Catalyst (Book 1): Downward Cycle

by JK Franks

  It had been years since he had let anyone else get even remotely close. He had convinced himself he didn’t need people, much less friends. He lived alone. He did not have to see his co-workers. He even ordered his groceries to avoid going into real stores. Now, almost overnight, he had this growing circle of people around him. People he was learning to trust, not just as friends, but with his life. People who were helping him save his niece. People who were already feeling like some of the closest friends he had ever known.

  Scott put on a pot of coffee and watched Bartos and Solo out in the yard. Even they’re a team, he thought, wondering once again why he was so bad at love.

  The power went off shortly after the last cup of coffee. Scott lit some lanterns inside and some citronella patio torches outside. The group had moved back out under the stars. Bartos had been describing various end-of-the-world scenarios and why most were absurd.

  “Even if zombies could exist, they would still be at a disadvantage to man. Their brains are dead, they’re just hungry bodies running on instinct. Man is not the fastest or strongest predator on earth, but he is still the top one. The undisputed apex predator—why? Only one reason—we’re smarter. We can think and reason better than even the cleverest of animals. A brainless zombie invasion would be a mild inconvenience at best.”

  Liz looked like she would really rather change the subject. "You’ve given this way too much thought, Bartos,” she said.

  Todd, sensing his wife’s wavering emotions, leaned over and kissed her cheek. “What puzzles me most is this,” he began, “wouldn't zombies fart? I mean, look at their diet…and they’re rotting away. Seems like they would have some massive gas issues. How would they ever sneak up on anyone?”

  They all cracked up, Bartos shaking his head. It took a while for the conversation to again turn serious.

  “What I don’t get about Catalyst is why the projected mortality rate is so high. I mean, we haven’t been dependent on electricity for that long. Humans migrated to every corner of the globe and successfully adapted to unbelievably harsh conditions without having electricity. Why does a grid-down situation now have to be so devastating?”

  Bartos was scratching Solo’s head as the dog lay at his feet. “Many isolated areas probably won’t suffer at all. Hell, we have hundreds of residents in this county alone that choose to live off the grid. For the most part, though, we’ve become completely dependent on electricity. Even today's hermits still need supplies and medicine occasionally. No matter where our ancestors settled, they had to have fuel for fire. Whether it was peat bogs in northern Europe or Whale Oil in Newfoundland, they found a way to produce heat, cook food and survive the cold.”

  “Come on Professor. Get to the point,” growled Todd.

  Bartos frowned. “Grown-ups are talking," he said as he flipped Todd the finger. “The point, little ones, is this. To survive, not only do we have to go back 150 years and return to an agricultural or a hunter/gatherer society, but we have to do it without many of the resources they had back then. Less land for farming, less game to hunt, less natural fuel for light and heat.

  “And we’ve lost nearly all of that vital knowledge passed down over the eons. Knowledge and skills they used to survive are lost. Without electricity, most of us are just not well equipped to forage or hunt for our food, or even survive a single winter. The heroes of this new world may be the Amish, the isolated jungle tribes, the hermits, hobos, maybe even the Mormons. Groups that have either prepared well ahead of time or simply shunned the modern life. These could also be the only people who can teach us how to live through this.

  “Unfortunately, even us preppers get it wrong. It’s just not possible to store up for the long term. All food spoils, even MREs. What you want is to have enough supplies to get you through the immediate crisis, so you can better prepare for the long-term. Skills and knowledge outweigh stockpiles of supplies every time. These thugs out there starting to loot houses will eventually be killing each other for a can of beans. They’re dangerous, but they won’t be around long. In six months, all prepared foods will probably be gone—then what?”

  Scott noticed Liz looking even paler, and she gave another shudder; it was an uncomfortable topic. It was getting late, and Todd and Liz said their good-byes. Liz gave Scott and Bartos both a kiss on the cheek. “You boys stay safe,” she sighed as she walked outside.

