"You hunt at night? Isn't that dangerous?"
"You could freeze to death or poke an eye out if you don't watch yourself," Frank agreed, "but trust me, Doc, it's worth it. After dark there's less competition so you don't have to walk near as far, and you can bag the critters that usually only come out at night. I swear those other clueless ‘hunters’ are scaring off all the game!"
"Yeah, well, when hunting season is 24/7 and 365, that'll happen."
"I'll tell you what else will happen—I'm going to give you one of those coons."
Phil's mouth began to water, for it had been weeks since he had fresh meat or any other food that wasn’t rice, or some preparation of dried corn, or that didn't come out of a can or brown plastic bag.
"What's the catch?" he asked flatly.
Frank chuckled.
"That's why I like you, Doc—right down to business. Fine. I got an idea for this place, and I need you to give me twenty minutes to make my case at the next board meeting."
"You don't need to pay me for that, Frank. Just tell me you have business before the board and I'll be sure to pencil you into the agenda."
"When, Doc?" Frank sneered. "After all the bigwigs spew a lot of hot air about nothin'? When us regular folks are trying to get people to listen after three or four hours of total BS and everyone can't wait to go home?"
"Frank—"
"You'll get that coon if you promise to let me speak in the first hour of the next meeting."
Phil shook his head.
"I can't let you speak for twenty minutes, Frank. In addition to making a long, boring meeting even longer, it would be obvious you paid me, wouldn’t it?"
"All I want is a fair hearing."
"Well, how about this? I only let you speak for five minutes—which is three minutes longer than normal—but I make sure you go first."
"First?" Frank asked, raising his eyebrows. One of his dogs whimpered and yelped impatiently.
Phil nodded.
"We do the prayer, the Pledge of Allegiance, and then it's you, Frank Hollings, for five uninterrupted minutes. What do you say?"
"I say you got yourself a deal, Doc," Frank answered, and they sealed the deal with a firm handshake.
"You're not buying my vote, Frank—I will vote yea or nay based on the merits of your proposal. The only thing you've bought is the first time slot."
"Got it, Doc. I'll bring that coon over just as soon as the missus cleans it."
"Nah, Mom and I are going to visit Colonel Minor today, and there's no telling when we'll be back. Let me come to your place and get it."
"You're going to see the Colonel? Hell, I could just go with you and cut out the middleman."
Phil had no intention of setting such a horrid precedent.
"Mom's coming with me to explain one of her Visions," Phil told him.
"Ouch," said Frank, wincing. "I don't want to pitch my idea while you've ticked off the whole damn court. I guess I'll just wait for the next board meeting."
At this, they exchanged parting pleasantries and each went his way.
Reveille blared from a trumpet in the Treehouse mounted on the tall pine near the center of Tent Town. Phil hurried as the tents began to murmur. But he slowed at the sight of a twelve-year-old boy carrying an axe on his shoulder, his face streaked with tears. The symbol of the Woodcutter Gang had been burned onto the back of his right hand.
"Bill!" he shouted at the boy, who stopped as the doctor headed over to him. "Bill, what's wrong, son?"
"Muh, my dad," Bill sniffed. "He just whupped my butt!"
"What?" cried Phil incredulously. "Why?"
"I luh . . . I lost our lighter. I've been looking for it, but I can't find it anywhere!"
The boy seemed set for a full-on bawling session; he struggled visibly to keep control.
"They trusted me with that lighter," he moaned, sniffing, "and I lost it, Doc. I lost it!"
"Look, Bill . . . I’ve got an extra lighter . . ."
The boy's eyes flared in hopeful expectation.
"You would give me a lighter?"
"Still in the original package," Phil assured him. "But not for free!"
"Well . . . tell me what I have to do, Doc!"
"First, I want you to clean this crap bucket with boiling water. No, check that. Follow me to the house . . . I’ve got bleach solution. Next, do you know where I keep my firewood?"
"Locked up in the trunk of that old car next to your place?"
"Exactly. Well, I'm about out. Fill my trunk with firewood—I'll give you the key—clean this bucket, and I'll get you that lighter."
