Plan B: Revised (Siege of New Hampshire Book 1)

by Mic Roland

  “Aw Shoot,” Pat said as they approached the intersection. “Hannaford’s is just as mobbed as Shaw’s was. Look at that. People are parked all along the highway too.”

  “Somebody’s pulling out over there.” Susan pointed up the road. “You could park there.”

  “No, honey. It’s not just the parking. I don’t think I want to go in there. It looks a lot like Shaw’s. That was a madhouse. People pushing, shoving, running up and down the aisles. Right in front of me, two women were pulling each others’ hair over a box of Minute Rice, of all things. I just left. I wanted nothing to do with such craziness. I’m gonna try a different store. Hopefully, it’s not such a zoo.” Pat turned onto the highway.

  “I would have thought that you and your husband were pretty well stocked up already,” Martin said. “What are you shopping for? That is, if saying won’t compromise your OPSEC?”

  “I don’t really understand his app-sack thing,” Pat said. “So I have no idea.”

  “Truth is,” Pat continued. “I’m hoping I can get a little more cooking oil.”

  Martin waited for more items on her list, but none came. “That’s it? Just oil?”

  Susan looked puzzled. “I thought you were going to say fresh veggies or something. Why oil? ”

  Pat gave a little embarrassed smile as she turned onto a side road. “Heh, well, I blame my mother for that. You see, she was a girl back in Germany during the war. The family lived in the country, near a little town named Wiesenbronn. Things got terrible lean for people, especially late in the war, to where they were eating mostly turnips — which is what they grew for the cows to eat — or bread made with sawdust. Mom’s family had it a bit better than the city folk, since local farms grew grains. What they couldn’t get, though, was cooking oil. You need oil for just about every kind of cooking, but it was nearly impossible to get, even on the black market.”

  “Well, after the war, mom married an American soldier — my dad — and moved to the states in the early 50s. She used to tell my sister and me how she could not believe her eyes that American shops had gallons of cooking oil on the shelves and no one was rushing to grab any of it.”

  Pat laughed. “But Mom did. She always had several gallons in her kitchen, at least. She would never throw away bacon grease, and rendered down beef fat. Her advice to me, growing up, was to always have lots of cooking oil when I got married. ‘You can grow grains, Patty,’ she used to say, ‘but you can’t grow oil’.”

  “Your mom sounds like an interesting woman,” said Susan.

  “Oh yes. I loved my Mumu a lot.”

  The trees and old homes that lined the road, gave way to a triangular park with a few stately old maples still decked out in flaming orange. On one side of the Common stood town hall — a big white building in a mixture of the ornate styles of the latter 1800s. Beyond the trees rose a tall pointed steeple. A few squarish colonial style buildings, painted in earthy tones, also faced the Common. Such large houses were once the homes of the prosperous locals, doing double duty as inns and taverns. The Common had probably looked the same for over a hundred and fifty autumns.

  The third side of the Common broke the antique mood. A brightly painted gas station asserted the crass dominance of the twentieth century. Flanking the station were small shops attempting to look as colonial as limited budgets allowed. Modern clutter of newspaper boxes, parking signs and advertising posters filled all available gaps.

  Pat pointed beyond the gas station. “That’s better. Center Market has cars in the lot, but it doesn’t look like a mob scene. Maybe only the locals know about this store.”

  Pat pulled her big red station wagon into the parking lot of the modest grocery store set back from the road. There were many cars already parked, but she found a space quickly.

  “Do you think they’ll check IDs?” Susan asked. Pat looked confused.

  Martin leaned in between the seats. “We tried to shop at a store down in Stoneham, but the manager said people had to have a local ID.”

  “Hmm. I have no idea. That would leave me out too. Let’s go see.”

  There was no manager with a bullhorn outside of the store. There was no line. People were coming and going with small bundles under their arms, but there was no pushing or shoving.

  When Martin got through the glass doors, he felt like he had finally beaten a tough level in a video game and leveled up to something totally new. He half-expected a heavenly chorus and beam of golden light from above.