  Todd turned to Scott in the doorway. “Come by the boat tomorrow afternoon so we can go over the trip.”

  Bartos went back in and got a tumbler of whiskey. “Let me go over the weapons I brought you before I go.” Heading to the stack of ammo boxes and gun cases, he began methodically unpacking each and showing Scott not only how to load, aim and fire, but how to thoroughly clean and store each one. Scott was still in awe of the impressive weaponry: an M4, a Mossberg shotgun, two handguns and even a tactical vest.

  “You and Bobby have a nice place here. It won't stand up to anyone determined to get in, but it should be a good bug-out for quite a while.

  “Anything I can do to make it better?”

  “First, you need an outhouse. Some way to get rid of waste so it won’t cause you health problems. Most likely, the number one way people are going to die will be from dysentery or cholera, not starvation. Both are easily preventable, mainly by keeping your water supply clean. I can help you with that. We have some portable outdoor toilets at the county shop we use for special events. I can bring one out. Since no one will be coming to service them, we’ll need to pipe it out and dig a trench pit for the runoff and something else for the solids. I can show you how to use it and bring some sacks of lime to use in treating the spoilage.

  “You also need some form of electricity, preferably solar panels, but maybe even a generator. You’re far enough out that people might not be able to hear it running. You don’t want to be advertising that you have power or fuel.”

  “I tried to find a generator. None were available."

  “Well, most of the small residential generators you used to see for sale probably wouldn’t last long-term, but we can keep looking. I have some deep-cycle batteries for storage and a spare inverter that might help if you can find some solar panels. You’ll have to be able to get fresh water out of that well I saw out there, and a hand pump would be a slow process.” Scott was impressed with how much Bartos had noticed since he’d been here.

  “I looked over your food stores in the garage as well. You made good choices; the Mountain House freeze dried and bulk foods are especially good, although not as good as tonight’s meal. I assume that’s what you’ve hidden in the trailer as well?”

  “Damn, man,” said Scott, “No keeping secrets from you, is there?”

  Bartos grinned at him and handed him the empty whiskey glass. “Goodnight, Scott, thanks for dinner.”

  Scott shook his hand. "Thank you, Bartos. Thanks for everything.” Scott watched the dog slip into the Bronco just ahead of Bartos. As they left, Scott locked the gate and watched the tail lights fade into the darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Day 10

  Sunday morning, Jack and Deputy Warren were leaning against the boardwalk talking as Scott glided up silently on his older Cervelo bike. Both men smiled when they saw him. “There’s my hero," the sheriff’s deputy welcomed him. Scott smiled back as he rolled the bike to a stop. “Hey guys,” he said.

  Jack looked at the newcomer, “Brother, I hear I missed something special the other night.”

  “We missed you, man. Wish you could’ve made it,” Scott replied. “How are things going, Deputy?”

  The officer shook his head, “Getting worse fast. I was just telling the Preacher here, a lot of craziness is startin’ up.”

  “Like what?”

  "Well,” Warren said, “Let’s just say that several of those released prisoners got a very different kind of justice. Apparently, a group slipped through the roadblocks and stole a hog from one of the farmers. The farmer and a few of his friends tracked the
m to a campsite and opened fire on them. All five of the prisoners were shot dead. The hog was still roasting on the fire when we showed up,” said Deputy Warren.

  “Did you arrest the farmers?” Scott asked.

  “Hell no, we made them acting deputies then helped them eat the pig. It was delicious. I really think one of those convicts knew something about barbecuing pork. We did make ’em bury the bodies, but that seemed like punishment enough,” the deputy added sardonically.

  Scott noticed Jack was looking uncomfortable, “You okay, Preacher?”

  “Yeah, I guess, just that I know some of those boys. We have—had a prison ministry service over there once a month. Some of ‘em just don’t know any better, they…well, most aren’t bad kids.”

