“I know a lot of you are worried about your friends and family and are thinking about going out to look for them,” Herbie started. “Don’t. They’re just as worried about you. You are in a much better position than they are. Thanks to your presence of mind, a bit of ingenuity back at that grade school, and the generosity of our hostess, Mrs. Jackson, you have food. We’ve got at least a year’s worth for us, and a year or so worth of feed and fodder for the animals.”
“Two years if we’re careful,” Mrs. Jackson interjected with no small amount of pride in her voice.
Herbie nodded.
“Two years, then, because you can bet we’re going to be careful. You have as much clean well water as we can manually pump – a blessing that 90% of the people in our country won’t have the luxury of. You have shelter. We’ve got enough beds and blankets, and enough firewood to get us through the next winter. We are leaps and bounds ahead of the rest of the area right now. I know you love your families. And you’re free to leave any time to go find them, but at this point, if you leave the farm, you need to realize you may not make it back. It’s going to be hard out there. Really hard. You’d be swimming against the tide.”
“What do you mean?” Brian asked.
“Well, young man, I want you to imagine something. Say you’re in the city, and you haven’t eaten in a few days. You think for sure just a few miles south there are farms, and you know from your education that farms are where the food comes from. What’s your plan of action?”
“Go to the farms and get some food.”
Herbie nodded. “By begging, or force if you’re truly desperate.”
“What are you proposing, Herbie?” Thom asked.
“I’m proposing that we do a couple of things. Mrs. Jackson and I have talked, and we agreed that we should reach out to some of the neighboring farms. Networking had turned into a marketing buzzword over the last couple of decades, but in reality that’s what we need to do; network with our neighbors. “We’re living in the Dark Ages, and we need to learn from the people who lived in those times. They farmed their land, but when enemies threatened, what did they do?”
Trinity raised her hand meekly. “Retreated to their lord’s castle?”
Herbie grinned. “Right on, sister.”
Thom nodded from his bed.
“So you’re proposing we build a castle?” Sephi asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice.
“Not in the traditional sense, but yes. The wave of people that will be leaving the cities have a name in certain circles. It’s called ‘The Golden Horde,’ though I’m not sure why. We need to find some ways to divert as many of them away from the farm as possible.”
“What about the ones that aren’t diverted?” Matt asked.
“We need to find ways to be very persuasive, Matt. Ultimately, we’ll need to decide as a group how persuasive we want to be.”
“And you’ve got a plan?” Carla asked.
Herbie nodded. “There are a few good choke points we can take out to make the way here a bit more difficult. It would mean sending a team out away from the farm to do some work, though.”
“If we did that, we wouldn’t have the numbers to work and defend the farm,” Thom reminded him.
“You’re right, Thom. Which is why I’m thinking we need to do some recruiting.”
“What do you mean, Herbie?” Thom wondered aloud.
“Just what I’m saying. We send a few folks out into the nearby communities. We start at the neighboring farms. People Mrs. Jackson knows and trusts. From there, we ask them who they think we need to bring in next.”
“What’s our end game, Herbie?”
“End game? I want 200 people working and defending the farm.”
If Thom had a drink in his mouth, he’d have done a spit-take.
“200? You’re serious?” he asked. “We’ve got, what, a dozen or so?”
Herbie nodded.
“Now, I’m not saying we do this all at once. We don’t even need all 200 to be living on this particular farm. Think about the Minutemen Militia that our forefathers had running. We just need 200 at the ready, and a way to signal them.”
Herbie could see the bewildered looks of disbelief on the faces in the room.
“You asked for the end game,” he said with a shrug. “Short-term? I’d say we need 40 to 50 if we’re going to do this place justice. This year I’d say that’ll do us.”
Thom nodded in agreement. “It’ll be good if we can grow it slowly like that over a few seasons, Herbie. Otherwise we’re going to be struggling to get the infrastructure set up fast enough. Then we run into overcrowding, sewage issues, and the fun diseases that combination brings with it.”
“So neighbors first,” Mrs. Jackson stated.
Herbie nodded. “Neighbors first. I’m also going to suggest we try and keep as many people housed at the farmhouse as possible.”
There were some murmurs of contention with this idea that began to grow louder. Herbie held up a hand and quelled them with a look.
“We could spread to the guest quarters that Mrs. Jackson has set up for her visiting farmhands. We could. For now, though, I want us all together. We need to pull back to a smaller area that’s easier to defend. It’s a six-bedroom farmhouse. Plenty of room.”
Herbie paused a moment, clearing his throat. Mrs. Jackson was there a moment later with a pitcher of water and a glass.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“My pleasure, Herbie,” Mrs. Jackson smiled.
Thom looked over to find Carla eying him. They broke eye contact immediately, finding something else, anything else, to look at. His cheeks flushed red.
Herbie took a drink and continued speaking.
