Catalyst (Book 1): Downward Cycle

by JK Franks

  He could see the familiar black ribbon of road snaking out for miles ahead. As he rode, he paid special attention to the vacation properties in the area. He doubted that many of the owners would ever be back to enjoy these dream homes. He knew some of them could hold valuable resources. While Scott was not ready to resort to scavenging, he didn’t rule it out for the future and made mental notes of the most promising looking homes. There was one item that he wasn’t above borrowing, as it was a vital part of his plan to get to Kaylie. He needed fuel for the Jeep.

  As he rode, he saw virtually no one outside. Even the homes that he knew were occupied seemed ominously quiet and lifeless. He began to wonder why more people weren’t out making preparations but thought again to yesterday: how most people were just going about their days, seemingly oblivious to any problems. Sure, the power was off and on, but while that sucked, most were probably more upset at their cell phones suddenly being useless. No Facebook posts or status updates to comment on. Scott was unsure why he had taken things so much more seriously than most, even before reading the DHS files.

  He noticed a child playing in the front yard of an aging mobile home. As he rode by she gave a little wave with a dirty hand. What did she have to look forward to, he wondered. What kind of world will she grow up in?

  Coming up on Highway 50, he saw a sheriff’s car and a makeshift roadblock. The deputy was leaning against the car with a nearly empty bottle of water. Normally, Scott would have kept going, but today he wanted information, and a guy in Lycra shorts riding seemed pretty non-threatening to everyone, he reasoned. He pulled over. “Hi!” he called. The deputy’s badge said “Warren,” but he did not introduce himself to Scott. “Officer, how goes it?” Scott said.

  The deputy replied, “Hotter than shit out here. Don’t know how you ride that thing in this.” He waved his bottle in the air to make his point.

  “So why the roadblock?”

  “Oh, you can go on through. I know you live over near the beach, I’ve seen you out riding before. I’m just here to steer any refugees on elsewhere.”

  “What do you mean by refugees?” Scott inquired.

  Leaning in conspiratorially, the deputy said, “Beats the fuck outta me. I was told this was my road and not to let anyone but locals in. The sheriff came by about an hour ago and said to be on the lookout. He just got word that the prison camp over in the next county released all its “non-violent” offenders. Some judge told them they had to if they couldn't provide AC, food n’ hot water. You believe that shit? Probably five or six hundred convicts total, not sure how many are ‘non-violent,’ but guess what’s the closest town? Yep, Harris Springs.”

  Not unexpected, but certainly not good news, Scott thought. Most of those guys would likely head back to their homes, but some of them would indeed probably come this way. “That’s insane,” Scott said, “The power’s only been off a few days. What are they going to do when they get out here in the world and discover they probably had it better in prison?”

  “Yeah, really,” Officer Warren said. “Word is the power’s likely going to be off more than on for a while, and some judge or politician felt that was inhumane. I am sure it is hot as hell inside those prisons, but shit, let ‘em camp outside on the grounds or something. It would be tough to keep order, though. With only a few of the guards even able to make it into work, they’re just giving up. Today the non-violent ones, but in a few more days, they will likely cut ‘em all loose.”

  After a few more minutes of conversation, it became apparent that was about all the deputy knew. “Well, thanks, Officer, I appreciate the information and the job you’re doing for us,” Scott said. “I guess your radios aren’t working since the sheriff came by to update you.”

  Nodding, the deputy said, “Nah, they’re bricks.”

  “Well, do you need anything?” Scott asked.

  The deputy smiled and said, “Not unless you got a sandwich on you, or even better, some biscuits and gravy. Nothing was open this mornin’ when I headed out, so all I got is water.”

  Thinking for a moment, Scott said, “Hang on a second.” He fished around in the small pack and found a couple of peanut butter energy bars and a small bag of trail mix. Handing them to the deputy, he said, “It’s not much, but maybe it’ll help.”

  The officer reluctantly nodded his head no, but eventually took the offering. He asked Scott what his name was again.

  “Scott. Scott Montgomery.”

  Officer Warren shook his hand. “Thank you, Scott. That was a very nice thing to do.”

  Scott nodded and wished the man luck as he began pedaling away.

  The small road Scott was on continued for about eight more miles before it began to parallel the main road into town. Scott could see more cars stopped on the side of the road. Several groups of people were walking, a few on ATVs, and there were a few more people on bikes than yesterday. Say what you will, but the end of the world was certainly going to be better for the environment, he thought. It was nearly lunchtime when he pulled into Harris Springs. Heading first to Shirley’s, which was sadly still closed, he then walked over to the sports bar looking for Jack, Todd or Bartos. One of the servers recognized him and said she’d heard that Todd and the others had gone out on Todd’s boat to fish. If so, they’d likely be out until late afternoon. Nodding, Scott asked what they were serving today.

  “Beer,” she said. “And that’s about it.” They could fix a few sandwiches with chips, so he ordered both.

  Sitting in the bar in his bike jersey and cycling shorts drinking a lukewarm beer was an unusual way to be spending his time, but right now he would rather be eating other people’s food than his own. The people in town may all be convinced that everything was fine, but he was no longer that naive.