  Warren looked over at him. “Jack, they are bad, or they wouldn’t have been there. And it’s a new day—we’re not taking any prisoners. Shit, we got nowhere to put ‘em. Justice has to be measured out in the field. No excuses accepted. Stealing food is going to be a capital offense, as well as most other things. My list is growing by the hour.”

  Scott could feel the tension rising and tried to change the topic. “Officer, I need to go up to Tallahassee tomorrow, hopefully to get my niece. Any idea how the roads are?”

  The deputy shook his head, "First off, call me Buck, and to be honest, I wouldn’t recommend it. You’ll find official roadblocks at nearly every town, highwaymen and raiding parties, stray prisoners and gang-bangers patrolling most o’ the main roads. And everyone you meet’ll be desperate enough to do stupid shit. Whatever you do, avoid the Interstate. Every exit off of I-10 is quickly becoming a war zone. People are getting hungry, crazy and desperate.”

  Scott shook his head, “Not what I wanted to hear. If we run into trouble and resort to using lethal force, will we be in any trouble?”

  “Couldn't say, probably depends on where you are. Some of the counties have—or had, anyway—some very liberal sheriffs and judges. They may still be trying to coddle and protect the offenders. We’ve heard rumors that a lotta officers are trying to collect firearms from any vehicle they stop, even if you have the registration on you."

  Scott showed the deputy the map that Bobby had sent with the route he was planning marked.

  “Hmm, that looks pretty good, but…” taking a pen from his pocket, the officer marked several different roads and areas to avoid. Taking the paper back, Scott said thanks.

  "Todd told me he was going with you,” Jack said. “Listen to him, do what he says, and you’ll get that girl back home.”

  “I will,” said Scott. Thanking both the men, he pedaled over to the boat dock to see Todd.

  The deputy leaned over to Preacher Jack. “He does have a car right? I mean…he ain’t going that far on a damn bike is he?"

  Jack laughed.

  Bartos was with Todd at the boat, and they went over Scott’s plan to get to Tallahassee using the new information he’d gleaned from Deputy Warren. Todd suggested they leave very early, as there should be fewer people on the road. They briefly considered taking his boat down the coast about eighty miles and borrowing a car to go the final fifty miles over to the university, but they had no information on that route. They would have also needed to leave the boat at an unknown location, and they had no real guarantee they could get a working car or fuel once they got there.

  Even though Bartos would not be going with them, he helped plan it as if his life would depend on it. He made suggestions about what gear to take, especially which weapons, and how to avoid trouble. In his opinion, meeting up with law enforcement was likely as dangerous as running into highwaymen.

  His suggestion was to avoid taking the Jeep into the city at all. “Stop short of the campus and ride in on your bike to check it out. Much less likely that they’ll stop you, or that you’ll be searched entering the campus.”

  That would be good because they were going to be packing serious heat: an M4 and AR-15 Tactical Assault Weapon; three different .45 caliber small arms; a scoped .308 sniper rifle; night vision monocular; more ammo than Scott could imagine; a pair of tasers, flex cuffs, two-way radios, and numerous other goodies. They would also be bringing three seventy-two-hour go-bags kitted out with full survival gear. On top of this, Scott would have his bike and the necessary gear that went with it. Bartos suggested he take twice as much fuel as he thought they would need.

  Bartos left, and Todd took Scott out in his pickup for some evasive driving lessons. Scott would be driving most of the way, with Todd very literally riding shotgun. Todd wanted to make sure Scott knew the basics of a reverse-out when coming up on a threatening road block, how not to get blocked in and to be vigilant about checking each upcoming cross street to avoid being targeted by a potential crash car rocketing out to T-bone the Jeep and drive it off the road.

  Scott felt foolish doing much of this, and several times he thought he was going to roll the heavy truck. Eventually, he got more comfortable with the aggressive tactical driving.