  There was no beam of light: no chorus. The interior of the store was dim. Daylight from the street-front windows did not carry far. A hand-lettered sign announced that purchases were limited to $20 per person, cash only. A hawk-faced man sat on a stool at the checkout station.

  “We’re actually inside,” Martin said. “I didn’t think we’d get this far. I just realized that I don’t know what I want to buy.”

  “It’s looking kind of picked over here too. You might not have much choice,” Susan whispered.

  “I’m going to go look for my treasure,” Pat said cheerily.

  “Thanks for the ride, Pat,” Martin said. “We really appreciate it.”

  “Glad I could help. I do hope you two get on up to Cheshire alright.”

  “I’m sure we will,” said Susan. “We hope you and your husband will be okay too.”

  “You’re such a dear,” Pat said, laying a hand on Susan’s arm. “Well, I’m off to do what Mumu told me!” With that, Pat shuffled off into the dark aisles.

  Coleman camp lanterns in the far corners of the store provided just enough twilight to navigate the aisles, though not enough to read labels. Dark silhouettes of other shoppers drifted through the aisles. Martin used his flashlight, as the other shoppers did, to survey the shelves. There was not much to survey. He gave Susan his other flashlight so they could split up and search faster.

  The bottled water shelves were completely bare, as were the shelves for juices and sodas. Promotional placards taped to the shelf edge announced what was no longer there. The bakery shelves were cleared too, leaving only empty cardboard display boxes. The boxed cereals were gone, except for a few ruptured boxes. Very few flakes or Cheerios remained on the shelves from the ripped boxes. Someone must have scraped up the spillage to take home.

  The canned soups aisle had several cans, though all were missing labels. Placards announced a sale on Dinty Moore canned meals, but there were none.

  “I was hoping we could pick up something easy to eat for this last leg of our walk,” Martin said as he met Susan. “Easy-to-eat seems to be the hardest hit.”

  “I’ve been looking for easy foods too,” said Susan. “There’s no breads, no cereals, no soups — unless we want to play mystery-meal with those label-less cans. The produce cases were empty. No veggies or fruit. There’s no cookies or crackers of any kind. I even looked for graham crackers. Nothing.”

  The next aisle looked promising. At least the shelves were not empty. It was the stationary and housewares aisle: Air freshener, dish soap. pens, calendars, greeting cards. An older man pulled the last bag of barbecue charcoal off of a bottom shelf.

  “There’s some pet food left,” said Susan.

  “Hmm. I’m not quite that desperate yet. Are you?” Martin asked. She squinted and shook her head.

  There were still jars of mustard, bottles of ketchup and barbecue sauce.

  “Hey look.” Susan reached up. “A jar of olives!” She set it back down with a chuckle. “New Hampshire’s locusts don’t like olives either.”

  Martin chuckled too.

  While Martin was moving empty display boxes on the shelves, a small can rolled out. He snatched it up before it fell. “Ugh. Vienna sausages.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve never heard of them? They’re like little hotdogs, but weird,” he said.

  “Sounds like you don’t like them.”

  “Oh, they’re not terrible, I just got really tired of them as a kid. I made the mistake, on
e time, of telling my mom that I liked them. All that summer, she was buying me cans of Vienna sausages as my summer snack food. I was never so eager for school lunches to start. Still, it’s the only thing we’ve found so far that we could eat on the road.”

  “Sounds like your mom wanted to make you happy.”

  “I know. Mom’s are funny that way, though. After I connected the dots on the endless supply of Vienna sausages, I told her I really liked Cap’n Crunch. It didn’t work that time. I still only got that once in a blue moon.”

  Susan laughed. “That’s funny. My mom was the same way.”

  “No way. You got Venna sausages too! I thought you hadn’t heard of them.”

  “No, no, no. I’ve never heard of those before. For my mom, it was owls. I once told her I thought this picture of an owl in a book was really cute. She must have figured ‘oh, she loves owls!’ For years afterward, I was getting owl sweaters for Christmas, owl nick knacks from yard sales and owl birthday cards. I was getting kind of tired of owls, but didn’t have the heart to tell her. I knew she meant well.”