“Now, that being said, close quarters brings its own set of issues. This next part might be a bit embarrassing, but it needs to be said. You all are young men and women in the prime of your lives, and farm life, after all of the work and chores, can be a bit dull. Some of you are in committed relationships, and others, no doubt, are thinking about starting relationships. You’re going to be tempted to get yourselves into some very adult situations.”
The occupants of the room got quiet, some of them blushing, others looking straight ahead in order to avoid eye contact.
“Now, I’m not your daddy – at least not to the best of my knowledge,” Herbie grinned. “I’m not here to pass judgment on you. That’s for God above when all is said and done. That being said, I’m going to say that condoms aren’t in our inventory. Birth control pills aren’t, either. We’ll try and keep an eye out for some the next time we send a team into town for a supply run, but for now those options are off the table. If you’re going to enter into a sexually active relationship during these times, you’re going to be playing a game of Russian roulette.”
“Come on, Herbie, that’s a little heavy-handed,” Mrs. Grimes said.
Herbie waved her off with a hand. “Hear me out. Please.”
Mrs. Jackson perked up. “The man’s right. Remember that we don’t have access to medicine, hospitals, or any of that. When my mother was having children, infant mortality was pretty high. So was the mortality among the young mothers. We’ve come a long way in making childbirth safer, but we just lost a whole lot of progress in that area in the blink of an eye. I’ve birthed foals and calves, but never a human baby. If you get pregnant, I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a doctor, aside from Trinity here.”
Herbie nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Jackson. So, again, I’m not here to pass judgment. You folks are fine young men and women. I’ve seen that in the short time we’ve been here. Just be mindful of the potential consequences of your actions.” Mrs. Jackson raised her hand, and Herbie nodded in her direction. “Yes, Mrs. Jackson?”
“I’m going to ask that we keep o
ur sleeping arrangements segregated for the time being. Girls will be upstairs; gentlemen, I’d like you downstairs. Herbie may not be judging you, but I am. It’s best that we remove the ease of that particular temptation. You all will find ways to sneak around, I know it. But that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy on you. Now you be good while you’re under my roof eating my food, you hear?”
There was a chorus of “Yes ma’am” as the co-eds acknowledged the ground rules.
Mrs. Jackson nodded, apparently satisfied.
“Now, if you don’t mind. I’d like to talk about those helicopters.”
Chapter 6 – Callaway
George Henson was exhausted. He and his skeleton crew had been working around the clock for the last several days, taking 12-hour shifts. A few men had disappeared over the course of the last few days, most likely headed home to be with their families. He understood that need, though his own children were grown and had moved to the east coast years ago. If they were younger, and still living at home, it would have been a hard decision for him to make. It was hard enough knowing that his wife was making do without him. They lived just a few miles away, but he hadn’t had time to visit with her just yet. He hoped she was doing all right. They had a few good neighbors he knew would be looking after her in his absence. That thought kept him going.
He mopped his head with a handkerchief from his back pocket. The corner had his initials were stitched into it. His wife’s work.
George gave a heavy sigh. He’d love to be home with Martha, but the truth of the matter was he was stuck here as sure as any prisoner was stuck in jail.
It wasn’t steel chains and iron bars that kept him here, though; it was uranium.
George worked at the Callaway Nuclear Generating Station near Fulton, Missouri. He’d worked there for about 10 years now as a technician and really enjoyed the work. He was actually quite proud of the people he worked with. They did good things, and they had a spotless safety record. They kept people safe, and he respected that.
Earlier in the week, that role of “protector” increased dramatically.
Plants like Callaway were designed with some safety mechanisms in place to keep things from going critical like the Chernobyl accident a few decades back. That particular reactor was designed to be able to function independently of outside power sources. It could quite literally run off of the electricity that it generated. This is one of several things that made it nearly impossible to shut down properly when things went south.
After that, the engineers and architects that designed nuclear facilities had gotten a little smarter.
Now when the outside power was cut, control rods were inserted into the core to kill the fission reaction in the reactor, which was a good thing. Unfortunately, the heat from the radioactive decay would still cook off water, and would do it for quite some time. This meant the reactors needed a constant supply of water being piped in, cooled, and then recirculated. Some of it would be pumped back into the river, while some would boil off and evaporate from the cooling tower.
Thankfully, there had been a federal mandate stating that all facilities were required to keep at least a 7 day supply of diesel fuel on hand in case of emergency. The diesel generators were still functioning, and they continued to pump water from the Missouri River into the system, keeping the reactor core cool. If it heated up to unsafe levels, radioactive materials could work themselves into the cooling loop, increasing the chances of radiation escaping the facility. In other words, a partial or complete nuclear meltdown would occur.
The good news was, they were all right so long as the diesel fuel that powered the generators held out.
The bad news was, they were almost out of gas.
Two days ago, George had ordered that the fuel be syphoned from nearly all of the heavy machinery and set aside to fuel the generators. This had bought them some time – another day or two at least.
