© 1983 and 2013 Katherine R. Chandler.
All rights reserved
Publication History
ebook: 2013
Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher
St Mary's City, Maryland
First Printing: 1983
Bacon and Freeman, Publishers
Deer Lake, Pennsylvania
This is a work of fiction. None of the characters represent any persons living or dead. All characters and incidents depicted were created by the author.
Dedication
This book is for my brothers,
Norman Chandler
and
Henry Chandler
Vigorous, strong, gutsy, and loyal—
the kind of men I like.
INTRODUCTION
Shatto's Way is the final book in the time frame of my Perry County series. The Perry books I write in the future will lie between Friend Seeker, the earliest, and Shatto's Way.
I have chosen to write an ending story before some of the middle ones because in my own reading I have encountered too many enjoyable series that were never completed. Did the author die or did a publisher lose interest? As a reader I was disappointed. As a writer I can make certain that the Perry County series will not end unfinished.
Of course Shatto's Way is not history; it is purely storytelling based on imaginative reasoning. Could this all happen? I fear that it could. Will it be soon? That is not impossible either.
Ours is a dangerous world balanced on knife-edged compromises, any failure of which could tumble us into a tightening spiral of social collapse. Will someone drop the bomb? Will our money fail? Will terrorism destroy civilized behavior? Will permissiveness drain our national fiber? Will food run out, the oceans rise or die, or might people reproduce themselves into grinding poverty?
Choose a scenario. Each has its believers as well as scoffers.
Shatto's Way is a story of one set of such circumstances and how some Perry Countians rose to the challenges.
It could happen like this. If it does, I can only hope that someone like Toby Shatto will be handy to stand beside us.
Roy F. Chandler, Pfoutz Valley 1982
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I would like to point out that I have taken some liberties with the general Perry County situation in order to advance the story.
In particular I am aware that Greenwood High School does not play football. They are a soccer school, a sport arguably preferable, I might add. However, for the characterizations I desired within this novel, football provided clearer relationships between a team captain and his players. The football huddle constitutes an unusual sports situation where a captain gathers his men and orders with exactitude—exactly what each will do next. I needed that.
There are other small geographical rearrangements that only those most familiar with the areas involved will recognize.
Otherwise, I think the reader will find that everything is as it should be and that this story really is about Perry County.
RFC
Author's Note to the e-Book edition
I wrote Shatto's Way in 1982 and the book was published by the now-defunct Bacon & Freeman, Publishers in 1983.
I wrote the book while in genuine fear for the continued existence of our country. At that time, inflation had been in double digits and our national debt had reached an unsustainable one trillion dollars. Obviously, we could not long continue without Draconian spending reductions.
Yet, here we are, still enduring, with a continually rising national debt of more than sixteen trillion dollars. Sanity has departed—idiots rule! I have not changed my opinions. Unless we dramatically reform and downsize we will collapse in bankruptcy.
As I prepared this electronic edition of Shatto's Way, I considered updating throughout the story. After all, the once threatening Soviet Union no longer exists, South Africa gave up their nuclear bombs, and the Teamsters Union no longer dominates the news with intolerable influence and impractical demands.
My abilities as a prophet can be entertaining, or perhaps farcical. However, other and equally dangerous adversaries have appeared and could readily be substituted in the tale. Comparisons between "our now" and "back then," meaning thirty years ago, are intriguing and quite informative. So I decided to leave the book in its original form.
I will add only—if you have the foresight of a louse, you will be saving gold and silver, and you will be "putting away" just as George Shatto did in the story—or as this author has been suggesting since the national debt became genuinely unrepayable.
RFC
Chapter 1
PROLOGUE
He could look from his windows across the valley and see electric lights shining like distant stars. To the west the night glow of Burned Town lighted the dark and on moonless nights New Harrisburg's million bulbs silhouetted the dark line of Wildcat Ridge. In winter the lights warmed his heart with a promise of security, but with the memories forever with him, he never took such welcome marvels for granted or failed to remember how quickly they could shut off.
He hadn't changed much over the years, or so she told him, and he could say the same for her. Two sons had thickened her only slightly and, if there were facial lines, he found them appealing. The thought of her even now pleasured his senses.
He scrubbed absently at his thick mane, once crow black but now entirely gray, and was again pleased that he hadn't goneDoctor bald like his big friend. That thought made him grin a little.
The boys were coming down the lane, Chris driving the snow machine with Toby, Junior, and Tater Clouser hanging on behind. There they were, young men out playing like children and he was glad for them.
He took a last look before lowering the thermal awnings that at night covered the south-facing windows. He hated shutting out the view but irresponsible freedom to ignore energy waste had gone with other lax ways almost two decades before.
If he chafed at life's limitations he had only to remember the times when they carried guns and used beeswax for tooth fillings. Then he could marvel at their progress and their comforts.