  “If we do get into trouble and have to stop,” Todd said, “Use the engine block for cover. Bullets will go straight through everywhere else on the car. Also, be prepared to come out firing when that happens. Delays will be deadly.” Scott was finally beginning to grasp the fact that it was shaping up to look like the wild west days out there. “You also need to see Jack. He’s willing to teach you some fighting moves that may be very important. I wish we had more time, but as soon as we’re back, it’s a must.” Scott could not understand why a preacher would be the best teacher for that, but said okay.

  Daylight was fading when Scott began his ride back to the cottage. He and Todd had made plans to meet up at 5:00 AM. Arriving back home, he went through his security sweep, pistol in hand. He closed the gate on the drive and checked the perimeter ensuring all doors and locks looked solid. He then opened the garage and moved in with the bike. He took a tactical flashlight and went through the house, clearing each darkened room before lighting lanterns and lowering the black sheeting over the front windows.

  No music, wine or good food tonight, he thought. He loaded the packs with the supplies they had agreed on and loaded the weapons, fuel and ammo cans inside the 4x4. Despite the amount of gear, it was not as crowded as he had feared. He made sure he had room for Kaylie and at least some of her stuff. He warmed up a can of beef stew, then cleaned his bike before heading to bed. He was tired but felt good about the plans. Despite everything, he was being proactive and careful. Dad would have been proud.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Day 11

  Tyrell had grown up with no father, a mother who was helplessly hooked on drugs and a granddad that stole their food stamps and welfare checks under the guise of withholding his daughter’s drug money. Tyrell hated both his grandparents. He hated the government. He hated people that had money and nice things. He loved his mother. In his mind, she was that way because of all those other people.

  He had been a scrawny kid, and as a result, he was beaten up regularly by the other boys—and even men—in the projects. Somehow, though, the beatings never really seemed to phase him. Everyone he had ever known had hit him; that was just life. “It’s a tough world,” his granddad had often said, usually as he was swinging his belt.

  Tyrell wasn’t stupid. In fact, he had always made good grades and rarely got in trouble at school. He and his mom had moved back in with her parents after she got sick. She was an addict, yes, but to Tyrell, she was just sick. It wasn’t long until his granddad had kicked him out. He had been in his early teens. It was the new low point in a life filled with low points. Tyrell had slept outside or under porches and scrounged for food. Somehow, he’d kept himself in school even then.

  Just after turning fourteen, he found himself faced yet again with another older kid looking to prove himself. Beating up the smaller kids helped establish the pecking order in the neighborhood. This time, though, Tyrell had had enough. Enough of bullying, enough of taking it, enough of pain. He fought back.

 
He fought back with a savage brutality that had been building his whole life. In doing so, he received the honor of the neighborhood dealer’s attention: The Boss. Tyrell had no money or food. The Boss let him run errands for him and paid him a little each week.

  Their arrangement built trust and Tyrell was given more responsibility for sales and pickups. Eventually, the drug running finally put some real money in his pocket, and before long he was hiring other kids to do the drops, using these kids as cut-outs or go-betweens to keep his hands clean. He had already learned something his boss never had.

  After working for the man for two years, Tyrell had indirectly helped set him up in a drug sting and then watched him go down in a shootout with the county’s drug task force. Tyrell immediately took over the business, and with a vengeance. He vowed never to depend on anyone else again.

  The news of Tyrell’s growing clout and influential friends had gotten around the hood pretty quickly, and not everyone was happy with the kid’s new-found success. As he knew it would—had hoped it would—he was quickly approached by his grandfather, who promptly swung a stick at him. Tyrell lost his cool and pushed the old man down a set of porch steps. He was done being disrespected by this old fool, he thought. The man’s hip had been broken, he was taken to the hospital and he died soon after.

  Tyrell's mother had called him a murderer, and later that same year she had overdosed on drugs. Drugs that people who worked for him had supplied her. Drugs that he would never touch himself, nor allow his people to. To him, it was inventory or product, nothing more. It was just a business; if he didn’t provide it, someone else would.