THE DAY: A Novel of America in the Last Days (The End of America Series)

by John Price

  "I know, Dot, but it’s the only place that we can hide the food we have left. More important than that, though, is that there’s enough room in the root cellar for both of us to lie down, closing and locking the doors. We can scatter straw, and a cow flop or two on the doors, to hide the cellar from the marauders, once they rampage through the house and see that there’s nothing to eat."

  "I see where you’re going. We could leave a few cans and bottles in the kitchen, to make it look like we just up and left. But, Harlan dear, how long can we hide in the root cellar? Once the mobs start coming across the farms in this area, they won’t be content with just a couple of cans of peas, they’ll pour through the barn, and the machine shed, and maybe even burn the house. What are we going to…."

  "Dot honey, let’s just take a day at a time. I’ll start moving our canned and dried food into the root cellar. I’ll nail plastic sheeting on the back side of the doors, since those doors aren’t waterproof by any means."

  "Okay. I’ll start packing the canned and dried foods into boxes. But, you haven’t said anything about the two shotguns you packed in grease and buried in the barn after the geniuses in DC passed that horrible law making our ownership of firearms illegal?"

  "I haven’t forgotten our guns, Dot, but like I said, let’s take each day at a time."

  39

  Indiana State Road 231 (East Joliet Street)

  and South Indiana Street

  Crown Point, Indiana

  Interstate 65 had become a parking lot within hours of the nuking of Chicago. Those living south of Chicago who saw the mushroom cloud and who recognized what would happen jumped in their cars, with some food thrown in the trunk along with their firearms, if they still had them after Congress outlawed gun ownership under the McAlister Hate Speech and Hate Weapon Act. Some remembered to grab the family pet, while others didn’t bother, figuring the pet was just another mouth to feed.

  The entry ramps to interstate 80/90 east from Chicago soon filled, as thousands tried to get on the six lane wide freeway, hoping to make it to the interstate 65 exit, heading south to Merrillville, Crown Point and points south. Motor vehicle breakdowns and crashes caused by fleeing motorists blocked two of the I-80/90 east bound lanes, narrowing escape out of the cauldron that Chicago had become. Within the first 48 hours of The Day over a million persons, men, women and children, had managed to flee the suburbs of Chicago, fleeing north to Wisconsin, west into Illinois and southeast to Indiana. Empty gas tanks, coupled with service stations that quickly exhausted their supplies before the power went out, resulted in traffic eventually coming to a halt on I-65. The two lanes south towards Indianapolis were soon blocked by stranded and abandoned vehicles, denying motorists any chance to drive any further south.

  Stranded motorists, their families and pets on the I-65 exit at Crown Point left their cars, vans and trucks and hiked west along Indiana 231 two miles to Crown Point. As they trudged along 231, which became East Joliet Street, they were stopped at its intersection with South Indiana Avenue. Crown Point Police cars were parked across Joliet Avenue, blocking any further access to the city of Crown Point, which was just under ten blocks further west. In front of the police cars was an armored SWAT vehicle, provided to the city by DHS, complete with gun ports along both sides of the dark green vehicle. The twelve police officers manning the roadblock were dressed in SWAT uniforms, each holding a firearm.

  The roadblock went into place within hours after the Mayor of Crown Point received a report from the Indiana State Police describing the devastation of the nation’s third largest city just miles north west of his small city. He checked his almanac confirming that Chicago had about 2,700,000 residents. If one third died in the nuking, he calculated that would result in well over a million and a half people fleeing into the three adjoining states, meaning at least half a million souls would be heading into northwest Indiana, with many of those coming into his city. He ordered the Chief of Police into action, who quickly called up the entire 15 man police force of Crown Point and the reserves. The majority were assigned to the main entry point from Chicago, Indiana 231 from I-65.

  Not everyone who walked up to the police roadblock at Huron and Indiana Streets took kindly to being told they couldn’t come into the city. One of the earliest stranded motorists to approach the roadblock was Chuck, who was tired, hungry and scared, which was a dangerous combination. He had his wife and two grumbling teen agers with him. He refused to be waved off by the officer standing point, who motioned for the approaching refugees to head south down Indiana Avenue, away from the city. "Sir, you can’t come into the city. The Mayor’s put a quarantine on for the next several days or weeks or…."