"Oh, praise God for you, Doctor Phil!" the boy cried. "Let me go home to Dad and see if it's okay with him, all right?"
The doctor winced at the name, "Dr. Phil." Then again, it was obvious this kid was not trying to insult him.
"Deal."
"Big Wheels!" cried the boy, and ran off in a rush of jubilation.
"Careful running with that axe!"
Phil had one more hurdle to overcome before he made it home. It came in the form of a young woman who normally managed to look quite attractive even without makeup. But this morning, she looked sick and exhausted. Her eyes lit up with desperate hope at the sight of him, and she moved quickly to cut him off.
“Hey, Doc!” she sang. “You’re looking good today.”
“Hello, Miss Davis.”
“Aw, you don’t have to be so formal!” the girl said, putting a hand behind her ear and giggling nervously. “You can call me Violet. Or Vi. My friends call me Vi.”
“What do you need, Miss Davis?”
“It’s my back, Doc. It still hurts, like always. And sleeping on the ground doesn’t help.”
“You sleep on the ground? The Army gave everyone a cot.”
“I . . . sold mine,” she sheepishly admitted, and dropped her eyes.
“Oh. Well, I can get you an appointment for tomorrow after your field shift. I know you can’t afford aspirin, but have you tried the yoga exercises I prescribed?”
“About the field shift. Could you, um . . . write me a profile that says I can’t work?”
“Miss Davis, are you having difficulties with the Army?”
Her eyes flashed with anger.
“They cheated me yesterday. I was supposed to get an MRE, but all I got was a lousy bowl of oatmeal. Can you believe that? A bowl of oatmeal for working all day in the fields?”
A Meal Ready to Eat was the long-storage US Army ration that came in a brown plastic bag, along with a clever chemical heater blessedly activated by mere water. A meal you could heat without flame was great, because a people used to the comforts and relative safety of better times were now lighting, heating, and cooking with open flames in their homes, leading to all kinds of tragedies.
“And why did they only give you a bowl of oatmeal?” Phil asked, though he could guess.
“They claim I didn’t earn my MRE. They said I was shamming!”
Perish the thought invaded Phi's mind, but did not escape his mouth.
“I tried to tell them I couldn’t work as hard as everyone else because of my back, but they wouldn’t believe me! That’s why I need you to write that note."
“Surely you can show them medical records or prescriptions or something that proves you have a history of chronic back problems?”
“I . . . I lost them,” Violet protested.
Of course you did.
“Look . . . Miss Davis. Weren't you an administrative assistant at a law firm?”
“Yes. But I was more than just a secretary, Doc. I went to night classes at the local college and was all set to go to law school before the world went to hell.”
“I know it’s a tough transition from sitting around an air conditioned office all day to backbreaking field work in the hot sun. And trust me, when summer gets here, it’s going to be a lot worse. But we all have to do our part.”
“Don’t give me that!” the girl spat. “The Woodcutters don’t wo
rk in the fields. They’re in the shade all day, eating all they want!”
“Vi—Miss Davis, fuel for chainsaws, tractors, and logging trucks dried up a long time ago,” Phil explained. “The Woodcutter Gang takes down trees with hand tools and drags them all over the mountain for us. Further, after disease and cold weather, the biggest cause of injury around this place is clueless, amateur lumberjacks dropping trees on each other. So don’t begrudge the Woodcutters their wealth, Violet. They earn every penny.”
“Well, what about the soldiers? All they do is yell at people, the Big Wheel bastards.”
“You have a point there, Miss Davis. I and the other members of the council are drafting an official protest against the Army. The soldiers are generally young and fit. The least they can do is their fair share of the physical labor around here.”
“Damn right! And frankly, Doc, I don’t see you bent over out there in the fields, either.”
“Miss Davis, I am literally the only doctor left. In fact, I and a mere handful of Army medics and nurses are the only health professionals on the mountain. We see patients all day.”
“Uh . . . I can be a nurse!”