He’d also asked that anyone who drove a diesel truck, and was willing to, donate their fuel to the cause. He didn’t push the matter, though. He was a supervisor, not a commissar. He wouldn’t be turning this into the Democratic People’s Republic of Callaway anytime soon. This was still the United States of America, and ultimately his men knew what was at risk. If the time came, he knew they’d give everything they had to give.
He’d also sent a small team of their security forces and one of their engineers to scour the county for a diesel tanker that would still start. That much fuel would be a huge boon, buying them much-needed time while they found or created another way to run the pumps. They’d returned this morning, not with a tanker truck, but with a few 50-gallon drums of used oil from the area restaurant fryers. It was better than nothing, and as long as they filtered it thoroughly and mixed with the existing diesel, it would help buy them time.
It was time to start thinking of alternatives, though. Solar might work to power the pumps if they could scavenge enough deep cycle batteries, an inverter, and panels. The amperage they’d draw could damage the batteries if they weren’t careful. They’d also want to supplement with wind power during the night to keep the batteries charged.
He was also toying with the idea of having some of the guys construct a water wheel and connecting it to an alternator from one of the trucks to create some power. They were fairly close to the river, so it might work, and unlike wind or solar, it would be a constant supply that they could depend on.
There were a lot of other ideas they were kicking around, including constructing an Archimedes screw to deliver water into the system, but that was way too impractical.
He had some of his team working on crunching the numbers to see if the pumps needed to be on all day to keep the process rolling. One of the big concerns of turning them off was that sediment from the river water would clog the system. If that happened, they were in a lot of trouble.
George walked down to the break room and stared at the vending machines. They’d popped the glass out of them shortly after the event and locked the contents away, rationing them as they could.
He grinned as he saw Chuck, one of his crew, standing next to the utility closet that held the food. Chuck checked his watch, an old wind-up pocket watch, and looked back at George.
“Lunch isn’t for another hour, George.”
George nodded. “I know, Chuck. I’m feeling just a bit puckish, though.”
He fished a washer out of his pocket and handed it over to Chuck, who fished a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and began to rummage around inside.
They’d taken a few handfuls of washers and spray painted them a hunter orange color. Each man got three washers distributed to him at the start of his shift. Each washer could be redeemed for a small “meal” of a predefined number of calories. You never knew what the combination would be. One washer might get you a handful of Slim Jims, the next might get you a fruit-filled pie and a can of Coke.
Some of the men had been found trading additional hours of coverage or other services for washers, but the trading hadn’t caused any issues as of yet, so George was inclined to let it continue. For now. His younger self would have marveled at the barter economy, but his older self just felt tired.
Chuck popped out and handed George a full-size candy bar, a can of Coke, and a small bag of chips.
George looked at the feast. “Chuck, this is too much.”
Chuck shook his head.
“The guys have seen how hard you’ve been working, boss. You’re running on empty, and we need you in top shape, so everyone chipped in a bit, shaved off some of their rations for the day. Eat up, and try and rest for a little while, okay?”
George smiled, gave Chuck a pat on the back, took the food, and headed to a nearby table where he began to eat.
The chocolate was delicious, if a bit messy. It was hot in the building without the climate control working. T
hey could turn it on, but it would take additional fuel from the generators. Not an option. In any case, the nougat, peanuts, caramel, and chocolate briefly took his mind off of the job at hand. A welcome distraction.
He popped the tab on his Coke, and the popping sounds of bubbles echoed through the aluminum can. George took a long sip, and sighed. Warm Coke. He actually enjoyed it this way, but it would be great if they at least had the option of drinking it cold.
Suddenly, another of his crewmen ran into the break room, panic-stricken.
George stood at once. “What’s wrong, Bill?”
George feared the worst.
Was the plant in meltdown?
Was one of the pumps down?
Had they finally run out of fuel?
Had one of the pipes carrying steam burst? He’d heard of workers being caught in those clouds of super-heated steam. The thought of it threatened to send his lunch right back out again.
The news surprised him.
“Helicopters! Helicopters are here! Three of them just touched down outside!”
George’s mind swam with questions.
Who were these guys with?
Why were they here?
Were they being rescued?
Would he get to go home to see his wife?
“All right, Bill,” George said, “let’s go meet the new guys.”
Chapter 7 – Waking
Linus’ eyelids flashed open quickly, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d dreamt of helicopters, and rescue. It had started off so wonderful. So real. The military had swooped in and returned the world to its former glory. In the end, he’d been on a beach somewhere tropical with Talia. She’d just asked him to reapply her sunscreen. He had started to oblige when he noticed his reflection in Talia’s sunglasses. It wasn’t himself that he saw in the reflection, but the hulking image of John Willis. His dead eyes stared back at Linus, accusing him, blaming him for his death.
Breakdown: Episode 6 Page 3