  "Look, pal, I used to work for CPD. I know what a police officer can do….and what you can’t do. We have a right to walk on public roads. We have a right to come into your cruddy little town, so get….out….of….our….way. We’re real hungry and we’re real tired, if you get my meaning."

  The lead officer stepped forward two feet from Chuck’s face, slightly raising his M4A1 assault rifle. "Now, sir, we don’t want any trouble. So just take your nice family and head south, that’s to your left, down Indiana Avenue. You’ll surely find someone who can help you. The City doesn’t have any food supplies available for you. None. Now, sir, Indiana Avenue becomes Grant Street a few blocks south, then it turns into County Road 55. The county road runs down to State Road 2, two, maybe three miles. There’s a county park not far from there, to the west, where you could bed down for the night."

  Chuck’s face reddened during the point officer’s street directions. He clinched his fists, trying to decide what to do. He wanted to get into the city because he knew that he would eventually find food there. He wasn’t nearly as confident if they were turned away from where people lived close by in neighboring homes. The point officer carefully watched Chuck’s body language, prepared to handle him if it came to it. After what seemed like a long time to both the officer and to Chuck, finally Chuck controlled his anger, instead pleading, "Sir, if we don’t get some food soon, we won’t….like I said, we’re real hungry, we haven’t eaten anything since we left our home in Pullman, Illinois eight ten hours ago. Please….sir….you must have a family. What would you do?"

  The point officer studied Chuck, saw that his fists were no longer clenched, and his normal facial color had returned. He felt for the man, and his family, but he had his orders. He lowered his gun, stepped a little closer and quietly said, "Sir, just do I what told you. Go left down Indiana Avenue. Keep going. Don’t try and turn back west at Center or South Streets. A block away you’ll run into more roadblocks. The Mayor’s serious. He’s got folks, with guns, posted to keep people like you out. Keep going until you get to the cemetery, then head west across the cemetery until you get to the Wells Street Park. You can bed down there. When you look for food in town, just take one of your kids. It’ll be less intimidating when you knock on a door. Ask real nice and you may get fed. No threats. No clenched fists. If people say no, just move on. Got it?"

  A tear ran down Chuck’s cheek. "Thank you, I won’t forget you. God bless you."

  "It’s OK. Now, move on. Now….I see a bunch of folks walking up 231. I can’t send them all your direction - lose my job. They’re gonna’ have to head out into the country and take their chances. Now, scoot. Get. God be with you."

  Chuck and his family headed south on Indiana Avenue as fast as they were able.

  40

  Sam and Laura’s Kitchen

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Sam and Laura’s power went out the day after America was nuked. Sam and Laura shared some of their food with needy neighbors on both sides of their house in their aging sub-division. They stopped answering the door soon after the power went out, though, because they knew what was coming. Hungry people would come knocking at their door demanding food. Though several had come up on their porch and pounded on their door, so far no one had attempted to kick in the door. But, now Sam and L
aura were down to two cans of pork and beans, small quantities of un-cooked spaghetti and rice and three withered potatoes. It was time for Sam and Laura to talk.

  Sam reached across their small kitchen table, grabbed Laura’s hands in his and said, "Laura my dear, we both know where this is going. Right?"

  "Umh. You mean, because we’re almost out of food?"

  "Yeah….That’s the obvious problem, since the stores have all been stripped clean. I’ll never forget what Coborns and Fareway looked like inside. I couldn’t find anything worth picking up in either store. Picked clean….All within just hours after The Day. No one in this neighborhood has any extra food that they can share with us. Heck, we could have lasted another two or three days if we hadn’t shared with the Smiths and the Svensons."

  "But, Sam, it was the right thing to do. You know that."

  "I’m okay with what we did, but what we need to look at is….well….you know….the future. We’re going to be out of anything worth eating very soon. Then, what will we do? Laura, we’re too old to go out and search for food, either in homes or by hunting in the state parks. And Laura you know that…."