Phil wanted to shout “the hell you can!” but instead said, “You can always apply for the Medical Services Course or the Mechanic Academy. But I must warn you, standards are astronomically high and competition is fierce. Lots of lazy people have to be weeded out who only applied because they didn’t want to chop wood or work in the fields.”
All this time, Phil took note of how ravenous the girl looked. She wasn't starving, but hunger blazed in her eyes like headlights. Typically, everyone in Tent Town got at least one MRE a day, in one way or the other. But MREs were a valuable commodity, and it was not uncommon for someone to trade a part or even all of an MRE to acquire other things. In one council meeting someone actually suggested that the soldiers make individuals eat the MRE in front of them as soon as it was issued, but this was dismissed as being too tyrannical.
“You know about sick days?” Violet asked.
“Sure. Tell the Army you’re sick and you get an MRE without having to work that day.”
“Well, I’m all out of sick days, and—”
“You’ve burned up seven days of Sick Leave already?” Phil asked, incredulous. “The planting season’s barely started!”
“I’m sick!” Violet shouted, practically screaming. “My back . . . I, I tried buying sick days from guys with . . . you know.”
“Yes, Miss Davis, everyone knows.”
“But . . . no one wants to sell me any more sick days. I’m just . . . I don’t know what to do—”
“Work through the pain, Violet,” Phil said. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go.”
Then he walked past her.
“Wait!” she cried, and when he turned back, she was smiling as she closed in.
“Please write me that note,” she purred, opening her jacket to reveal bare breasts. “I’ll make you feel good.”
He calmly met her eye.
“As the town doctor, I am well aware of our rampant STD problem, and I have no wish to participate. Good day, Miss Davis.”
She screeched a stream of expletives after him as he left for the RV part of town. A two-man safety patrol of armored soldiers hustled past him toward the screams, shouting orders. Phil didn't stop to explain. Indeed, he picked up the pace.
Mom had hot pine-needle tea ready for him when he returned, a Tent Town staple. The concoction had more vitamin C per volume than orange juice, and pine needles were ubiquitous here. The trick was to get the water very hot but remove the tea just before the boil, because boiling destroyed the Vitamin C. Phil found the taste left much to be desired and would have loved to sweeten it. Sadly, while pine needles were free, sugar managed to be one of the most expensive commodities on the mountain. Still, he faithfully drank at least a pint a day. People had to get water very hot to make tea, so frequent tea drinking proved an excellent way to minimize water borne diseases.
"That nice young redhead Army nurse with the freckles came to see you," Mom said.
"Lieutenant Erickson?"
"Yes, that's the one. She wanted to know when we're coming to the hospital today."
By "the hospital," his mother was referring to the large white tent decorated with a red cross and nestled under the Treehouse near the center of Tent Town.
"You told her we're going to see the colonel today, right?"
"Of course, dear. I told her to expect us around noon. Well, let's go!"
"Not yet, Mom. We have to wait for Bill so I can give him the keys to the car."
"Oh, we're getting more firewood?"
"Yep. And he's going to clean the crap bucket, too."
"I hope you didn't pay too much."
"Nah, just a lighter. We got a bucket of 'em. People love to pay me in lighters."
"Won't all the lighters run out of fuel eventually?"
"Eventually. Why do you think I've been hoarding all those matches? We'll be okay, Mom. I'll take care of us."
Bill arrived, so Phil and his mother left for the Fort. It was a winding mile down the narrow gravel road from the RV park to the old Baptist youth camp that had been transformed into Fort Minor. While a fifteen- to twenty-minute walk for the average person, it meant thirty to forty minutes for the old woman, so Phil insisted on taking the golf cart over his mother's strenuous objections.
The chain link fence topped with coils of razor wire surrounded the heart of the old youth camp, now Fort Minor. A two-soldier patrol walking the fence smiled and waved as they rolled by. His mother returned the gesture, but Phil did not. He kept driving to the gate, which was flanked by a pair of sandbag redoubts, one on either side of the entrance road. Each bore a well-worn heavy machine gun. The water-filled plastic highway barriers reminded Phil that to drive through the gate, one had to weave through a zigzag course. He wondered again why a tactic used to foil suicide car bombers in Iraq and Afghanistan had any relevance here.
