a flight home and had been talking with my sister about her and her family coming to Michigan as fast as they could. My sister and I both made it to Michigan in time, and he got to see all the kids, grandkids, great grandkids before Jesus came to take him home. I just hope Heaven is ready for his wry sense of humor and his penchant for shenanigans.
Love you, Grandpa
Boyd III – 11/18/2019
About the Author
Boyd Craven III was born and raised in Michigan, an avid outdoorsman who’s always loved to read and write from a young age. When he isn’t working outside on the farm, or chasing a household of kids, he’s sitting in his Lazy Boy, typing away.
You can find the rest of Boyd’s books on Amazon here.
boydcraven.com
[email protected]
Still Surviving (Book 5): Dark Secrets: Page 18