  BANG….BANG….BANG…."OPEN UP. WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE"….BANGBANGBANG. "We saw your lights on last night." BANGBANGBANG.

  "Sam, get the gun."

  Sam jumped up from the table and grabbed his antique Colt revolver from the counter between the kitchen and the living room where he had placed it for convenience sake. Waving for Laura to hide in the hall closet, Sam walked over and stood to the side of the front door.

  "What do you want? You don’t need to bang on our door so hard. We can hear."

  "We can hear, hunh? So there’s at least two of you. Probably also a woman, right? We’re here for food. We’re out of food. We’re hungry. We want some of what you’ve got stored away….Open up….or we’re comin’ in."

  Sam grimaced as he realized his mistake in letting his uninvited visitors know that there were two of them, most likely including a wife. He raised his Colt revolver, pointing it at the door, saying, "That would be a really bad idea….whoever you are. We don’t have any food. Go away. Leave us alone."

  "No food, hunh? Who do you think you’re lying to? If you’ve got candles or flashlights…whatever we saw lit up last night….that means you’ve also got food…probably plenty of it….We’re hungry….Real hungry….This is your last warning before we come through this flimsy little door."

  "Listen pal," Sam said with his voice quivering, "I have a gun pointed right at your gut. Bullets go through flimsy doors, as you called it. If you’re not gone in ten seconds we’ll both find out how flimsy this door really is. Now go. Get outta here. Leave us alone. Don’t come back….I’ve got plenty of ammo. Got it?"

  "Yeah, smart mouth, we will get it. Thanks for telling us about all your ammo….food and ammo….and a woman….what a deal. You can put away your gun, mister macho man. We’re going. But you better be able to stay awake at night, all night, because we’ll be back. Sweet dreams, macho man. Tell your woman we’re lookin’ forward to meeting her, if you know what we mean."

  41

  Columbia Food Distribution, Inc.

  Columbia, Missouri

  Thad Stevens was an admitted workaholic. He loved his job, and had done so ever since he took over Columbia Food Distribution, Inc., when his only uncle suffered a fatal heart attack, leaving him sole owner of the company. Like everyone else in central Missouri he watched what little news he could get on the television channels still broadcasting after The Day. Neither St. Louis or Kansas City appeared to be on the nuclear target list, so Thad was able to get updates from channels in both cities on his cable system in Columbia, located in Missouri about mid-way between both cities. He often reflected on the wise planning that led his uncle to locate the warehouse mid-way between the two metropolises.

  Two days after The Day, Thad, as was his custom, unlocked the secure door at 6:30 AM to the offices of Columbia Food Distribution, Inc. He was usually the first employee to appear at the warehouse, so he wasn’t surprised that his car was the first in the large parking lot. He noted that semi-trucks were backed into 18 of the warehouse’s twenty loading bays. What did surprise him though, was that by 8:15 AM only two employees had driven their cars into the parking lot and were in the company’s kitchen drinking coffee. Usually, all forty-seven personnel were on hand by 8 AM to grab a cup of Joe and start to work.

  Thad walked back to the kitchen, filled his cup and sat down, saying to neither employee in particular, "Where the heck is everybody? Hunh?"

  The two employees present, Jim and Nick, looked at each other, with Nick saying, "Boss, we were just wondering the same thing. KC and St. Louis weren’t hit, so why did everybody stay home?"

  "Got me, boys, I don’t get it either. We’ve got work to do. Those trucks out there still gotta’ be loaded, and then driven to our customers’ stores. We can’t do that without people. I know they’re scared after what happened to the country. Whew! Who coulda’ seen that coming? It sounds like lots of folks….millions, maybe….are dead. What a disaster, but we still got work to do. People are still gonna’ have to eat….you know….the ones who survived….the people in our part of the country….you know….the areas that didn’t get nuked. Life has to go on….and….you know…."

  "Boss, Jim and I were just talking about that. Do you see any problem with our getting any diesel fuel for the trucks…like….after we draw down the tanks out back and run out of our reserve supply? Whatchathink?"