The computer terminal winked at him and he paused to check a few interests. Idly his fingers traced the IBM legend embossed near a plastic corner. Leave it to the big company to come roaring back from the ruins. They had always employed the best, and at the end their investment in quality had insured their revival. It made him proud to have once been a part of it.
His own figures looked especially good tonight. He guessed he was a rich man in the material things. Certainly he had more than he wanted or desired.
He had released the business reins long ago to let the younger have their chances and they had built where he had only maintained. A wise man knew when to step aside as well as when to hang on, and thinking about it now, he realized that it was about time to permanently erase his name from the letterhead as well.
Carter ran the businesses now, probably more efficiently than he had. To his amazement the young men kept the old corporation name they had adopted during the black times and, if he chose to make a decision, it was acted upon just as it had been during those turbulent years.
Although to the youngest it was only history, the bad times lived with those who had survived them. A man might forget for a while but a need for something no longer available or a memory of how it used to be could bring it all rushing back.
His eye caught the old rifle still racked above the front door and he could remember the exact moment of his decree that every home would have a weapon ready. His hands could still feel the curve of grip and squared swell of the forearm. He knew how its weight would drag on a shoulder and he could recall the pulsing, almost living vibration of its rapid firing.
He had never used the old pistol of course
, but it seemed fitting that it hang beside his own weapon. Together they had witnessed some violent days.
He heard her humming in the kitchen and headed that way. Probably they would talk about the boys or maybe about Carter's plan to ship alcohol engines to other countries.
Later they would go into the bedroom and crawl beneath their thick comforters. He might even turn the blanket on high and roll up the thermal shutters so that they could look across the stark winter beauty of Pfoutz Valley.
If he could have his way—as he had in so many other important things—that would be the way he would die.
The valley would always be there for his boys and theirs' as well, and the thought as usual gave meaning to the horrors they had once endured.
++
Chapter 2
A FEW YEARS FROM NOW
Toby Shatto centered the second man's features in the scope's crosshairs. Even at two hundred yards five power magnification made identification clear, so he moved the rifle enough to lay the sight on the man in front. It was the lean one of course. He was already sure from the way the man moved and because of who he was with, but without a second chance he wanted to be certain. He hadn't seen the third man before so he planned to let him live. Surviving, he might warn others away.
He lowered the rifle, allowing its weight to rest across his lap and concentrated on relaxing his body until the targets were closer. A .22 long rifle bullet should not be depended on beyond one hundred yards, and even when using a lot of them, closer was better.
The forest was unnaturally quiet, and he missed the normal insect drone that a man didn't notice until it was gone. No birds flitted about, although he had seen a few, so perhaps they would come back in time.
You had to wonder if enough worms and bugs would crawl from safe hiding to feed the birds that were returning from whatever winter sanctuaries had served them. Whether anything remained fertile or if eggs would hatch and normal things crawl out also remained to be seen.
Common sense told him that everything was just terribly thinned out and with a season or two passing, a lot of the woods creatures would again be plentiful.
Still, what did he know? It could be just as true that beyond the horizons only devastation flourished. He had no intentions of going off to see, that was for sure! The clouds looked normal and the sun glinted brightly on new grass and budding foliage. Pfoutz Valley was alive and he should be eternally grateful for that.
It wasn't wise to think too long about how the world fared. The imaginings sickened his soul and drained his resolve to do what could be done. The three strangers were getting closer and it was almost shooting time.
Of course the first two weren't complete strangers.
He had trapped them breaking into the old house two days past. He had emptied their guns and marched them clear back to Highway 17. He'd pointed them east and warned them as cold clear as he could that if they returned he would shoot them dead in their tracks.
Most times that was enough and intruders left shaken and thankful to be living, but these two hadn't taken his warning to heart. When he held them under his gun and told them what would happen, the skinny one had looked cunning and sneery while his friend kept his lip stuck out like a truculent pitbull. He had expected they would come again, and he had considered shooting them then and there. It would have been the smarter move but he had made his own set of rules and sticking to them made the craziness more tolerable. Everybody got one warning because there were still innocents out there and . . . well, he just thought it was the best way.
The American 180 was heavy on his thighs. Fully loaded, the drum magazine held one hundred and seventy-seven .22 long rifle cartridges and raised the gun's weight to over eleven pounds. It was an old weapon with much of the finish worn away, but a touch of the trigger hosed bullets at 1800 rounds a minute and their combined impact could chew through steel or concrete.
The 180 rifle had been his father's. Old George Shatto had tinkered the sear and springs around until he got reliable full automatic fire, and Toby had helped develop the silencer that loomed at the muzzle.
Their first model silencer had been a section of copper pipe with slots cut across it. They had dropped copper washers into the slots and soldered the cuts shut. The results weren't too bad. A bullet whose velocity stayed beneath the speed of sound could be quieted until it wouldn't alert a hound sleeping beside it and their final model did just that.