  He thought about the roadblocks and the prisoner release. That deputy and the others may never even get paid again, and yet they’re still putting their asses on the line. He called the waitress back over and asked for a couple more sandwiches and a couple of bottles of beer to go.

  “Sure thing, hon.” She winked and hurried off. Settling his bill, he took the bag of sandwiches and beer and headed to his bike. He stashed the extra food and drinks in his pack and began to circle lazily around the town checking to see what else might be open. Of main interest were the gas stations, but they were all dark and empty.

  He rode over to the docks and looked at the empty boat slip where a painted charter sign identified the Donna Marie and Captain Todd’s berth. Seeing the phone number on the sign, he thought about calling the guys. He tried Todd’s number. It rang and rang but did not roll over to voicemail.

  He then tried Bartos’, which failed to connect and then the preacher’s. Jack's number went straight to voicemail. Scott declared himself and said he’d like to speak with them again when they had a minute. He had some new information to share but also needed some advice. They could try and call, or he would be back in town tomorrow morning and would try to catch one of them at the boat docks or maybe the sports bar around eleven. He told them he hoped they were having a relaxing time fishing.

  He left town the way he had come in, and about twenty minutes later he came up to the roadblock. Deputy Warren was sitting in the shade of his patrol car. He smiled and gave a little wave when he saw Scott approach. Scott took the bag of sandwiches and beer from his pack and passed them through the open window. “Thanks again for what you’re doing,” he said before riding off.

  The deputy gave him a bewildered look until he opened the bag. Then he smiled from ear to ear.

  The Offshore Oil Platform #148 FPS rig was technically owned by the South American Conseco Oil company, but it had been abandoned for years—although there was still lots of oil beneath its capped wellhead a half a mile below the surface. Its retrieval rate, the low purity of the crude and a number of environmental concerns around its proximity to the mainland had sealed its fate. Soon after, the BP Deepwater Horizon disaster had happened, about eighty miles away. The
decision had been made to abandon the rig but not to dismantle it, as at some point it would likely be profitable to operate again. In the meantime, the rig had become a natural wonder. It was now an artificial reef with many thousands of small fish seeking shelter beneath the structure. Larger fish would also patrol the perimeter, looking for easy meals. Although farther out than Todd would normally have looked for bait, it was always a good stop. While the two guys caught bait, Todd cast lines out for larger predator fish. Tarpon, jack, redfish and even large sharks were common to the area.

  The Donna Marie had been drifting lazily around the platform for several hours. Occasionally, the wind would cause a clanking of metal on metal high up on the structure. That and the calls of the seabirds were the only distractions. The fishing had been good; the bait bucket filled quickly, and the number of fish in the keeper's chest grew steadily.

  Jack was snoozing, Todd was busy looking at the charts he had spread out on one of the benches, still trying to guess the route of the Navy flotilla. Bartos' eyes were focused out to sea. Picking up the Steiner Marine optics again, he made a noise. “Lot of damn sharks over there.”

  Todd didn’t look up, “It’s the ocean, man, what do you expect?”

  Bartos didn’t respond for quite some time. Then he put the binoculars down and said, “Cap’n, you need to see this.” Handing them to Todd, he pointed out into the distance. Todd could see some splashes and what he assumed were sharks feeding on some larger prey. It could be a whale carcass or even another shark; they were known to be cannibalistic at times. As he got the binoculars focused in, though, he could tell there were dozens of sharks congregating. He thought he saw the pale underside fin of something larger. Probably whatever the fish are feeding on. The sharks cleared momentarily, and the pale object became visible again. The fin, or whatever it seemed to be, was enormous and—

  “Oh my God,” he said loudly, disturbing the preacher from his nap.

  There were numbers and a logo stamped on the “fin” which, in fact, had to be the vertical stabilizer of what he recognized as a small commuter jet. “Oh jeez….” He now understood what the sharks were feeding on.

  The gruesome scene was floating closer to them, drawn by the massive current known as the Northern Gulf Gyre. Like a macabre sideshow attraction, all three men stared in horror and fascination at a mostly intact Delta Bombardier CRJ-700, formerly bound from Houston to Mobile. Sadly, it would never make it closer than this to its destination. The setting sun shone through its windows, outlining the silhouettes of passengers still strapped in their seats. Occasionally one of the heads would thrash as another fish tore a chunk of flesh away.

  Jack said prayers as the plane slowly drifted past them.

  “That should not be still floating,” Bartos said.

  Todd agreed, “The pilot must have made a perfect ditch. Like that guy on the Hudson River a few years back.”

  The three men forgot about the fishing, the excitement of the morning and even the problems back on land for a moment. They leaned on the rail and watched the surreal scene float toward the horizon. Without any discussion, Todd pulled the anchor line, cranked the motor and aimed for Harris Springs.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Arriving back at his cottage, Scott was still disappointed at not being able to speak with any of the guys. To be honest, it frustrated him even more that he needed them. He was used to working out problems without any help from others. But he knew Bobby was right; he probably wouldn’t be able to do this alone. If he had to go get Kaylie by himself, he would have to try. He thought that Bartos or Todd might at least be able to offer some of the fuel they had on hand. Instead, he decided to go ahead and handle that himself as well.