  Thad stopped mid-sip, looking over the edge of his coffee cup at Nick, his inquiring employee. Late last night and early this morning Thad had been thinking about a lot of potential problems, like continuing their food supply lines and insuring that their food market stores maintained their banking relationships so Columbia would get paid, but he had totally spaced any concerns about diesel fuel. Diesel fuel. Columbia’s fuel tanks held just over five thousand gallons, and were re-filled twice a week by his petroleum supplier, the Stone River Refinery, located in Roxana, Illinois 15 minutes from St. Louis. Missouri had no refineries. It was time to call Stone River.

  Back in his office, Thad looked out at the parking lot which still held only three vehicles. He picked up the handset on his desk phone, pleased to hear a dial tone. He punched in the number for Stone River Refinery. The number rang….and rang….and rang….but no one answered. Maybe I dialed wrong in my haste Thad decided. He hung up and dialed again. Same result. Ringing, but no answer. He looked at his wall clock, they’re an hour ahead, so it’s well after 9 AM in western Illinois. Stone River has people there 24/7/365, since they refine crude oil around the clock. Thad put the ringing call on his speakerphone and laid the handset on the desk, hoping that someone would answer, eventually.

  42

  The Harlan Robbins Farm

  Crown Point, Indiana

  The first people to walk onto the Robbins farm front porch looking for food were a sorry bunch. The husband/father looked like he would not be able to take another step without collapsing. The wife/mother didn’t look any better. She was holding an infant on her left hip and a toddler on her right hip. Three children, with dirty faces, aged from nine to twelve hung onto their parents, staring up at Harlan and Dorothy Robbins who were standing just outside their front door. They arrived late in the afternoon, as dusk was falling over northwest Indiana. Harlan was explaining that they couldn’t help them with food as they didn’t have any to spare. But Dorothy laid her hand on Harlan’s arm and whispered in his ear, "Honey, we can share a little of what we have. Look at these pitiful folks. They could die, literally, if we don’t help them. I’ll get some grub, you take them out to the barn and get them a place to lie down and rest some. Okay?"

  Harlan wasn’t happy about what his wife of over fifty years had just whispered. He knew that their actual supply of food would soon be gone if they gave it away to everyone who knocked on their door. But in those years of marriage Harlan had learned that when Dorothy made
up her mind….well, he knew what they would have to do. His underlying concern was not giving some food to these sad-looking folks, but what would they do when the next hardship case came to their house asking for food, and the next, and the next. He pondered the problem as he nodded his affirmative response to Dorothy. She turned and went into the farm house to get food. Harlan led the family out back to the barn, showing the family where they could lie down in a clean stall.

  That night, after Harlan and Dorothy shared a small meal, Harlan brought up his concern, "Dot. We have to talk. We can’t keep doing what we just did."

  "But, Harlan, honey, they were starving. We had to help them or else they…."

  "I know. I know. But, Dot, my dear, we will be out of food soon, even if we don’t give any more away. What we’ve stored in the root cellar may keep us alive for two to three months, maybe more if we skimp. These folks we just fed are only the first of many who will come. Dot, we can’t feed everybody. We just can’t."

  Dorothy wept. Harlan was silent, looking down at his farm-roughened hands.

  Finally, Harlan said, "I’m alright with sharing….like….I don’t know, maybe a third of what we’ve got. But no more. Otherwise, we’ll…."

  "Harlan, I understand. But, you said yourself that the fallout might kill us before we ran out of food. So, what difference does it make if we…."

  "Die from starvation before we rot from the radiation? Is that what we’re saying, Dot?"

  "Pretty much, Harlan. Let’s take your idea and bring some of the root cellar food back into the house, not much. And we’ll share it with folks who show up looking for food. When it’s gone, it’s gone."

  "OK, I can live with that Dot, my dear, but then what? We’ll then still have only about half of what we started with. We’ll leave, as we discussed before, a few cans in the kitchen for those who decide to break in the house, when no one answers the door. Then, I suggest that once we decide that we are done giving away food, that we hide out in the root cellar during the night when visitors willing to shoot us for food are more likely to show up at the farm."