Of course, all of the modifying was against federal law but George Shatto had never met his first federal agent and counted "being ready" a lot more important than an ill-conceived law.
They had taken a lot of small game with the 180 and shot it even more for fun. Though his father had never needed the rifle for fighting, Toby Shatto rarely left the cave without it.
The men were closer now and he again sighted on them through the scope. The second man was probably the most dangerous. He was their commander and although the first man might fight like a cornered rat, he probably wouldn't act overly smart, not that either would get much of a chance anyway.
The second man loomed too heavy in the scope, and Toby supposed he was wearing a bulletproof vest beneath his shirt. The 180 could bore a hole through it but there wasn't any need. He centered the crosshairs on the man's nose and stilled his breathing.
Without hesitation his finger stroked the trigger and the silenced rifle spewed a one second burst of thirty .22 caliber bullets across the first man's shoulder and into the second's face. There was no sound, only a soft whirring as though a sparrow had taken flight. The first man may have felt the bullets' close passage for he flinched a little and half looked behind. What he saw froze him in horror and made his own execution easier.
Without recoil, the rifle stayed on target, and Toby Shatto concentrated on holding the crosshairs steady. A shorter burst would have done as well, but it paid to be sure. A .22 caliber bullet was tiny and its certainty lay in putting a lot of them in one spot.
The strike of the bullets was close to instantaneous and the leader's face literally burst apart. His head exploded in an almost soundless deformation that eliminated the slightest chance of realization or reaction. At one instant a man stalked aggressively; the next, an almost headless body slumped lifelessly, nerveless hands spilling a 12 gauge shotgun onto the road.
The front man made his try but his body lurched from its immobility far too late. Shatto's second burst struck him chest level and tore completely through skin, bone, and muscle—killing him where he stood. He collapsed with the boneless fluidity of death and lay without twitch or tremble.
The action had used only a five count as Toby swung his scope onto the chest of the third figure. Only a boy, the last of the three stood rooted to the open road, stunned by the suddenness and unable to act.
Through the scope Shatto could see the boy's eyes jerking and detected the quiver of his jaw. The youth clutched a cheap bolt action .22 caliber rifle across his chest, although at the moment Toby doubted he knew it existed.
The dead quiet of the woods still engulfed them, and to the boy it must have seemed as though the hand of God had reached forth and destroyed his companions before his eyes. Surely he expected his own death in the next instant, but the time ran on and nothing happened.
Regaining some thought the youth tried a tentative backward step. It was successful. Nothing disturbed the silence and he took a few more. In his scope Toby watched reason return to the youth's eyes. He saw his tongue moisten inexplicably parched lips. He observed the cautious backward steps and then saw the youth halt and indecision enter his features. His eyes focused on his downed companions and, Toby suspected, on such valuables as their guns. The youth carefully grounded his own rifle and raising his hands high, with his eyes darting about, took a tentative step forward.
Shatto's lips tightened grimly. He could grant the youth a nervy brashness, but this was the wrong time for it.
He held the 180 sights on the stock of the grounded rifle and aga
in touched the trigger. Bullets ripped into the wood spinning the rifle across the road and whining away in wild ricochet. With an audible squack of fear the youth sprang backwards and sprinted away. His old hat fell off but he kept going. Apparently he had finally gotten the message.
The survivor made no attempt at deception. He ran straight down the middle of the road and when he tired he kept on going at a swift walk. He wasted no effort on backward glances and soon disappeared in the distance.
Not until then did Toby Shatto rise from concealment and approach the bodies. Even then, he kept both eye and ear on the woods. Although the action had been as silent as it was sudden, he had learned to distrust open country and preferred having stout timber between himself and possible observers.
It was pointless to check either body for life and he did not bother. The first man's body fluids had released and his clothing was ruined. As his shoes were of no account Shatto took only the man's battered 94 Winchester rifle, his meager supply of 30/30 ammunition, and the even less impressive contents of his pockets. There was no money of course, even the most hopeful didn't give it room, but where many would have had some useful things, even the dead man's knife was ground thin and about finished.
The leader lay headless but otherwise intact. The 12 gauge was an Ithaca pump gun and an old-time leather bandoleer, hung across shoulder and hip, was filled with buckshot shells. Shatto took them with gratification and roughly cut away the corpse's shirt to remove the suspected armored vest.
Stripping the dead was unpleasant work, but he went at it willingly because nothing could be wasted. Nothing new was being made so whatever existed was already irreplaceable.
The vest gave him pause. It wasn't a military type that might stop a rifle bullet, though it would turn a pistol bullet and some shotgun loads. Probably the man had lived in close proximity to many and the vest had given him added security. It made Shatto wonder where the trio had come from. They carried no camping gear, so they had not traveled far. He could trail the survivor and find out, but there were other bands out there and he only wanted them to stay their distance. They all had too much to do to waste time warring back and forth.
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