  He disconnected the trailer from the Jeep and loaded four of the larger fuel containers in the back. He added a cut length of garden hose, a long funnel and a few tools including a pry bar. Finally, transferring his pistol to the larger go-bag that contained seventy-two hours’ worth of emergency supplies, he headed out.

  He planned to hit as many of the dead vehicles on the highway as it took to finish filling up both the Jeep and the fuel containers he had with him. While not as easy as getting it from a gas station, he knew those cars would never run again. The fuel would be claimed by someone in time, and if it were left to sit in the tank, it would go bad.

  Stopping just in front of one of the cars he had noted on his bike ride earlier, he went to work. His first job was to clip the pistol and holster to his belt. Then he walked up to the Buick and, using a screwdriver, pried the filler door open. He didn’t view this as stealing, but he also knew this gas was not actually his to take either. Putting his morals aside, he unscrewed the gas cap and dipped the hose into the tank. Pulling it back out, he was pleased to see the wet line was far up the hose. He went back to the Jeep and grabbed two empty fuel containers to fill.

  Siphoning the gas was easy, but gravity did not produce a very fast flow rate. He knew his dad, or probably Bobby, could likely have come up with a hand pump or something equally useful for doing this. For now, though, this would work. He placed the first of the filled containers in the Jeep. He figured it would take thirty gallons for the trip to Tallahassee, but he also wanted to start building up his reserves.

  The Buick had a big tank, but the siphon hose was soon sucking air. He put everything back in the Jeep and headed for the next car on his list. The next two had less than a half of a tank each, but the last car was a big, new pickup with a nearly full tank of gas. It was sitting just inside the intersection of the road with Highway 50. He filled up the remaining fuel containers and began carrying the heavy load back to Jeep. Scott heard a sound and immediately froze in mid-step.

  Looking west, he noticed a group of men walking and jogging in his direction. The front two were waving and yelling. No doubt they were looking for a ride …or more. Scott’s heart began to pound. All of them looked like trouble, and he noticed the unmistakable remnants of the orange prison jumpsuits on several. They had obviously tried to camouflage the fact by tearing them into shorts or just keeping the pants, no shirt, but it was a feeble attempt at best. The deputy had been right—they were making a beeline for Harris Springs. Right now, they were making a beeline for him.

  Scott began to lose his shit; his thoughts were all over the place. He raced awkwardly toward the Jeep. The weight of the fuel containers made it impossible to do it quickly or to look like anything other than what it was: blind fucking panic. The men were closing on him fast. Finally, he just dropped the smaller of the containers and cradled the other one in front so it was more balanced. The final twenty yards to the car seemed to take forever, and he could hear the men laughing and telling him they just wanted to talk. He stuffed the one container in the back and jumped behind the wheel. He got the Jeep moving just as the men were nearly within reach. He quickly turned the Jeep in the other direction and sped away. Shaking, he knew those guys may not have been a real threat but felt thankful that his flight or fight response was still choosing the most intelligent option.

  He also knew these men would just be the first. We’ll all have to deal with them, or others like them, in the days and months ahead. Several miles down the road he came upon another roadblock. A uniformed man and woman waved him to a stop. Their old truck said “State Trooper” on the door in very faded lettering. The department was apparently pulling out the old relics in the garage in an effort to find cars that would still run.

  One officer stepped to the back of the Jeep; the other politely asked Scott for his ID. Scott handed over the driver’s license, thankful he had not waited any longer to trade in his Illinois license for a Mississippi one after he moved down. The officer explained how they were monitoring to ensure nothing but local traffic passed by, and handed Scott the license back. “I know," said Scott. “I talked to a county deputy earlier today. Deputy Warren mentioned the prison release and that some prisoners may be heading our way from the next county. I just saw a group of them h
eading this way, about five miles back.”

  Both officers nodded but didn’t look overly concerned. “We’ve been getting them through here for about the last hour or two. Probably twenty in all. We can’t detain them, but we are attempting to steer them in other directions. We’re getting their names, taking pictures, trying to find out where they’re heading. Not that they’re necessarily going to be truthful, but from what we hear from other counties, it sounds like all of the prisons will be doing similar releases.”

  “And mental hospitals as well,” the female officer added. “If they don’t get the goddamn power back on we’re going to be neck deep in this shit in a few more days.” The officers suggested Scott get on back home before the group did show up.

  He thought maybe he should offer to stay and help, but they seemed to have everything under control, and, seriously, how much help would he be? He noticed they appeared to have working radios unlike the deputy he’d met earlier, and he assumed they could call in backup if needed. Scott drove on back in the direction of home.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Arriving back at his beloved cottage, Scott loaded the extra fuel containers in the trailer and thought about his home. He loved it, but he knew it was not very secure. Its isolation was probably the best thing it had going for it. It wasn’t very visible from the road as the cypress, crepe myrtle, and scrub trees filled in most of the space between. He began to think of other things he could do to make it even less noticeable.