A squad of ten soldiers in full body armor manned the gate, each armed with an M-4 carbine variant of the M16 automatic rifle. A banner, hung from two trees on either side of the road, floated over the gate, reading:
UNITED STATES ARMY
42ND TRANSPORTATION BATTALION (TRUCK)
LTC BEE G. MINOR, COMMANDING
"BIG WHEELS!"
A forty-foot steel intermodal shipping container, or CONEX, sat on the side of the road, just outside the gate. Windows and a door had been cut into the container. Someone had spray-painted the words GATE STORE on its side, and a large open window revealed a soldier sitting behind it, with another standing behind him. Phil zoomed the cart right on over to the store.
"Hey, it’s Dr. Phil!" sang the standing soldier as the doctor and his mother stepped from the golf cart.
"Come on, Private Mason, you know he hates that," said the seated soldier, but he rose to shake the doctor's hand. "What can I do for you, Doctor Topper? Or should I say Chairman Topper?"
"A pound of coffee, please," Phil responded. "Sergeant . . . Watson, is it?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Chairman," said Watson. "And that'll be a hundred and fifty dollars."
Phil raised an eyebrow.
"The price has gone up," he noted.
"The supply has gone down, Doc."
"You have any fresh coffee?"
"Nope, it's all stale. Maybe we'll get fresher coffee in the next Scrounge Run, but I wouldn’t bet on it. As far as we’re concerned, coffee plantations might as well be on the other side of the moon. The same can be said for chocolate, vanilla, oranges, bananas—you get the idea.”
"Speaking of Scrounge Run, I need to go on the next one," said Phil. "You need someone with you who knows how to identify the drugs and medical equipment we most need."
"It's not my place to tell the chairman of the Civilian Affairs Board that he's not invited. But I can't imagine the colonel letting our only real doctor go on a Scrounge Run."
"He's right, Doc," said Mason
. "I've never been on a Scrounge Run where at least one poor bastard didn't get it. Last time, we lost five soldiers and two trucks. Why don't you send your hot girl, Red, in your place? You've trained her up by now, haven't you?"
"We can't afford to lose any more professional medical personnel," Sergeant Watson insisted. "Doc, you'll have to write down a list of drugs by name, along with detailed descriptions of the medical equipment you want us to look for. And that's Lieutenant Erickson to you, Private Mason!"
"We'll see what the great and wonderful Oz has to say about that at our meeting this morning," Phil joked. "In the meantime, I'll also take some aspirin."
"How many, Doc? It's two bucks apiece."
Phil did some quick calculations. At two aspirin a day, it would cost him $56.00 for a two-week supply.
"I'll take twenty-eight."
Sergeant Watson sat down, and brought out a large black three-ring binder and an abacus.
"Let's see your ID, please. Yes, I know who you are, but . . . regulations, right?"
Phil gave him a driver's license from happier times. Watson matched the license with its photocopy in the binder, and glanced up at the doctor's face before picking up the abacus.
"That's one hundred fifty for the coffee and fifty-six for the aspirin," he said, sliding the beads on the abacus around. "That gives us . . . two hundred six dollars even. Let me check the book,” he consulted an entry in the binder. “Uh-oh."
"What's wrong?"
"Sorry, Doc. But there's only thirty-six dollars and fifty cents in your account."
"What? That's ridiculous. I've got over two thousand dollars in that book!"
Watson squinted and fingered an entry on the page.
"Says here yesterday you bought some perfume, some makeup, soap, shampoo, deodorant, tampons, toilet tissue, cigarettes, and 750 milliliters of original bourbon whiskey, for a . . . Victoria Davis."
Phil rounded on his mother.
"Mom!” he cried, almost screaming. “Victoria? Really?"
"She needed help, Philly! It's her back, the poor girl—"
"She's a liar, Mom. And a whore! How could you let her scam you?"
"I take it you no longer want your mother to have access to your account?"
Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3) Page 14