  Martin and Susan made their way to the checkout counter. Martin set the can of Vienna sausages on the black belt.

  “I didn’t see a price on this, sorry,” Martin said. “It just came rolling out from behind a box.”

  “That’s okay,” said the hawk-faced manager. He studied the can. “This would be aisle four, left side, third shelf…hmmm…” The man muttered to himself, eyes closed as he imagined his inventory. “These are $1.29. That’ll be a dollar twenty nine.”

  Martin was surprised he did not say five dollars. “Oh, and this too.” Martin pulled the jar of olives from his pocket.

  “You kept those?” Susan said.

  “Aisle three, right side, top shelf…hmm…$2.29.”

  “Why did you get those?” she asked.

  “You said yesterday how you wished we bought that jar back at Andrew’s, remember?”

  “Um, yeah?”

  “You said it again today. So, I decided to buy you the next jar of olives I came across.” Martin presented her with the jar like a trophy. “Here ya go. No more olive regrets. Now you have your very own jar.”

  “That’ll be three fifty eight,” said the manager.

  Martin fished out his cash, handing over four badly wrinkled ones. “Doesn’t look like you’ll be open for business too much longer, eh?” Martin said to him.

  “Nope. Pretty well cleaned out.” The manager jotted down the transaction in a notebook. “You missed the biggest day: yesterday. It was a store-owner’s dream, it was. Place was packed. Of course, I usually get a shipment every morning, but Monday was the last one I got. By the end of the day yesterday, we were outta most everything.”

  He scooped out a few coins from an open register tray. “Here’s yer change. I’m surprised you found that can there. Meats were the first thing to…no, actually water was the first thing, then batteries, and other drinks. But meats were right up there. Went fast.”

  “Sounds like we were lucky to get this little guy.” Martin rolled the can in his fingers. “Guess we should savor it. Thanks.”

  Martin and Susan waved to the manager as they stepped back out into the bright of day. They walked out onto the long, winding road up to Cheshire.

  Susan regarded her jar of olives. “That was thoughtful of you, Martin.”

  Martin could feel a blush coming on. He coughed and fussed with his hat.

  “But let’s not let this become like owls, okay? I’m still not fond of olives.”

  Martin chuckled. “Okay. Deal.”

  * * *

  Chapter 13: Deadly problem

  The past two days had provided more than enough exciting events to put anyone on edge — a house fire, a gunfight, a dead body, a knife attack. Martin had noticed that even during the quiet times when adrenaline was not running strong, he still could not relax. He chalked it up to heightened situational awareness as they traveled through unfamiliar territory. He had expected that when he got to more familiar roads, he would feel some degree of relief, some sense of comfort. He was in familiar country at last, but felt more uneasy, not less.

  Haverhill Road was part of his old daily route to his car pool. That job connection set him to thinking about his job downtown. The long walk had given him ample time to run out the “what-ifs” of the grid-down situation. The prospects were not encouraging.

  From what little news he had gleaned, many major components of the power grid around the nation, perhaps even the world, had all failed around the same time. Unlike the popular EMP scenario that Brian often talked about, this crisis had left all the delicate electronics intact. Cars with computerized engines still ran. Smart phones still functioned. Even his laptop still powered up. The problem was not the delicate electronics, but the power that supported them: the grid.

  Without the grid, consumer communications systems had fallen away, piece by piece. Some of the cell towers stayed alive — their generators chugging along on a week’s supply of propane — but the network they were connected to had too many components relying on the grid. Martin’s phone still powered up, but there was no network for it to connect to.

  Highly computerized cars still ran, but without the electrical grid to power the gas stations, storage depots and refineries, how long would there be fuel to run them?

  No power and no internet meant his job could not be performed. As of two days ago, he probably did not have a job any longer. In the career-sense, it could be the end of the world as he knew it. But not the end of the world. Aside from hunkering down to deal with the power outage, what was he going to do with himself long-term?

  “You’ve been awfully quiet,” Susan said.

  “Huh? Have I?”

  She rolled her eyes. “At least back in the city, there were horns and sirens and people yelling at each other. I’d welcome some crickets about now. How far is your house from here?”

  “Hmm. Eight miles, maybe.”

  “At our pace, that’s roughly, what, maybe four hours?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Four long, quiet, hours,” she added with melodrama.

  Martin chuckled. “Okay, okay.” He was about to summarize his dark musings but stopped. He had been theorizing how the economy that everyone relied upon would collapse for lack of power and fuel. He had imagined how millions of the average citizens would be cast adrift without supplies and without an income to acquire more. An improvised economy might develop, but most people would be like himself with skills no one needed. Many would become desperate. Trouble was certain. He had run out the ramifications for himself, but what about Susan?

  If his pessimistic side was right, a bank branch in downtown Boston would not be open for business-as-usual for a long time — maybe never. He felt some relief that he was able to help Susan not to get stuck in a mess like La Quinta, but what was she to do long-term? Did he expect that she would simply stay living in Lindsey’s room forever? He realized he had not thought very deeply on that score.

  Susan cleared her throat. “You know, I was expecting a bit more conversation than ‘okay, okay’.”

  Martin smiled apologetically. He did not want to parade his pessimism. People prefer hope. His optimistic side could imagine that the multiple equipment failures in the grid could be resolved — much like that substation in San Jose was eventually repaired. Maybe it would take three months instead of one, but come Spring, things could begin to return to normal. Hope made for better conversation.

  “Oh, I was running through various what-to-do plans in my mind,” he said. “Things like, what I should do right away when I get home, what I need to do later. I was getting stuck on the ‘later’ stuff. It’s a lot harder to figure. I mean, maybe they can get things fixed in a…while.” He tried to smile. “Might get fixed slowly. So until then, things might be…well…different than usual.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that sort of thing too,” she said.

  �
��Oh?” Martin was curious how she was picturing her future. It would make for better conservation to take a cue from her vision than run off down his own dark trails.

  Martin pointed to a section of guardrail. “What do you say we take a rest up here? I’m feeling pretty tired already.” Susan nodded. He passed her the water bottle and tore in half the big biscuit Pat gave them in the car.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking too,” she said after taking a long drink. “I’ve never been in a power outage that lasted more than a couple days, so it’s hard for me to imagine things not returning to normal fairly soon. I mean, they always did before, right? I just have to wait it out with candles and graham crackers and the lights all come back on. I really want to think that this might last a week, maybe two. The branch will reopen, I’ll go find some other apartment, and pick up where I left off. Take my test. Become an Associate. Life would go on.”

  “It would be nice if things got up and running in a few weeks,” he said with his mouth full. He was trying to curb his pessimism and let his optimist speak.

  “Yeah,” she said as she tore off a tuft of her half of the biscuit. “But what if things don’t get fixed anytime soon and the lights don’t all pop back on? Mr. Skinner used to lecture about revenue streams. You know, for personal loans and stuff. She imitated Mr. Skinner’s voice. ‘The bank expects our loan customers to dependably make repayments. Applicants must have an income stream that is regular and dependable’.”

  Martin chuckled. “You do a pretty good Mr. Skinner.”

  Susan smiled. “Thanks. I’ve had practice. Whenever he talked about reliable incomes, I always thought of myself as having one. I won’t say I felt smug, or anything, but I thought I had a pretty reliable job. I was okay.”

  “Thought?” Martin noticed her use of the past tense.

  “Yeah. I think it was while we were in those neighborhoods in Stoneham, seeing all those people standing around because they couldn’t go to work. I got to realizing that if this outage is going to be as bad as it sounds, all of the retail customers that I would have dealt with will be out of work, and probably fighting over boxes of Minute Rice. The odds are that my State Street branch isn’t going to reopen for a long time, if ever. I could easily see the home office scaling back the number of branches. I might not have a job anymore.”